The Sorcerer

by Sgt_Reckless

Rating: teen
Tags: Discord, Crossover, Human, Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Comedy, Other, Adventure
Length: 10026

I met a peculiar man aboard the train today—he told me the most extraordinary story: Talking Ponies, Unicorns, The Magic of Friendship—Absolute Lunacy.

Arthur,

I met a peculiar man aboard the train today—he told me the most extraordinary story: Talking Ponies, Unicorns, The Magic of Friendship—Absolute Lunacy. I am fairly sure the man was insane but his conviction was unnerving. He spoke with such earnestness, as though he truly believed these delusions were real. Whatever the case may be for the man's sanity, it has given me a wonderful idea for an operetta...

Yours,

W. S.

This is a crossover with Gilbert and Sullivan's 1877 comic opera The Sorcerer. (I hear there's a whole lot of demand for those.)

Also, I wanted to try writing with a sort of stream-of-consciousness effect. Honestly, it’s not my favourite to read, let alone write, but I figured I’d give it a shot and, so far, I like how it's turning out. Depending on how it goes, and what people think of it, I might keep going. Or not. Either way, I’ll make sure it has an ending in the least.

Published 2024-12-14 02:10:00 UTC
Last updated 2024-12-18 19:37:17 UTC

Chapter I

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.”

Chapter II

It was at this point in his recitation that a sudden jolt caused the railcar, which my compatriot and I were occupying, to experience some sort of electrical fault. The lights in the car flickered violently, and for a brief moment, everything went pitch black. The sudden jolt sent my pipe clattering to the floor, and I reached instinctively to steady myself against the bench. My companion, Mr. Wells, seemed unfazed by the commotion. Eventually, the lights settled and I composed myself enough to recover my articles.

“Ah, there it is,” he said, straightening his waistcoat. “A crack in the fabric of reality. Happens more often than you’d think on railways. All that motion—terribly destabilizing.”

“Fabric of reality?” I asked—and for the life of me I could not understand it—but my voice trembled with a hint of legitimate panic as if I actually believed this ridiculous man. “I—I thought it was just these damned finicky electrics.”

“No, no,” he replied, peering out the now-darkened window. “You see, sir, you’ve stumbled into rather unusual company. Unusual company tends to attract unusual phenomena. And here we are.”

“Here we are?” I repeated, glancing around the railcar, which still seemed, for all its flickering lights and occasional groans, firmly rooted on the tracks. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Mr. Wells, leaning back against the seat and folding his hands neatly in his lap. “You’re mortal. Mortals, bless our earnest little hearts, are hardly equipped to grasp the nuances of interdimensional turbulence. But not to worry! I shall endeavor to explain it in terms you might understand.”

Despite the rather blunt wording of the previous statement, I was altogether certain that Mr. Wells meant not to insult my perspicacity. On the contrary, I ardently believe that he enjoyed the prospect of enlightening me on the subject of his nonsense, though his tone was maddeningly condescending.

“You see, sir,” he began, leaning forward slightly, “ the material world in which you and I and most others plod about in is but a single layer of reality—imagine if you will a million interconnected but separate planes all converging in upon a single infinitesimal but always shrinking point. Now the turbulence occurs when two individuals of sufficient gravity of personality meet. This convergence of—chasimatic energy is what I call it, causes a rift.”

My blank stare must have queued him as to my incomprehension as he then stated quickly, “take this croissant,” he then reached for one of the many pastries he had piled on a plate before him.

I suppose it must be explained that a hostess had come through with a cart of refreshments earlier in the journey, and Mr Wells, with an enthusiasm that bordered on gluttony, had availed himself of an alarming number of baked goods. The croissant in question was half-eaten and had also fallen to the floor during the initial “interdimensional turbulence.”

“Now,” he said, gesturing with the pastry, “imagine this croissant is the universe. Each layer of flaky, buttery goodness represents a different plane of existence, separate yet intrinsically linked to the whole. The layers converge at the tip of the croissant, that is where we are in the equation”—he pointed dramatically at the narrow end—“but the layers spread outward infinitely as you move toward the base. And at this convergence point, where we are, a sort of—how do I put this—a portal, yes a portal is formed for a fraction of a fraction of a second.”

He paused, allowing this metaphorical brilliance to sink in, though the crumbs tumbling from his fingers somewhat undermined the gravity of his explanation.

“You’re saying reality is… a croissant?” I ventured.

“Precisely!” he declared, taking a triumphant bite of the croissant.

I turned back to Mr. Wells, who was still holding the mangled croissant aloft like some culinary philosopher-king. “So then once you open the portal and then—what? Jump in?”

He regarded me with a look of mock horror, as though I’d just suggested using the Mona Lisa as a dartboard. “Jump in? Sir, portals are not trampolines to be flung into with reckless abandon! No, no. Entering a portal requires delicacy, preparation, and, above all, intent. Without proper intent, you might very well find yourself spat out into some half-formed dimension where everything tastes like turnips and time flows backward. Dreadful places, really.”

With an arched brow, I finally said to the man, “And this relates to your story how, exactly?”

Mr Wells then froze mid-bite, chewed thoughtfully a moment, swallowed, and then placed the remains of the pastry on his plate with great deliberation. “Ah, a fair question,” he said, brushing his fingers free of crumbs. “Allow me to connect the dots, as it were. You see, the convergence of personalities I mentioned earlier—this ‘charismatic energy’—well, that’s precisely what happened to me on the day my life changed forever.”

I arched my brow somehow higher and gestured for him to continue.

“It was a Tuesday, a perfectly ordinary Tuesday, or so I thought. I had just opened my shop—did I mention I own a shop? A rather peculiar establishment, dealing in all manner of magical oddities and arcane curiosities. Anyway, I was dusting off the counter when—”

“Yes—yes you've said this all before,” I said, for the first time becoming exacerbated with the fellow. “You had just gotten to the part when Death himself had banished you to another realm or some such.”

Mr. Wells blinked, startled by my interruption. For a moment, he looked genuinely affronted. Then, with a theatrical sigh, he settled back in his seat, folding his arms across his chest.

“Well, if you’re so eager to skip the preamble,” he said, “I suppose I shall oblige. Yes, Death himself had just informed me that my time had come, and after some rather spirited negotiations—which I must say were entirely one-sided—I found myself being ‘banished,’ as you so succinctly put it, to another realm.”

“And this other realm,” I prompted, “what was it like?”

“Ah,” he said, “now that is a question worthy of my answer.”

And so he began the story once again:

Chapter III

“Well, then, let us dispense with the formalities and cut straight to the meat of it, shall we? After my… let’s call it an arrangement with Death was concluded, I came to my senses rather abruptly. And when I say abruptly, I mean that in the most literal sense possible—consciousness slammed into me like well a sheer wind, you see, I was falling.

“Yes, falling. Through trees, no less. Branches clawed at me with wild abandon. Why the forest itself had taken umbrage at my sudden—if wholly undesired—intrusion. A most undignified affair, I assure you.

“And then, with a great thud, I landed. And not gently, mind you. The earth welcomed me with all the tenderness of an anvil, and I dare say I left quite the impression—both on the ground and on my posterior. Now, I should say my brief return to consciousness was just that—brief.

“Only after the fact was I vaguely aware of my initial fall through the canopy. At the time I was far too preoccupied with the sudden cessation of motion and the immediate, all-encompassing ache that followed. Pain has a remarkable way of narrowing one’s focus, you see. The many sensations of the moment—sharp, dull, throbbing—demanded my full attention. They drowned out any coherent thought I had save for a singular refrain: I am alive, though I dearly wish I were not so aware of it.

“The first vivid thing I can remember—aside from the pain, of course—was the cold. The earth beneath me was cold. The wind against my sorely beaten body was cold. The snow that had loosened from the boughs above during my graceless descent, which now lay heaped atop me, was cold too. It was not altogether an unbearable cold, but it was persistent. It was a crisp cold. The kind of cold that wakes you up in the morning. But, of course, I was hardly conscious, much less awake so it did no good to me.

“The snow pressed against my face and the icy crystals nipped at my skin as though to say, ‘Get up, you fool, and face the day.’ But I couldn’t. Not yet. In fact, my mind was so addled with what I must assume to be post-being-treated-like-interdimensional-postage exhaustion that I lay there, utterly still, unsure if I was more snow or man at that moment. I lay there, it seems to me now, for what felt like an eternity, though time is a slippery thing in the cold. Yes, that is most certainly the case when in the cold. I, sir, I can assure you I've been in the cold far more than I should like, and seconds seem to crawl and minutes seem to stagger, and hours, hours seem to stretch out. Yes, hours mock you with their perpetuity.

“You know, sir, once, once I was travelling through the wastes of the Yukon. “Yes, that is right, sir. The Yukon. Dreadful territory, really. I mean, the coal isn’t even half of it there. The sun, you see, the sun does not set there. Or if it does, it stays there for months and months at a time. Months! I mean… I hardly got a wink. You must understand, I was there not for leisure, oh no, but for a client’s specific purposes. And while I do share a bit of, shall we say, sorcerer-to-client privilege—confidentiality and all that—I shan’t name names. However, the specifics of the task? Well, those I could relay, should you be so inclined. Yes? Well, my client was in particularly good standing with the Court and he needed for some reason or another a tonic of rapid peeling. Now I shouldn't ask to know why a man might need such a thing—I mean the man's handwriting was absolutely dreadful so that's the best I could make of it. But for the “rapid” part of this “peeling potion” I was journeying to the North for a particular rabbit. Yes, a rabbit. But not just any rabbit. I was in pursuit of the jackalope.

“You might scoff at this, of course—‘The jackalope! That does not exist,’ and so on, as so many uninformed people are wont to do. But let me assure you, sir, the American jackalope, specifically, is quite real. Rare as hen’s teeth, mind you, and far more valuable. Typically, they’re found in the arid climes of the Midwest, bounding across deserts and prairie fields with those ridiculous antlers perched upon their heads. A curious spectacle, to be sure, but in the snow? In the Yukon? Ah, that’s an entirely different matter. If you should find one there, then you’ve stumbled upon something so rare, so precious, it’s worth—well, I hesitate to say its weight in gold. No, not merely gold. Its weight ten times in gold. If not more. Yes—you will find it particularly interesting that—”

Mr Wells goes on like this for some time. And he does often. The reader will have to trust in my judgment when I say I have included the absolute minimum required to grasp the essence of the man. Eventually, I wrangled him back on topic:

Ah—yes. My thought process after becoming fully cognizant went something like this: ‘Why is my hat always the first casualty? Was that a rib cracking, or am I just dramatic? Would the snow kindly stop settling into places it has no business being?’ Ultimately, however, some stubborn spark in me—call it pride, call it stupidity, call it the will to live—urged me to move again.

“Slowly, painfully, I shifted my weight, and the snow tumbled off me in clumps. My arms felt like lead, my legs were as uncooperative as ever. but I managed to push myself up onto one elbow. ‘Move, I told myself. Just move.’ And with a groan that felt like it belonged to a man three times my age, I pushed myself further upright, propping myself on both arms now. In time I stood—and in time I had regained entirely my capacities.

“I remember saying, ‘Well l, that's step one, Now for step two: figuring out where the devil I am.’ The forest offered no answers, though, seeing it for the first time, it looked rather idyllic—if a bit dark. In fact, the more that I looked at it, the more it looked exactly how I would imagine an Evil Forest to look.

“I mean, it looked just like the German Black Forest—I’ve been there you know. A dreadful place if you wander too far off the beaten path, though the pastries in the nearby villages are quite something. But yes, this forest had all the hallmarks of its—somehow—more sinister cousin.

The trees were altogether unlike the black forest. In fact, they were unlike anything I had come across in all my days. They were dark and foreboding—if a tree can be foreboding. They seemed almost lifelike. Occasionally I glimpsed at one, and it looked as if it had some... I don't know, some face staring back at me. But I would simply take another look, and—I must have been imagining something. The ground—the ground was a tangle of roots and frost. It was uneven, treacherous. It seemed to be hellbent bent on getting me to misstep and twist an ankle. The air felt... Thick. It wasn't a physical sense, mind you, it wasn't humid or anything like that. But there was a weight to it, a sort of... I don't know, a sort of tension. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I mean, the occasional creak of a branch in the wind... sounded unnervingly like a footfall, and I found myself glancing over my shoulder far more than I'd care to admit.

“It’s funny, isn’t it? How a place can seem alive, even when there’s no one around. The forest had a presence, a personality almost, and not a particularly friendly one at that. It didn’t feel malevolent, exactly, but there was an undeniable sense that I wasn’t entirely welcome here. I mean to characterize it, I got the strongest sense that the forest was saying, ‘You don’t belong, stranger. Best you move along.’

“Of course, there was nowhere to move along to, no path to follow, no obvious direction to take. Every way looked the same—dark. Now that I mention it, dark is right. The sun, it seems, was setting. I could not see the sun exactly. The trees overhead were far too thick. The whole place just seemed to dim slowly. But standing still wasn't an option either. Not when this bloody cold was nipping at my heels—and I'm fairly certain one of my ribs was, in fact, cracked. I mean, they were certainly reminding me of their displeasure at that.

So, I did the only sensible thing a man in my position could do. I picked a direction at random, and started walking. I won't lie to you. It wasn't a confident walk—more like, it was a tentative shuffle. And I certainly wasn't having a merry traipse through the woods!

No, it was the kind of gait that says—and I'm terribly sorry for personifying everything the way I do. I have a terrible bad habit of it. No, but I think the gait said to the world, I think, ‘I'm moving forward. But I'm fully prepared to turn and run in another totally random direction, if needs be.’ Which, in retrospect, was probably wise, given the circumstances. But at the time, it felt like progress, and progress was better than nothing.

“The forest, though… it wasn’t making things easy. To make the long and short of it, it did not go well. It took several hours to make. Middling progress. No less than a few miles at most. And it grew darker, still.

I mean, my jacket was already roughed up quite a bit in the fall, but it was veritably torn to ribbons by the many many thorns and brambles that infested this place. But, to take account of my wardrobe, it was, in fact, quite similar to the garb I am wearing now. And in some cases, the selfsame. As I have said previously, it is the uniform of my vocation. My lovely, lovely jacket. It was but the first casualty.

“This tall top hat? Anything but tall at the time. It had landed beneath me in the fall, poor thing, and the titular ‘top’ was all but punched out. And the rest of my garb was in all manner of states of repair.

“But one thing held true, as it always does. My wand. I had at least that going for me—it was unharmed, unscathed So I had at least some defense in my jaunt through the undergrowth though what good it might do in this dreadful place remained to be seen.

“Just as I decided it best to set up some primitive camp, perhaps fashion a fire from whatever I could scrape together, I heard something. Oh, you never forget the first time you hear something in a forest like this. It was a low sound. A grumbling sound. Just to my right. A growl. At first, I thought it might have been my stomach protesting the lack of sustenance, but no. No, this was far worse. It was deep, resonant. I turned, slowly, carefully, because even a fool knows you don’t make sudden movements when you hear that kind of sound in the dark.

“And there it was. A manticore! Ye Gods, a manticore!

“Let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like the sight of a manticore in the dim light of a cursed forest. They’re majestic, yes, in the way that a hurricane might be majestic—terrifying, overwhelming, and absolutely the last thing you want to deal with at the moment.
“It stood there, no more than twenty paces away. I suppose I should describe it for you—manticores are not that common in England, I should think—more a mythical creature really, like a Scottish Conservative. And all of the manticores I've met are staunchly Tory. Not that I’d half a mind to ask him.

“Manticores are hellish beasts. Picture a lion, but larger,and fiercer, and thoroughly displeased with the general state of the world. Then add a set of leathery, bat-like wings, that look as though they’ve been stolen from the very gates of hell. And of course, the pièce de résistance—the tail. A great, barbed monstrosity, like a scorpion’s but magnified a hundredfold.

“This one was no exception. Its golden eyes glinted with a certain unsettling intelligence; t’was like it knew exactly how much I didn’t want to be there and was considering how best to make my evening worse. It growled with a great rumbling jowel and great quantities of spittle leaked from its maw.

“And there I stood, armed with nothing but my wand and what I like to call misplaced optimism.

Running was not an option—not with a beast that could leap half the distance in a single bound. Fighting? A manticore against one somewhat bruised and emotionally fragile sorcerer? Not ideal. Negotiating? Hardly. Manticores are not known for their diplomacy—their opinions on immigration are utterly ridiculous.

“I must confess that nothing so tactical came to mind when first I saw the beast. No, my first thought, the very first thing that entered my mind was, I am not in England anymore. That, of course, was quite self-evident, but it had only now truly crossed my mind. I was supposedly banished to the realm of Discord, Chaos Incarnate, and it was, what? A forest? A forest! Perhaps—perhaps it was some cosmic mistake, some clerical error in the grand bureaucracy of the multiverse. Or perhaps, and this is truly frightening, the realm of this Lord of Chaos was infinite, like a fractal, and any possible combination of events could occur within it. And it was just by pure happenstance that I ended up in a fairytale forest, fighting what I can only imagine to be some confluence of fate with rather sharp teeth.

“And because I had spent so long thinking that in the moment, I froze.

“Not for lack of fear, mind you—I assure you, I was terrified. No, it was that my body and mind were at odds with one another. My thoughts raced around my mind, colliding with one another and scattering like billiard balls, while my legs—the traitorous things—remained quite firmly rooted to the ground. The manticore took another step forward.

‘Ah, there we are. That did it.’ I thought at the moment. My legs now, apparently jolted awake by the sheer immediacy of the situation, decided that now was the time to act. Unfortunately, their decision was not to run or fight or do anything remotely helpful, but to stumble backward in what I can only describe as an interpretive dance of panic.

“This, of course, had the immediate effect of making me look exactly as incompetent as I felt, and the manticore, bless its terrifying little heart, seemed to find this development rather amusing. Manticores, it seems, have a sense of humor, though I cannot say I appreciated being the butt of its joke.

“I had backed myself up a considerable distance until my retreat was blocked by a tree. ‘Well,’ I muttered under my breath, ‘this is a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into.’ My wand, I still clutched it in my hand and trembled ever so slightly.Not from fear, mind you—well, mostly not from fear—but from the sheer absurdity of the situation. Here I was, a man of some considerable magical aptitude, reduced to a stammering, stumbling wreck before a beast that likely didn’t even have a sound economic policy let alone know what a wand was.

“And that, sir, is when my survival instincts finally decided to show up. Late to the party, as always, but better late than never, I suppose. With the manticore mere paces away and looking entirely too pleased with itself, my brain and body finally reached a mutual agreement: Do something, anything, or become dinner. My grip on the wand tightened, my knuckles were white with determination—or desperation, take your pick—and I mustered what little courage I had left.

“‘Right,’ I muttered, more to myself than to the manticore. ‘Let’s see how you feel about a bit of pyrotechnics.’

“Now, I’ll be the first to admit that my magic, while effective, is not always elegant. What followed was no exception. I raised the wand, aimed it squarely at the manticore’s hulking form. With a flick of my wrist, a shouted incantation (and a handful of pocket gunpowder) I unleashed a burst of fire. “To call it a fireball would be generous. It was more of a sputtering blaze, really—somewhere between a bonfire spark and a particularly ambitious candle flame. But it was enough. The manticore snarled;it recoiled slightly at the light.

“This, of course, was my moment. I didn’t waste time admiring my handiwork or considering how uncomfortably close I had come to being impaled or biten in half. Instead, I did the sensible thing.

“I ran.

“And when I say I ran, I mean I ran like the messenger at Marathon—I mean I ran. My feet barely touched the ground as I bolted through the undergrowth, dodging branches and roots and generally making a complete fool of myself.

“My lungs burned, my legs ached, and my heart pounded so hard I was half-convinced it might give up altogether. Still, I ran, because stopping was not an option. Stopping meant death—or worse, humiliation at the claws of a beast who’d vote with bloody Lord Salisbury!

“And then, as if this damnable forest grew bored with tormenting me, I saw it—a faint light ahead—a clearing!

“Now, I’m not usually one to put much stock in divine intervention—the Old Man has it far too much out for me—but in that moment, I would have kissed the ring of just about any being who claimed to aid me. Saints, eldritch horrors, embodiments of chaos (perhaps)—I wasn’t picky. If they’d seen fit to give me a reprieve, I wasn’t about to question their motives.

“An as I burst into the clearing I was more or less prepared to make a desperate—and I'm sure it would have been quite desperate—last stand. But what I found instead of my Thermopylae, was something most peculiar indeed.

“The clearing, you see, wasn’t the barren sanctuary I had expected. No, it was carpeted—absolutely covered—in a shimmering sea of blue flowers. Their petals caught the moonlight and gave the affair an otherworldly glow.

“At first, I didn’t think much of it. ‘A bed of flowers then? Eh—not the worst place to die.’ But then I heard something. Or, more like, didn't hear something. The manticore. The snarls, the thundering footsteps, all of it stopped the moment it reached the edge of the clearing. I turned, half-expecting the beast to be upon me, and it was there just beyond flowers. It paced back and forth along the treeline, its eyes locked on me for the whole of it. ‘By Jove…’

“It was afraid.

"Now, when any animal—particularly one as ferocious and self-assured as a manticore—stops in its tracks, you can be sure of one thing: something has unsettled it. This wasn’t some tactical recalibration, some predatory pause to reassess the situation. No, this was genuine, palpable fear. And anything that is enough to scare a manticore is surely enough to scare me.

"However, I was met with a rather grisly decision. I could either be afraid of the immediate death promised by the manticore, or the—what I assumed to be—less-than-immediate death of whatever these flowers might do to me. Naturally, I chose to procrastinate and took the threat to my future self rather than the one to my present self. Always an excellent survival tactic, don’t you think?

My gaze dropped to the sea of blue flowers that surrounded me. Their glow in the moonlight cast some light on the clearing, making it feel like a—like a dreamscape more than anything. I crouched down and ran my fingers just above the petals. I didn’t dare to touch them directly, though I suppose the point was moot—I was already in the midst of them. Any hesitation at that point was, frankly, absurd. But still, they didn’t look dangerous. No thorns, no sinister pulsing—they were gentle, unassuming things, almost glasslike in their fragility. Not threatening in the least.

"And their fragrance! Sweet, almost intoxicating. It reminded me of something… a citrus, perhaps—no—more like—hmm—like a summer's wind. But whatever the case, for the first time since this deranged adventure began, I felt calm. I do not believe this was an effect of the flowers. No, now I know their effect, and I’ll spoil the suspense for you a bit: it is not a prolonged, painful death. As you can see by my sitting here before you now, alive and well—I survived the ordeal.

"No, I think it is the same kind of calm one might find in a patient of an incurable disease. Their fate has been sealed by forces far outside of their control, and they can do nothing but wait for the inevitable. There’s a serenity in that, you know. A peculiar peace. I’ve found, amongst the acutely ill and those about to die, that they are perhaps the calmest people in the world. That is the feeling I had at the time. Not fear. Not panic. Just… stillness.

"Stillness, yes. But only for a moment, mind you. For then, naturally, my brain, ever the overachiever, decided it couldn’t simply let me enjoy this rare instance of tranquility. Oh no, it had to remind me—quite loudly, I might add—that I was still very much in mortal peril. Mortal peril, indeed! My dear fellow, it wasn’t content with just whispering, ‘You’re going to die,’ oh no. It had to go into the specifics. 'The manticore is right there. It’s pacing. It’s thinking. Probably about how best to sauté you.’ Utterly unhelpful, I assure you. Though, not entirely unwarrented. The beast was still there.

"For what felt like an eternity, we stayed like that. Me, frozen among the flowers, and it, circling, testing, considering its options. Every now and then, it would pause, lift its great shaggy head, and sniff the air—I swear I couldn’t possible imagine what it thought to accomplish in doing so.

"I thought, ‘Well, this is it. Any second now, it’s going to decide I’m worth the risk, flowers or no flowers, and that’ll be the end of me.’ And let me tell you, I’ve never felt so simultaneously alive and absolutely, positively doomed.

"But then, something miraculous happened. It stopped. Dead still. Its ears perked up, its head swivelled sharply to the side, and it stood there, listening. For what, I couldn’t tell you—there wasn’t a sound in that cursed forest except my own ragged breathing. "And then, without so much as a backward glance, it turned and slunk back into the trees. Just like that. One moment, I was staring death in the face, and the next, it was gone, swallowed up by the shadows as though it had never been there at all."

Chapter IV

"I didn’t move for a good five minutes after that, let me tell you. Just stood there, knees trembling, trying to process what had just happened. Part of me wanted to celebrate, to laugh, to shout to the heavens, ‘I’m alive!’ But the rest of me, the sensible part, was still far too aware that this little reprieve might very well be temporary. Temporary, yes. Because in a place like that, my friend, survival isn’t a victory—it’s a postponement. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my years of getting myself into and out of all manner of scrapes, it’s that a postponement is never quite as long as you’d hope.

"I decided to take a moment, just a moment, to let the realization sink in. ‘You’re not dead,’ I told myself, quite firmly. ‘You’re still breathing. Your limbs, though they’re trembling like a leaf in a gale, are intact. And your hat, despite all odds, is still perched upon your head. Miracles, all of it.’

“With the personal pep talk out of the way, I finally dared to look around. The manticore was gone—thank the heavens—but the forest beyond the clearing remained as foreboding as ever" And that, of course, left me with a dilemma. ‘Do I stay here, in this peculiar little sanctuary, and risk whatever other horrors might decide to wander by? And for that matter whatever these flowers might do to me. Or do I rather press on, back into the trees, and take my chances with the unknown?’ Neither option, you’ll agree, was particularly appealing.

"But the thing about dilemmas, my friend, is that they don’t resolve themselves. And so, I made my choice. ‘Forward,’ I said aloud because sometimes you have to say these things out loud—you know? To make them feel real. ‘Always forward.’

“And so forward I went—and by forward I mean the exact opposite direction that I saw the manticore go. I am foolhardy, sir, but I haven't a death wish.

“Yes, I made my brusque way through the bush. At this point, a sudden realisation came over me. The dense undergrowth—vines, thorns, brambles, all that. Why—it was growing thinner!

“In fact, sir, the forest floor had become empty of almost all obstacles—and had been for some time. Now, I know what you're thinking: ‘Surely you’d have noticed that while you were running for your life!’ But let me assure you, my friend, when a manticore is involved, one tends to prioritise forward over observational detail.

"And yet, once I noticed, I couldn’t un-notice it. I stopped—just for a moment—and looked around. The forest, thick and wild not long before, had opened up like it was trying to lead me somewhere. The undergrowth, which had been tearing at my boots and coat only minutes ago, was nowhere to be seen. It was almost too perfect, you see, as though someone—or something—had swept it clean ahead of me.

"'Well, that’s unsettling,' I muttered, because what else do you say when the woods stop behaving like woods? ‘Or, if my luck turns it could mean settlement!’ But I couldn’t just stand there gawking; standing still in a place like that felt like asking for trouble. So, I kept moving. But silently this time. Or, I suppose, as silent as a man such as I can be.

“Eventually, however, the silence got to me. I’d been so caught up in my thoughts I hadn’t noticed how quiet it had become. No rustling leaves, no chirping bugs, not even the faint creak of branches in the wind. Now, let me tell you, there’s nothing quite as unnerving as silence in a place that should be alive with sound. It was so unsettling that I needed to abandon my clandestine plan for my sanity if anything else.

“‘Forward’ I repeated, ‘forward. Always forward.’ I can't tell you why but I repeated the damned word like a mantra. And yet, I kept going, because, well, what else was I supposed to do? Turn around and hope the manticore wasn’t waiting for an encore? Not bloody likely.

"Now, let me tell you something about forward. Everyone likes to toss the word around like it’s a virtue—always forward, never back, stiff upper lip and all that rot. It’s a fine sentiment when you’re sitting comfortably by the fire, brandy in hand, waxing poetic about progress and all that. But out there, in the middle of nowhere, when forward means stumbling blind into God-knows-what with only your stubbornness to keep you company, well, let’s just say it loses a bit of its romance.

“And another thing—who decided ‘forward’ was the answer to everything? Sometimes backward is the wiser move! If you find yourself heading straight for a cliff, for example, forward isn’t particularly clever, is it? But no, you can’t say that in polite company because you’ll get branded a defeatist. As though running headlong into a death trap is somehow noble. I’ll take a bit of healthy cowardice over blind bravery any day, thank you very much. Survival is a perfectly admirable goal, if you ask me.

"But here’s the queerest thing about forward, my friend—it’s not always where you think it is. One moment I was stepping through what felt like open forest, and the next, the trees parted, and I found myself staring at something I hadn’t expected at all: a path. Not a natural trail or some game track, mind you, but an actual, honest-to-goodness path, worn as though it had been walked recently too.

“I am not much of a tracker sir, "I am not much of a tracker, sir—one picks up a thing or two, mind you, but I’d never claim expertise. Still, even I could see it plain as day: something was desperately wrong about this path. There was not a single bootprint to be seen. No sign of people, no scuffs of heels, no neat, orderly tread marks—not even a bloody wagon!

"No, sir. What I did see were hooves—uncloven and unshod, as odd as it sounds. You might say, 'Well, with how dangerous you’ve made these woods out to be, it’s far too treacherous for a man to walk here. It’s no surprise you see only hoof tracks.’ And that, sir, is a fair case—if not for the fact that the tracks were much smaller than any riding horse’s. Far too small, I assure you, for anything you’d expect to find on a farm or in a stable.

“Perhaps I’d been transported to the land of the Lilliputians, and they were about to trot out on their mighty steeds and offer me a very civil welcome—tea and tiny sandwiches, perhaps. And now that I mention it, sir, Mr. Gulliver and I have much more in common than you might expect. For one, we both have an uncanny talent for stumbling into places where we clearly don’t belong. And in both our cases we end up meeting creatures of decency and reason (and condescension) in an otherwise savage land. In his case, the Houyhnhnms and in mine… well… creatures not so very different.

“But perhaps I spoil too much, back to the story.

“Now, I’m not saying I was eager to follow a path laid out by something with unsettlingly small hooves, but paths have a way of making decisions for you. You see one and you follow it, simple as that. It’s instinct. And let’s be honest the alternative… didn’t leave much room for discussion.

“There were, as far as I could tell, three sets of tracks worth mentioning. One of them was very fresh—so fresh it couldn’t have been more than a day or two old—and it led straight off the path into the woods. Now, call me cautious, call me cowardly, but I wasn’t about to be the sort of man who goes galumphing after mysterious tracks back into the forest of death.

“The other two sets were older and both stuck to the path. One set headed the same way I was going, the other in the opposite direction, as though whoever—or whatever—had made them had passed back and forth a time or two. Same small hooves, same strange depth to them, but the fact that they both stayed on the path told me one important thing: it was travelable.

“And that, sir, was enough for me. The fact that something—small-hooved and strange though it may be—had gone up and down this path more than once without veering into the horrors of the woods gave me just a sliver of confidence. Travelable, as I said. Not necessarily safe, mind you, but beggars in cursed forests can’t be choosers.

“So I went. One step after another, careful not to wander too far into my thoughts, lest they start whispering unpleasant things like, ‘You’re being followed,’ or ‘That fresh set of tracks could come back this way at any moment.’ No, I kept my eyes on the path and my mind occupied with simpler questions—like how much further this cursed trail would drag me before I found anything resembling civilisation.

“I walked like this for some time, and then with a yawn, I realised how late it must’ve gotten. It wasn’t just dark anymore; it was late. That much is easy to tell. It had been morning when I was whisked away from my shop, but now, how the devil should I know? I tilted my head back, searching for the moon—some sign of time, of place—and that’s when I saw them.

“The stars.

“Now, sir, I am no astronomer. I am, however, a licensed member of the Astrologer’s Guild—a distinction which, I must assure you, is entirely more impressive on paper than in practice. It’s less about mapping constellations and more about telling widows their second husbands will be richer and kinder than the first. All the same, I know enough about the stars to recognise when something is wrong.

“And wrong they were. The sky above me looked like a drunken artist’s interpretation of the night—stars where they had no business being, constellations twisted into nonsense, and not a single familiar pattern to speak of. No North Star, no Orion, no Dipper, large or small. Just a scattering of light so alien that it made my stomach turn.

“For a moment, I stood there, staring like a man who’s forgotten how to close his mouth. Because here’s the thing, sir—when the sky changes on you, it doesn’t just unsettle you. It undoes you. It’s as though the world you know has peeled back its mask to reveal something vast, cold, and incomprehensible beneath. I had known, on an intellectual level, that I was no longer on Earth, but the confirmation was too much to bear.

“It makes a man feel small… when even the sky betrays you. The stars are supposed to be a promise, sir—constant, reliable, the sort of thing you can count on when everything else has gone to ruin. But when the heavens themselves twist into nonsense, well, what hope does a man have of making sense of anything beneath them?

“‘Right,’ I said aloud. ‘What now then?’

"It wasn’t a question I expected an answer to, mind you, but in moments like that, a man feels the need to say something—anything—to remind himself that he’s still there, still tethered to something real, even if it’s just the sound of his own voice.

“The stars, for their part, offered no reply. Typical.

“So I lowered my head and looked back at the path. Because whatever strange hand had laid it down, at least the path was something. It was solid. It led somewhere—or at least, it led away, which in my current state seemed good enough.

“‘Well,’ I muttered, shaking the stars out of my head, ‘forward it is then. Betrayed by the heavens, trusted to the dirt. Excellent.’

“And with that, I walked on, sir—half to see where the path might lead and half because standing still with that sky overhead felt far too much like giving up.