The Sorcerer

It is a peculiar truth that a man who finds himself entirely too comfortable with life will sooner or later seek discomfort merely for the sake of variety. Such was my case on this particular day.

I had grown weary of the monotony of the city and the life that comes from dwelling there—the endless drone of activity, its ceaseless demands on one’s time and attention. I am a playwright—perhaps it is more accurate to say I am a satirist for want of quality in my work. But therein lies the curse of my profession. It is a delightful thing, indeed, to take the pomposity of the world, lace it with some clever rhymes, and present it on the stage. Yet, the charm fades when the absurdity of the stage tends to be more reality than satire. And I have found that life often imitates fiction far more than fiction life. To my greatest dismay, I could no longer find pleasure in my work.

Countless talking heads clamoured for my ear, each voice indistinguishable from the next, yet each insistent upon its own importance. The days had blurred together into a tedious procession of sameness. Even the diversions that once delighted me—the theatres, the salons, the operas—had lost their animation. In short, I was bored. Bored enough, indeed, to abandon my usual routines and board a train bound for nowhere in particular. That is a half-truth; I knew perfectly well that the train was bound for Harrow Weald—I was bound for my Middlesex estate. But it felt far more romantic, far more adventurous, to pretend I was a vagabond on a journey to some indeterminate elsewhere.

The clatter of the train and the countryside rolling by the window lulled me into a contemplative state, though my mind refused to settle. Perhaps it was fate, or mere coincidence, that my restlessness was interrupted by the arrival of a most peculiar fellow.

I had not noticed his entrance into the car. In fact, I never noticed the train stop at all. But it surely must have, otherwise this new arrival could never have boarded in the first place. Yet there he was, inexplicably.

He was a man of middling height and typical build if a bit on the heavier side. I did not take in the newcomer long before I closed my eyes and returned to my reverie. In but a moment after, I heard,

“Is this seat taken?”

I opened my eyes, to see if the question was addressed to me. It was. This perplexed me even more when I saw that the rest of the car was entirely empty; every bench unoccupied save for my own. Before I could muster a response, he had already seated himself directly across from me.

"Well, sir," said he, "apologies for the intrusion, but might I purchase your company with a story? Yes, a story.”

Seeing as diversion was the main goal of my constitutional into the countryside, I, of course, wholeheartedly obliged the man. From here, the man began to speak the most incredible story I have ever been witness to in my life. So incredible, in fact, that I had to—the moment I arrived at my destination—pen it down lest it slip through the sieve of memory. What follows is the result.

“And so, sir, I will tell you this tale. And the tale begins, as I shall think most do, in the beginning. Not in the beginning of time—or any such nonsense as that—but it began as all they start. I was sleeping, of course. Now, I am not a lazy man, by any means. In fact, I am quite the Industrious little workhorse, if I do say so myself. Pardon me the pun, but— Oh, that’s right, you have no idea to what I refer. Well, in a few minute's time, you will be aware and you shall find it to be the most agreeable little jest.

“Now, I was sleeping in the place of my employment, for I own a shop, you see, and I live above it, in an apartment. I prepared myself in the morning, as I would on any other day. But this day is most singular indeed.

“So, I dressed myself in my usual attire. I am a sorcerer, you see, and my dress is most important to my vocation, and I say, do not laugh, sir, I mean it not in jest. No, I am a sorcerer, sir. More specifically, sir, I am… Oh!

“I have yet to introduce myself properly. My name is John Wellington Wells, sir. I am a dealer in magic and spells, in blessings and curses, in ever-filled purses, in prophecies, witches, and knells, sir. You may find my occupation incredulous, but when you have dealt with the occult when you have engaged with the mystic for such a time as I, you shall see that it is a very very grave matter indeed. But the nature of my profession is not the subject of this story—well, it will be for a few moments longer, I suppose. I shall have to explain it to you altogether as you seem totally ignorant of my work.

"Well, as I was saying, sir, my vocation demands a certain regalia. A mystic robe trimmed with celestine silver, but—Ah—from my current garb you can see that I do not adhere to that specific dogma. No—I tend to keep with the current style of the day, you shall find.”

Let the reader note that Mr. Wells was dressed altogether unlike any man I had ever seen. His coat was a deep shade of plum, embroidered with peculiar symbols that seemed to shift ever so slightly in the light. His trousers were striped in a fashion that might have been fashionable fifty years prior, and his boots, polished to a mirror shine, bore buckles—yes, buckles as if it were the seventeenth century. The crowning piece of his ensemble was his hat—a rakish affair—was adorned with a single iridescent feather. I am fairly sure I have never seen the like of the feather in my life and couldn't begin to describe it.

"And yet, one element of my regalia is immutable—the wand. Ah, the wand! A humble-looking thing to the untrained eye, but it is the axis mundi of my craft.”

At this point, he pulled out the “wand” in question. It was an altogether unimpressive stick—smooth and dark, yes, but otherwise no different from what one might find discarded on a forest floor.

"This," he continued, "is no mere tool. It is an extension of myself, a bridge between the seen and the unseen, the finite and the infinite. With it, I am not just a man—I am a conduit, a keeper of the balance, a wielder of forces that would otherwise rend the fabric of existence. And yet, it is also rather excellent for turning recalcitrant teacups into compliant ones.

“But this, I should think, is enough background.

"So, I was in the upstairs apartment, or rather just leaving it. For below, I hold quite a pretty little shop. It's just situated on St. Mary Axe. If ever you are in London, sir, you should certainly come visit—if you are in need of my services, that is. I have quite the first-class assortment of magics. Or perhaps I could raise you some posthumous shade? I do have vast quantities, you know of many magical minutiae. Love philtres, for example—the stuff is filling my shelves to bursting! Or perhaps you require some prognostication? Hmm? I can peep with the greatest security into futurity for you. I was top of my class, you know—an astrologer, by license!”

I think the reader will find it not at all disagreeable that I would baulk at Mr Wells’s many attempts to attain my business. He continued though, unabated,

"And if you should find yourself in a particularly foul mood—or perhaps with a rival who needs a little... adjustment—I do stock an impressive range of curses. Ethical ones, of course! No harm to innocents, I assure you. Unless, of course, you pay a bit in advance, if you catch my meaning.”

At this, I could not suppress a chuckle. "Mr. Wells," I said, "if your tale is half as remarkable as your salesmanship, then I am in for quite the story.” He straightened at that, his expression briefly wounded, but then broke into a broad grin.

"Ah, yes, the tale! Where was I? Ah, leaving the apartment! Well, as I stepped into the shop below and opened my store at a typically early hour—the customers that frequent my little establishment are either very early risers, or come in at some ungodly hour, so I must accommodate.

“I opened my store at just my usual hour. At just past five in the morning. I open so early, you see, to begin the very many time-intensive exercises needed to operate such an establishment. There is always a cauldron that needs bubbling or a newt’s eye that needs gouging out. Oh, and don't get me started on the inventory! Do you know how many charms and talismans require their enchantments renewed weekly? It's a wonder I have time for anything else at all!

“I had just finished dusting off the counter and began to draw back the curtains to display my open sign when I heard a jingle. Yes, I heard the soft jingle of my door opening. Now, this was most unusual. I have just said my clientele are early risers, yes, but no one enters a shop at a little past five in the morning. Not even witches, or warlocks, or vampires—or parliamentarians for that matter.

“Now, perhaps, I thought to myself, this individual has some emergency that I might be able to aid them in. Perhaps they are due an inheritance and wish an estranged uncle to be smothered in fast-disappearing-magical-wax™ before he wakes in the morning. Perhaps they are some witch doctor and require a shrunken head as a fetish for some incomprehensible ritual before the next sunrise. Whatever the case may be, I made my way over to service the man.

“Now, his dress was not in any way unusual for my clientele. No, they were all black cowls and raggedy spectres, but there was something about this figure that I could not quite put my finger on. I mean, I have met many an evanescent shade in my days. But this man seemed almost like he was not there, like the blackness of his cowl, of his robe, completely and entirely engulfed his being.

“I thought of all this in half a moment before he had even said a word. Before my customer could say a word, as is my custom, I immediately blurted out: ‘Well, good morning, sir. It is a bit early, but what can I do for you? Looking for something in particular? Need something delivered? In town long then?’

“Now, you see, I constantly blather, so I was expecting to get quite a few more words in before he started speaking. But as I was mid-speech, he spoke simply.

NO, JUST POPPING IN FOR A BIT.

“At this, my heart skipped a beat. My pupils dilated. Cold sweat formed on my brow, etc., etc.

“You do not always recognize death when first you see it. No, it can often come disguised. It often hides itself away, not with any sort of malice, but through its nature. It is subtle. It is always waiting. This is not so the case when you hear it. When you hear death, you never forget it. I had met death several times before. He is quite the ghastly fellow. Not on any account of his own, mind you, but whenever he is around, he always seems to bring down the mood. It is a little-known fact that all wizards, upon the final flicker of life, have their souls personally collected by Death himself—the head honcho, not one of his many lackeys or scythe-wielding subordinates like Halitosis or Pneumococcal Pneumonia or some other.”

It was at this point in his elocution that I had run out of tobacco in my pipe. I listened to his story quite contentedly this far but I felt it rude not to interject.“Sho,” I mumbled around the pipe clamped between my teeth, patting my pockets in search of more tobacco, “Deaff himshelf, you shay?’"

"Quite right, Now, I've met him a few times before, of course. One always does in my line of work. I suppose you’re wondering—yes, I said I was a sorcerer, not a wizard. Well, it’s complicated, as these things often are. Suffice it to say, an incident involving an exceptionally angry orangutan brought my career to a rather premature conclusion, so I went freelance. But anyway, Death had just entered my shop.

“At first, I was at a loss for words. A dry film seemed to weld my lips together etc., but eventually, I managed enough self-strength to utter, ‘I don’t suppose it’s time, is it?’

“He simply said,

YES. TERRIBLY SORRY ABOUT THIS.

“Well, I always thought—how to put this?—that I’d go out in some more… interesting fashion. Battling a foul necromancer, perhaps. Or concocting a forbidden potion that would take out the entire block with me. Something dramatic, you know. So, I asked him, ‘How, exactly, am I going to die?’

GENERALLY,

“he said, with what—on reflecting—might have been a hint of professional discomfort,

IT’S BAD TASTE TO REVEAL. BUT I SUPPOSE THERE’S NO HARM IN IT NOW. YOUR HEART WILL SIMPLY GIVE OUT. TOO MANY SCONES YOU SEE.

“‘Well,’ I managed at last, ‘that's rather... anticlimactic, wouldn’t you say?’

Death tilted his head—and in that motion, you must remember that death is a rather pale figure—that is to say—he is a skeleton, or more rather resembles a skeleton. I know of no mechanism, magic or otherwise, that would allow a skeleton to think and speak, let alone hold polite conversation.

I SUPPOSE YOU COULD LOOK AT IT THAT WAY.

“‘Oh dear,’ I said, my eyes, at this point, were around the room—I frantically searched for any loophole, or more realistically, any object I might use to bash his head in—a ludicrous idea, of course, but I was about to die, you see, and desperate times breed desperate thoughts. And then, a very unique thought occurred to me. ’Well, I don’t suppose there’s any sort of deal I can make? Or perhaps a chess match?’

I WOULDN’T RECOMMEND THE CHESS MATCH,

“he said, almost apologetically.

I’M VERY GOOD AT IT, YOU SEE. LOTS OF PRACTICE.

"’Ah, So, a deal it is, then, I suppose. What’s the typical offer you make, if I might be so bold as to ask?’

YOU DON’T QUITE UNDERSTAND,

“he replied, with—I think—an inhuman amount of patience.

YOU ARE THE ONE ABOUT TO DIE. USUALLY YOU MAKE THE OFFER.

“‘Well,’ I said, ‘I just thought—considering you've been in this job a while, you would appreciate someone taking into account what you might like.’ This actually seemed to give him pause for a moment. I even believe I saw for a moment emotion on his face—and that is extraordinary because his face is just a skull you know. Yes—he seemed genuinely moved by this little act of kindness—which, I will have you know was entirely self-preservation.

THAT IS AWFULLY CONSIDERATE OF YOU. HMMM…

“A moment passed. Then another. At some point, I remember saying something along the lines of: ‘If you need some time to decide sir you are more than welcome to come back sometime else.’ Eventually, though he did respond.

I’VE GOT IT.

"’Well, sir, you have my undivided attention.’ I said to him.

A FAVOR. AN OUTSTANDING ONE, OWED TO ANOTHER EMBODIMENT FROM A PARALLEL EXISTENCE. I AM OBLIGED TO SETTLE IT, AND YOU, MISTER WELLS, WILL BE MY BARGAINING CHIP.

"’A favor? I—what sort of embodiment are we talking about? Not—oh dear—not Life, I hope. We’ve had our misunderstandings over the years, you see, and—’

NOT LIFE. CHAOS.

“‘Chaos?’

WELL, DISCORD MORE SPECIFICALLY.

“‘Discord. You mean to tell me that the very concept of disorder owes you a favour? H—how exactly does one exactly owe embodiment of a theoretical anyway? Is there some kind of gentlemen's club that you all frequent? Do you wager on some kind of cosmic horse race? I should like to see that.’

QUITE.

“He said, somehow, a bit nonplussed.

YES. CHAOS—DISCORD, AS IT IS KNOWN IN THAT PARTICULAR SPHERE—HAS REQUESTED A UNIQUE INSTRUMENT FOR ITS PURPOSES. YOU, MR. WELLS, WITH YOUR PREDILECTION FOR UPENDING NATURAL LAWS AND YOUR… UNRELENTING BANTER, ARE WELL-SUITED TO THE TASK.

"’Well-suited? That seems a rather polite way of saying I’m expendable.’

EXACTLY.

"’Oh, marvelous. But I must ask—what could this Discord possibly want with me? Surely—surely there are others better equipped to—uhm—sow chaos—i suppose—in its—er—domain.’

DISCORD IS PARTICULARLY INTERESTED IN SOMEONE WITH YOUR TALENTS. YOUR SPECIFIC BRAND OF... ECCENTRICITY.

"’Eccentricity? Why, sir, I take pride in my work! I am an artisan of the arcane craft, a connoisseur of the peculiar, the miraculous, and the absurd. Chaos doesn’t seem to be much of a step up or down—it’s more of a lateral move, wouldn’t you agree? And another thing—’ Now at this point, it must be plainly said that I was stalling for my part—yes—I was trying to think of another way out of this situation. Not that I had a total disinterest in his offer—on the contrary I found it quite the agreeable alternative to whatever torment my soul would be subject to—then again I was not quite sure what kind of monstrous domain the concept of total chaos would inhabit. No—I was simply trying to keep my mortal coil for as long as possible, and if that meant speaking utter nonsense then, by Jove, that is how I would go about it—that is until, of course, he put an end to it.

ENOUGH OF THIS NONSENSE. DO YOU ACCEPT.

“‘Well—um—of course I accept, it's just—can I pack a bag or prepare some luggage—maybe write a will?’

NO. YOU WILL HAVE NO NEED FOR SUCH FRIVOLITIES. GOODBYE MISTER WELLS.

“‘Now hold on just a moment! Surely I get some thing I—I mean—my whole life I have endeavored to do good, surely that merits at least somethi—’

“My memory gets a little foggy here. You see, at one moment I was in the front room of my little shop at Number Seventy St. Mary Axe, London, England, Earth, and in the next, I wasn't— I was somewhere else—or, perhaps, nowhere or maybe between somewheres. I could go on. really I don't know. But whatever the case may be I eventually ended up somewhere.”