Pathways
by Mark A. Rayner
1.
The knife in the Wizard's hand was chipped from some flint bed more than 10,000 years ago -- it was an artefact, ancient beyond even his unfathomable years. He stroked the ivory handle, carved with creatures either mythological or so old they were long-since extinct. He smiled, and spun the knife on the table. It slid noiselessly on the wooden table, and the flint blade described a perfect circle, faintly inscribing it in the wood. He imagined the joy he would feel when he placed the Boy-Magus within such a circle, and the rush he would feel when he drew life with his will and the blade.
The Wizard's suspected his own life had been ruled by the artefact's dictates, its essence, as much as by his own will. He ordered another coffee, and smiled at the waitress when she brought it. The Wizard was a handsome man. Preternaturally good-looking. His golden blonde hair, strong chin, and smile were enough to warm any woman's heart, not to mention many men's. But there was a predatory glint in his dark eyes, the spark that lights the falcon's fall, and some were terrified by him. They were the sensitive ones, but the others loved him. He had everything that they could desire -- power, money, grace, and beauty. The waitress brushed his shoulder with her hip as she swayed away.
An old man sat in the same cafe, hidden in a musty corner of old Prague; he sipped at a pilsner beer and glared at the Wizard. "Who does that strutting young peacock think he is," the geriatric whispered irritably to himself, "playing with an antique like that?"
The Wizard, sensing the Czech's thoughts, walked over to the old man. He smiled at him, and when the ancient, grey-stubbled face scowled back, the Wizard's eyes glinted like death. He was the falcon, preparing to strike, and the old man, a rabbit unaware of the descending calamity. But he did not take what remained the feeble old man's vitality; the Wizard merely sibilated the word "stroke" into the old man's ear, and then sat back in his seat. He stirred sugar into his coffee, and said to the old man again, this time arrogantly, "stroke, you old fool." The man glared and gulped the rest of his beer. The Wizard put more sugar in his coffee, and smiled to the waitress who was staring at him in flawless Czech, "that's how I like my coffee. Black as the Devil, and sweet as a stolen kiss!" And then repeated to the old man, "stroke!"
The clot broke free deep in the old man's arteries and made its way to his brain. He paid for his beer, and hobbled out of the cafe, pausing to say to the Wizard, "Ave Maria, you fucking peacock. Ave Maria." The old man laughed at the fire in the Wizard's eye: "you can cripple my body, but not my soul, you devil!" The old man cackled, and left the cafe, only to walk about two dozen steps before suffering his inevitable seizure.
The waitress was glad to see the old coot go, and didn't even wonder why the ambulance passed the cafe ten minutes later. Ten minutes too late.
The Wizard was glum. The old fool was wrong of course; if he'd wanted the old goat's soul, he could've taken it. Perhaps not. The bugger really might have believed devoutly. A devout old beer-drinker, what next?
The Wizard stared at his knife again, tracing the ivory with his fingers, a sensual habit -- he should have taken the old man's soul. He smiled at the waitress again, and she asked him if there was anything else he wanted. She waited for his answer, watched his relaxed form, and admired the cut of his clothes. His expensive cashmere jacket.
"Yes my dear," the Wizard replied, thinking about the relationship with his knife, "I would like very much more. Come here."
As she approached him, he traced a pentacle in the circle, and he thought, I want it all.
The waitress leaned over the Wizard, not believing her boldness, yet excited by it tremendously. She was a svelte young woman with the beautiful high cheekbones and slightly wide-set eyes of the slavs. The Wizard caressed her breast, and breathed, "give me your thumb."
The waitress sat on his lap and presented her left thumb, which the Wizard pricked with his knife; they both watched with fascination while a perfect drop of blood beaded and contrasted with the whiteness of her skin. She should be frightened, she thought, but instead, felt exhilarated and an incredible sexual excitement. While she rubbed herself against his lap, the Wizard grasped her hand, silently brought the thumb to his lips, and kissed the bead. The waitress's orgasm was shattering, and as the waves of pleasure rippled through her, she could feel herself slipping into unconsciousness, like she was sinking into a great, cold ocean. And when she was under, strange dreams haunted her; she was at the bottom of a sea, where the fish and the hungry crabs pulled at her clothes, made her naked, ripped the skin from her flesh, the flesh from her bones. It was unpleasant, and even a little painful, but she submitted to it willingly -- even joyfully.
When she awoke, she was surprised to find herself lying on the cafe floor, clothed and intact. But something was missing, something other than the beautiful man and his strange, erotic knife.
2.
Patten Jovis regained consciousness at precisely the same moment as the waitress. He had been on another of his long walks through Prague -- he had a theory that each pathway he took should be new if he was going to really know the city -- and a chunk of masonry had fallen from a crumbling gothic building in Stare Mesto, the old town.
A wave of nausea and a spinning head disoriented him and Patten had no idea why he was there. Was it really to get away from his friends and family? Maybe. All he understood was that he was compelled to walk; he had been filling his days by rambling throughout Prague, feeling out its beauties and unnameable sadness. And now, his head ached and he felt really sick. He was probably concussed, and, he slowly realized, he had fallen into a puddle of some kind that had soaked him to the roots.
"That was a nasty knock," a voice said from a dark corner of the building. Patten tried to focus his fuzzy eyesight on the shadow, and then he realized the voice had spoken in English!
"Where are you?"
"Right in front of you . . . right here." A small figure appeared from the darkness. Misshapen. Ghastly. In the weak light, Patten could make out his face -- a mismatched collection of features: mouth too wide, nose mashed and broken, and two intense, burning eyes. The man's hair was greasy and unkempt, a long lock of which kept drifting down his forehead. He smiled at Patten, which had a reassuring effect on the injured man; it was a warm smile, natural and full of humor.
"Let's get you some place warm and dry. Here," the little man offered Patten a hand up, and then to Patten's astonishment the stranger walked through the wall behind him. Patten stood there for a moment, totally shocked. "Come on," the gnome's voice said from behind the crumbling plaster, "just follow me. I promise, you won't add a broken nose to the broken head."
It must have been the concussion talking, but Patten trusted him; he followed, blinking in surprise when an instant later he found himself standing in a warm private library. As flames danced in the fireplace, the stranger was already sitting down in front of them stretching his gnarled legs in the warmth.
"I hate November," he complained, "don't you?"
"Uh," Patten murmured incoherently. He stood there, dumbfounded. His clothes hung on him, still wet and cold. He looked around blankly. Patten had black hair and dark coloring, though he looked a little pale at the moment. He absently pushed a lock of his dark hair out of his deep blue eyes, wondering where he was.
"Fix yourself a drink," the stranger commanded. "I'll have a scotch too."
"Uh," Patten repeated, but something in the stranger's voice compelled him. He looked around the room -- next to an old mahogany roll-top desk was a side-board with bottles, glasses, and a small Bohemian crystal bowl filled with crushed ice. He fixed them both a drink.
Patten downed his scotch and then poured himself another. He also took some of the ice, wrapped it up in a towel, and put it on his head. It felt better already. He then joined the stranger by the fire, sat in a plush chair, and felt the tension drain out of him as the warmth washed over him from without and within.
"So," the stranger said, "you have a some questions." It was a statement more than a question.
"Uh-huh," Patten was either hallucinating, or having a psychotic break. He went with it. It was interesting.
"Let me tell you a story. It all starts in the year 1966. A four."
"A four?"
"Yes, the numbers of the year 1966 add up to four."
Patten was puzzled -- it was a relief to be merely puzzled. "No they don't," he contradicted, "they add up to 22."
"And the number 22 is a four."
"By adding the twos?"
"Precisely."
"So who made up this bizarre system?"
"Oh, I can't get into that," he said, "and call me Rudy."
"Uh, is that short for anything."
"Yes, but we don't have time to get into my extensive history too. It's enough to know I've been here a long time, and I'm trying to save the city." He paused and stared at the fire for a moment, thinking about something. "But as I say, the year was 1966, a four, the year of the horse, I believe, in the Chinese calendar. The alchemists have a different name for it, but it slips my mind at the moment. Funny that I should forget that, of all things . . . But it was definitely a four."
Patten had a sneaking suspicion that he should think this Rudy character mad, but there was an exactitude to his speech, a crisp delivery filled with humor and lucidity that belied it.
Rudy went on:
"It was the month of February, and your mother was about a month overdue. It was snowing heavily the night of February 2, one of the worst storms in years."
"Wait a second," Patten interrupted again, "I was born in October. The twenty first."
"No you weren't."
"What?!"
"Check your passport."
"It's at home."
"Well check it later, and please Patten, don't interrupt me again. It's very important that you hear this, as fantastic as it might sound."
"This is stupid," Patten muttered, and seeing Rudy's expression felt compelled to apologize: "sorry."
"Your mother went into labor at precisely 10:22 p.m. That's 22:22 by European standards. See yet? No?"
Patten was silent. He had decided to wait. And listen. The lump on the back of his head throbbed, and his face was flushed from the fire and whisky. He made one final search in Rudy's ugly face for a sign of dementia, but he saw none. In fact, all he saw was concern, kindness, and humor. Was Rudy playing an elaborate joke? It still didn't answer the question of the wall: how does one walk through a wall?
"She bore him alone in the depths of the storm, and she died that night. While her body cooled a shadow crept into the home. It was a specter, a thought -- woven by a master wizard who lived under a mountain in the East.
"The specter gathered the babe up and flew to the mountain, the lair of the Wizard.
"This Wizard was a handsome devil -- a man of depraved genius and beauty; he had fine blond hair which shimmered like golden silk. It was Samson's hair -- he'd taken it from Delilah and so Samson's strength. He was a collector of strength. And this Wizard needed the boy's blood, his strength.
"The child saw the evil in the Wizard's black eyes. He saw the fear, and like Christ in the crèche, he made no sound. Enraged, the Wizard took out a his knife and pricked the boy's thumb with it. A single drop of blood beaded there, as perfect as a ruby.
"The Wizard sucked at it greedily, and the boy just stared at him, his eyes filled with pity. The Wizard swooned with the power he had just stolen.
"And then the boy escaped! A Bear spirit lumbered into the cavern, when the Wizard fainted; it gathered the boy in its jaws, and took him back to the city, to safety. But the Wizard had stolen the kernel of self-knowledge, and the Boy-Magus was destined to forget the great power he had."
Patten's head ached. His brain buzzed with this story that felt true, but was impossible. Patten felt that he knew what Saul must have gone through on the road to Damascus. Perhaps he needed a new name too.
"This is pretty weird stuff," Patten said.
"It is the cloth of fable, woven with truth and stitched with fate."
"So is this guy a Wizard, or a vampire?"
"Oh, a Wizard! He's much more powerful, complex, than a vampire, though they both take energy. He adds it to his own, and vampires just absorb it."
"So you're telling me there are vampires?"
"Of course. Don't you believe me?"
He ignored the question. "Anyway, how did you find me? Why?"
"Ah," Rudy smiled, seeing Patten's acceptance of the tale. "First another drink. Allow me." He took Patten's glass, and hobbled over to the bar. Patten watched the man's deformed, broken body, and wondered how hard it must have been going through life unable to walk properly. Rudy hobbled back and handed Patten the glass. Ice tinkled in it, reassuringly normal. "I found you because of all the damned magic you've been doing," Rudy said from the depths of his chair, suddenly cantankerous. "Do you realize what a racket you've been making?"
"What magic?"
"Your blasted walking. Each day you light up the city with your thunderous steps, walking a new reality into existence. It's not very subtle," Rudy chided.
"Sorry."
"And I figured it had to be you. There are only a handful of wizards left, and I know where they all are," he said, and then added thoughtfully, "he's here too."
"In Prague?"
"There's a Black Sabbat in a two days, and he's here for it. He and a few other ghoulies."
"I'm going to be sick."
"With this single-malt in you? I think not." Rudy leaned over and brushed Patten's hand with his own crooked fingers. He drew a number, and suddenly Patten felt better.
"What was that?"
"A four."
Patten looked confused again, and Rudy said, "I work magic through numbers. Numbers can describe the Universe. I fold them. I manipulate them and in their essence, I can effect certain changes. I'm trying to save this city from corruption -- I have been for a long time. That is, when I'm not saving you. Every wizard works his or her own particular magic, Patten. You, for example, work a very noisy sort of magic, and that's how I found you."
"What's my magic called?"
"Walking. It is the original magic. When your ancestors -- at least your mother's ancestors -- arrived in North America, they sang the world into being. The walked dream pathways and sang songs about all the plants and animals, and thus, in a sense, made them real."
"Like the Australian aboriginals!"
"Yes, very similar. Other places had this magic too, but it has long since been lost to new forms and more subtle workings. Like my numbers. But," he added, "your magic is a little different. Unlike your mother's ancestors . . ."
"She was native?" Patten interrupted.
"Partly, yes. She could have been a medicine woman if given the chance," he said, "but unlike your ancestors, your pathways are multi-layered. You have been folding realities. You have taken all these different realities and captured them. If you had the time, I bet you could make the whole city yours. But you don't have the time, because I'm sure the Wizard knows you are here too."
Patten looked around the room, feeling even more lost . . . suddenly everything was different. Everything he thought of as "real" was flat and two-dimensional. Things were layered in a way that was impossible. He noticed that Rudy was out of his seat again, and opening up his roll-top desk. Under the sleek mahogany slats was a computer keyboard and a screen.
"A computer?"
"Of course -- it can crunch numbers much faster than me -- I just have to write the equations, to create them." He turned the machine on. "It's a Cray," he told Patten with a parent's pride, "with some modifications I've made. I got it just before the Velvet Revolution." Rudy's seeming arthritic fingers somehow danced over the keyboard and equations winked into existence. He pressed enter. Numbers flashed in rapid succession on the screen and then stopped. Patten could hear the faintest of buzzing sounds and then it was gone.
"What have you done?"
"A spell to protect you," Rudy answered. "I've encased you with my most difficult numbers. He should have trouble getting through them, and when he does, I hope you'll be ready."
"Ready?"
"To take back your power. He stole it from you when he pricked your thumb. I've left another surprise for him too, but I hope you aren't around to see it." Rudy yawned. "Well, it's time for bed. I'd invite you to stay, but I don't have a spare room, and besides, you'll probably be more comfortable at home anyway."
"What do I do, though," Patten asked. "What happens next?"
"I don't know Patten. We all have to find our own equations. Our own paths. Besides, I've told you everything I know."
"But what about, you know," Patten shrugged, "Him? I don't know much about Him."
"Oh, you have to find out yourself. Look, you can come back anytime you want. Okay?" Patten nodded in agreement, and added, "just remember where you appear and I'll keep the portal open." Rudy tapped a few numbers into the computer, and a dark shadow appeared on the wall.
"Well, bye for now," Patten tried to sound brave, "I'll be seeing you."
"Cheerio. Remember to memorize the portal, because it will be well-hidden and in shadow."
"No problem," Patten said, and once again, he stepped through.
He found himself standing below the wall of Prague Castle, looking out at the city. It was morning and the sun was a blood red globe, suspended in the city's fog like an evil omen. A veil of mist and smoke hung over Prague like a shroud. Its spires seemed to pierce the pall of smog with indistinct grace. Patten memorized the location, and then watched the sun rise.
It slowly lost its tincture of doom, and he walked towards his flat in the hilly working-class neighborhood of Smichov, conscious to tread lightly.
He knew he was going mad. Only a lunatic would actually believe in Rudy's absurd story. He went to his apartment in a trance and collapsed into bed.
When he woke up, and turned on his radio while he waited for his coffee to brew, Patten was surprised to discover he'd slept for two days. He had planned an excursion that weekend to Cesky Krumlov, a world heritage site he'd been dying to see. But he still had lots of time to catch the train.
The lump on the back of his head was fading and he remembered a strange dream. About a misshapen dwarf and about magic -- incredible stories. It seemed dream-like. Patten decided to check his passport. In the dream, had a different birthday. At the very least, he knew his God-damned birthday was October 21, 1966!
He pulled the passport out of his document drawer and looked at the blue cover, the government seal. Patten had a momentary swell of lightheadedness and knew that this was the defining moment. Tremulously, he opened the little book. His hands were shaking so much that he could barely read the date:
February 2, 1966.