The Sage's Gardener © Robert William Shmigelsky
“Ailin…”
A mother's voice sounded the name of her son as she hunched forward, crept around the corner and slipped past the frame of a door into a small and modestly decorated room, complete with a child's unmade bed, an empty bookshelf tucked into the corner and a wobbly, old table standing slightly crooked in the middle.
Inside, illuminated by a dusty beam of light shining down between the parted wooden doors of a small glassless window, a small boy with short, messy brown hair had his head tilted down as he busied himself with his toy figurines of templar knights, dragoons, sages and rangers.
“Ailin, this is a very special day. To celebrate it,” the mother said, a small tear glistening in her eye as the boy continued to occupy himself with his figurines. “Why don't we play all your favorite games today? Whatever game you wish…”
A tall man with fading auburn brown hair, the father appeared behind his wife and smiled, but did not speak, never great with words.
Ailin did not think to look up and ask what was so special about this day. Oblivious to the life ahead of him, Ailin simply looked up in excitement at his parents before turning away, not noticing the tears, and running out of his room, bouncing up and down the wooden beams of the floor. Cherishing the moment, the parents stood motionless on their knees, letting their emotions run their course; before eying each other, briefly, at once understanding the look on the other's face, and deciding to run after him into their unexceptional living room.
They played the boy's favorite games: tag, hopscotch – whatever game Ailin could think of and the parents could keep up with. After a close finish following a running race, the three of them heard three loud knocks on their front door.
Recognizing the knocks on the door, the parents stood up and promptly ended the marathon. Suggesting someone important, they hastily began to tidy themselves up and their rather reluctant son.
“Okay, Ailin, try to keep your chin up. It is in your interest to impress this man,” the mother told Ailin; she inspected him thoroughly with her shifting green eyes, tucked in and straightened the wrinkles out of his shirt before brushing his hair back with her hands in an attempt to make it as presentable as possible.
Ailin said nothing in reply, nor did he move. His only hints of resistance were the grimaces he made whenever his mother brushed through a tangled lock of hair. Ailin's parents tugged at the wrinkles on their own clothes before leading Ailin across the room down the hall towards the door.
His father answered the door and Ailin saw a robed man leaning heavily against his oak staff, standing there at the door; the boy immediately recognized the man from one of his old toy figurines.
Showing his lack of standing, the sage's blue cloak, surprisingly plain and unadorned, nor made of any expensive material, swayed slowly in the air; he wore only the one ring on his finger. Although the boy did not know it yet, the sage was well into his hundreds as evident by the bright blue veins of accumulated wisdom glowing in his eyes, but judging by his lack of a hunched stature, his surplus of brown hair, and his youthful (but acquainted) expression, the sage looked more like he was in his early forties. While the sage was not particularly talented – he was the best Ailin's parents could afford.
“This is the boy?” the sage asked at once, staring down at the boy who had quietly concealed himself behind his mother's dress and had his hands wrapped tight around it.
“Yes, sage Lazarus,” the father said humbly, somewhat intimidated.
“Now, come out, my boy. Don't be shy,” Ailin's mother said to him in a firm but well-meaning voice, turning to her side. She placed her hands on his shoulders, bought him out from behind her and presented him to the sage.
Now able to see him clearly, the sage inspected the boy. He looked at the boy's shoulders, arms, and feet and saw that they were developing strongly, but he paid particularly attention to the boy's hands: they were clean and still undamaged, having not yet seen a hard day's work.
“The boy will suffice,” the sage told the parents.
Exceedingly joyful, Ailin's mother stooped to his level and embraced him before saying goodbye, explaining he was going to be extraordinary now.
“Now, make your mother proud and grow up to be a kind man,” she said before she gave Ailin one last kiss and directed him toward the sage.
“Yes, mother,” Ailin said in a barely audible voice as his father stood by and watched, having in a way already said his goodbye.
“Well then,” said the sage, having reluctantly allowed this exchange, “that leaves one last matter to resolve…” The sage pulled back his robe, revealing a small crystal shard. Deep blue in color and not a single glitter, it floated out between both parties before stopping mid-way where it did nothing.
“What is it?” asked Ailin, drawn by the object.
“Your future, in a way,” said the sage, speaking metaphorically “Go ahead. Touch it. A finger will do.”
The boy hesitated.
“Go ahead... touch it.”
The boy looked back at his parents; saw the proud looks on their faces. He looked back at the shard. Thinking it must be all right, he touched the shard with his thumb.
In unison, the crystal glowed for a moment where the boy had touched it before fleeting back to its previous position. The sage swiftly closed the front of his robe and hid the shard from all eyes.
Sages being famous for their punctuality, Lazarus promptly placed his hand on Ailin's shoulder and guided him away towards the city. Heading north, putting their back to the impassable White Mountains at the far edge of the kingdom, Ailin looked back at his parents with a lack of understanding glistening in his eyes as his parents looked back, cried and waved their final goodbye.
The capital grew taller as the boy journeyed closer. Having only seen such sights from a distance, realizing where he was going, Ailin looked up in awe at the looming towers, castles, halls and arks. After an hour's walk, they reached the capital. As they passed through the open gatehouse, they walked onto the center of a long cobbled road into the first district, which, as he looked up around him, Ailin saw stood dominated by the tallest towers imaginable. Gray, smooth and almost translucent like the wind, the towers spiraled up into the sky before their spires stopped respectfully below the heavens.
After a moment or two, the allure wore off. Ailin looked down around him and beheld the velvet, silk and expensive regalia worn by poets, jewelers and other great artisans walking around him. Walking amidst such sights, he wondered what the ruling classes looked like in real life. Besides a sage that is – now that he had seen one.
They passed through this district into the next. This district Ailin saw stood dominated by mansions and other large houses, which, in their various styles, stood tall and projected glitters of radiance as if erected by magic. At the outskirts of this district, where the neighborhood stood dominated by noticeably less stunning houses, they stopped at the end of the road before the smallest of these estates.
Above a gated entrance stretching from a high brick wall covered in vine growth, Ailin saw the smallest house one would consider a mansion, but nevertheless still impressive in his eyes. The mansion was half-timbered and its paint had long faded, revealing the dilapidated beams of treantwood underneath. Ailin eyed the uneven slants with a curious eye before the sage interrupted him and led him inside, the gates opening at their approach then closing shut behind them.
Inside, as a vastly different world opened up before him, Ailin thought he would learn all kinds of magic, from learning how to freeze water, turning earth into stone – to controlling the wind. Although he did not really want to become extraordinary, at that age just wanting to play with his figurines, like all boys he jumped up and down inside at the prospect of learning something as exciting as magic, but to his confusion he heard:
“Take the boy and show him to my study,” the sage ordered the servant who had greeted them at the door. He outstretched his arm and the shard flew out from under the sleeve of his robe into an opened glass cabinet at the end of the hall. Inside the cabinet a collection of crystals glowed bone-white with the ebbing residue of countless soul-shards. “With his predecessor expiring unexpectedly, I am afraid I cannot wait for him to grow up. I shudder at the thought of my illusionist blossoms unattended,” the sage added as the cabinet closed shut.
“Yes, master,” the house steward replied impassively; he bowed then turned and faced Ailin, intending to lead the boy down one of the many adjacent hallways, but hesitated, seeing the boy's guarded expression on his face. “This way please,” he said to Ailin, gesturing his hand towards a nearby hall majestically adorned with gold wallpaper, large framed paintings, and brass candleholders.
Ailin hesitated for a moment, but felt compelled to go with the steward. The steward led Ailin down the hall, along the way passing two other servants in the sage's household: a maid and a young man who appeared to be a page from the kitchen. They passed straight by without even looking at him as if he wasn't even there, leaving Ailin feeling like he wasn't.
A couple of halls later, the steward stopped and opened the door before them. Standing at the side, he bid Ailin entry. Ailin looked inside and saw – pass the large bookcases stacked with books, ladders to reach them, celestial instruments, chairs and tables of a large study – the back of a tall, marble-white statue erected in the center of a glassed compartment stretching out from the main body of the chamber.
Slightly curious, Ailin walked into the room – towards the statue. He saw that it was a woman, but he knew she was no ordinary woman as she had wings, which reached out towards the white sky etched on the horizon past the windows. He believed his mother called them seraphs.
At that thought, the floor glowed bright purple around Ailin. Startled, he looked down and saw he was standing in a sinuous geometrical circle of some kind. Before he could think or react Ailin felt a stream of energy pulsate through his body up into his consciousness, thrusting his head back and fixing his gaze onto the chamber's ceiling.
The next thing Ailin remembered was lying on the ground, eyes half-closed, half aware – watching a pair of approaching feet as darkness delayed its onset.
“Don't worry. I only took a few years,” he heard the steward say. Feeling the steward's presence in his mind, Ailin sensed the steward kneeling down beside him, “I apologize, but I'm afraid I had little choice in this matter – just in case you're the type that craves revenge. If you want revenge – why not take it out on the one truly responsible? I can help you with that if that's what you want…”
Ailin felt the steward release him. Consciousness fading, the images etched in his eyes blurred and darkness set in…
***
Ailin awoke. Groaning, his eye-lids clinging to their sockets, he slowly climbed back up to his feet. When he fully came to, looking down at himself with his hands raised up in the air, he found himself in a completely different body: he was older now and judging by appearances – at least in his mid-teens. His mind felt fuller. No longer fitting, his clothes lay in tattered shreds on the floor.
Naked, Ailin scrambled around looking for something to wear when he saw a pile of fresh clothes folded neatly beside him on the floor: a plain white shirt, black waistcoat, rugged blue pants with pockets, long wool socks, and a pair of shoes that matched the waistcoat. Ailin grabbed them and climbed into them as quickly as possible. Just as he was putting on the shirt, he heard the door swing open behind him and the echo of footsteps walking towards him. Ailin quickly swung around to face whoever was coming in, thinking it was the sage, but as soon as he had he saw it was the house steward, not the sage.
The steward wearily approached Ailin, who made sure to get a good look this time. Tall, gaunt and not particularly handsome with short black hair and wearing a red suit over top of an elaborate white shirt, the steward had this calm and, as Ailin now knew better, misleading demeanor about him. He whiffed of perfume.
The steward told the boy to finish dressing. Afterwards he would show him to his new station. “And no, that would not be as the sage's new apprentice,” the steward added. “The master has no need for an apprentice at the moment and will most likely not have a need in the future. In simpler terms, I'm afraid the master will not be teaching you magic. And before you say you had a contract, I'm afraid it was actually a very lopsided contract: your parents must not have read the fine print. And in case you were deciding to react to this in a negative manner – I would advise against it. We have ways of dealing with acts of disobedience.” The steward raised his right hand and touched the ruby inset ring on his left hand.
Ailin felt a slight shock.
“I shall leave you to finish dressing. In the meantime, I will wait for you outside at the back of the mansion. Oh, but in case you are worried of not knowing your way – do not worry: you will have no trouble finding your way.” With a smile, the steward bowed then took his leave.
Reflecting, Ailin stood still for a moment, his face contorted in thought, but decided he did not have much of a choice right now and he finished dressing.
As soon as Ailin opened and stepped out of the door, as the steward alluded, he needed not worry about finding his way for as soon as he stepped out of the room, Ailin appeared outside at the back of the sage's mansion.
“Ah, there you are,” the steward rejoiced at the sight of Ailin. “Very well, this way please.”
Following clumsily behind on a long dirt lane, Ailin was led to the back of the property into a modest sized garden adorned with a reasonable selection of rare and exotic plants. Strangely, although he knew he shouldn't, Ailin knew all the names of these strange plants that stood out before him in a myriad of vibrant hues. Among them, were elemental roses (in their four main varieties), glowing florets native to the Underworld (at the moment in their dormant state), and not to mention the sage's favorite – illusionist blossoms.
The steward informed Ailin that his new station was that of the sage's new gardener; his predecessor – he did not go into. Seeing the daunted look on Ailin's face from the garden's intricate web of flora, he told Ailin not to worry, explaining that it would all come to him. When Ailin asked him to explain what he had meant by that, the steward explained that while Ailin lay unconscious he took the time to implant the experience of the sage's previous gardener into his mind. What he needed – his memories would eventually provide. In the meantime, the steward suggested Ailin start by removing the stones from the mounds at the back until it came to him. When the day was done and his shift had come to an end, he would summon him back to the mansion and show him to his quarters. With a second smile, the steward bowed then took his leave again.
After a moment's hesitation, knowing there might be consequences if he did nothing, nothing of his predecessor rising to the surface, Ailin decided to do as the steward suggested and he stumbled deeper into the garden until he found the mounds the steward spoke of. He knelt down and began to remove, at his leisure, the stones and the occasional tangled stems of weeds, all the while brooding about what had happened.
When Ailin had a large enough pile, using a wheelbarrow he found next to a nearby shed, he carried the stones to the back of the garden, where he dumped them into a low pile. As he went back and forth between trips, bumbling along in his unsteady body, he did not remember anything about his predecessor, not even his name, but oddly enough he found himself remembering some of the tricks of the trade. Tricks like knowing which weeds were the hardest to pull out unless you removed the ones around them first – simply came to him naturally. Ailin suspected this was how the implantation was meant to work so to avoid overwhelming the recipient with too much knowledge.
After a day spent working outside, the light dimmed, signaling the end of the day. It also apparently signaled the end of his first shift for precisely the next moment Ailin found himself engulfed in a bright light.
Nearly blinded, Ailin shielded his eyes. The light waned, allowing his eyes to adjust. A host of colors and shapes formed and Ailin found himself in a long and narrow hall lined with doors one after the other.
Ailin's gaze immediately found the steward standing there, waiting patiently next to the first of these doors. Ailin swung around in time to see numerous other flashes of light coming and going as the sage's other servants appeared in his wake, nonchalantly open their doors, walk inside their rooms and shut the doors behind them.
“Your room…” the steward beckoned to Ailin. At the gesture of his hand, the door to the room swung open, revealing the inside of a small room containing a creaky, old wooden bed. “As you can see the first room belongs to you. The sage prizes his gardener above all his other servants,” the steward added in a whimsical tone.
If this was first class – Ailin wondered what the other rooms looked like. He followed the steward's gesture and stepped in. He heard the swinging of a door and the click of a lock behind him. Looking around, spotting a chair, a desk and a welcome mat to take off your shoes, from the inside the room appeared much larger than it did from the outside, but Ailin supposed this was the result of some magical deception, not his eyes being unaccustomed to their sockets. Not wasting any thought into this, Ailin sat down on the chair, pulled his foot up and began to peel his shoes off, using his fingers as a shoehorn, before sitting down on the rim of the bed, where he let out a noticeable sign – if anyone had been there to notice it. He wondered what his parents thought he had been up to today. They probably believed he was already learning all sorts of exciting magic spells.
Oh how wrong they were…
The next day Ailin woke up standing, swathed in a fresh pair of clothes. Absent mindedly, like a puppet attached to strings, Ailin walked forward, opened the door and stepped out of his room, finding himself back in the garden.
In unison, Ailin snapped out of his ‘trance.'
Ailin shook his head, washing away the dullness that had taken hold in his head. The sage obviously valued proficiency, Ailin thought.
Ailin looked around the garden. Nothing setting in and telling him what to do, he decided to head off in the direction of the rock pile he had started. He began building a rock wall using the stones he had dug out of the soil. He did this for about an hour when, suddenly, he felt the urge to tend to the sage's flowers.
As if a foreign mind had possessed him, he hurried to the toolshed, retrieved a pair of long-iron clippers, and a glass pitcher filled with water, and began tending to the nearest mound of flowers. Making his way from mound to mound, he clipped here and there, gave the flowers drinks of water from the pitcher, which magically refilled itself each time, and make sure there were no weeds growing, removing them if there were.
With not a single visit from the steward, the passing days followed the same pattern. When there was nothing requiring his immediate attention, Ailin could go about keeping himself busy doing what he wished at the pace he wanted, but as soon as his mind knew something required his attention, something inside Ailin would take over and start gardening.
This changed one early morning, after Ailin had magically disassembled from the hall and reassembled in the garden, when the steward was there to greet him.
“Good morning,” he said. The steward continued before Ailin even had the chance to consider ignoring him. “The sage appreciates your initiative and would like you to build a rock wall around the entire garden. Good day.”
Ailin opened his mouth to speak, but before he could even utter a word – the steward disappeared just as suddenly as he had appeared.
After going about his own business for an hour or two, Ailin finally went about building the rock wall for the sage, now having conflicting feelings about doing so. Before building a rock wall, which started from a whim, felt like an escape – something of his own initiative; but now, as he moved around sluggishly, he felt like an extra layer of fat had molded onto his bones. To put it simply - building a rock wall was now something stacked on top of the rest of his chores.
Ailin's days as the sage's gardener passed uneventfully during the next two weeks. Each morning he would wake up in fresh clothes, step forward out of his room, teleport to the garden, and garden the day away between meal breaks (the food appearing next to him as if handed to him by an invisible hand). Occasionally, he would have to suffer through the verbal abuse of the sage for the lack of illusions coming from his illusionist blossoms.
But again this routine ended one late evening. At the end of his shift, Ailin was not immediately teleported back to the hall. Ailin assumed the steward was just a little late summoning them back and so he waited, looking up at the darkening sky, tapping his foot impatiently.
Then, just as Ailin had assumed would happen, his body dissembled and he swirled back into the hall, but when he arrived, to his surprise, he saw the others had already entered their rooms.
Sensing the steward, Ailin looked to his left and saw him standing there in the hall: he had been waiting for him. He offered Ailin a ripe green apple. Absolutely starving, Ailin accepted it and immediately began to gorge himself.
“I wonder – do you still wish to learn magic?” the steward asked.
Ailin continued eating. “Why?” he asked, understandably suspicious.
“Do you remember what I said in the study?”
Ailin's face twitched. He wondered how he remembered something like that
“Well, what is your response?”
“I don't even know your name.”
“You may call me… Lucius for now.”
Ailin did not immediately give Lucius his answer as he felt this unnerving feeling twisting inside him. Perhaps it was simply his mind not being used to the unfamiliar thoughts bungling inside him. Or a warning swelling inside him, telling him not to do as this man suggested, but he was roused with curiosity and he ignored these feelings and nodded, thinking anything was better than this.
Momentarily unveiling a different side of him, Lucius let a small smile escape him before he gestured behind him, asking Ailin to follow him.
Ailin wearily watched Lucius as he swung around and headed down the other side of the hall, past the doors of the other servants. The feelings he felt held him still for a moment or two, but not enough to hold him forever.
Ailin followed Lucius down the hall until another hall intersected with the hall they were on. They turned to their right and went down that hall. At the next intersection of hallways they continued on pass until taking the fourth left. Lucius opened the third door to their right and led Ailin in, shutting the door quietly behind them.
Ailin arrived in a small, secluded and brightly lit room. Being somewhere in the center of the mansion, there were no windows and, not being maintained, as if the sage was not even aware of the room's existence, the wallpaper on the panels was half torn off, showing the latticework, plaster and old wooden beams behind it. He thought the order in which they came must have been some sort of secret combination to find this place.
Uncertain as to what to expect, Ailin remained motionless where he stood as Lucius walked forward, stopped at the center of the room and faced Ailin. He raised a clenched right fist before him. He smirked then unclenched the fist.
A spiraling black fire erupted to life inches from Lucius' hand. After letting Ailin gaze at it for a moment, he closed his hand, extinguishing the flames. He told Ailin he could teach him the same spell and more if he wished.
The skin on his face twisted to one side; Ailin stepped back, recognizing the spell as Andheri. Although he had never heard or seen it before, the memories within surfaced, telling him all he needed to know: the Andheri – the seventh element of magic governing night and death. Although sealed away by the Creator before the arrival of the First Born, the flashes of olive-green light and darkened catacombs told Ailin different.
Ailin's thoughts went dark. Afraid of what he was thinking Ailin shook his head and said to Lucius: “No… I'm not that kind of person…” Before swinging around and rushing out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
Life rolled on and the sage kept Ailin to tending his garden. At the end of the first month of hefting stones and clipping flowers, Lucius again asked Ailin if he was interested in learning magic – a sort of a code phrase. Ailin said he was, but not that type of magic.
Not the persistent type, Lucius raised his hands and backed off, saying he meant no disrespect. He would continue to ask every once and awhile, but Ailin's answer would always be the same. But as the years past and he grew older, not knowing what age his body was, Ailin began to tire as the sage's gardener. The next time Lucius asked whether he wanted to learn magic, Ailin's answer softened. “Yes, I still wish to learn magic, but I don't believe I'm the kind of person to learn the magic you offer.”
The next time Lucius asked Ailin whether he was still wanted to learn magic he waited seven long months. Just as Lucius had anticipated, worried that Lucius might not ask again for a long time, this time Ailin said, “I wish to learn magic.”
The muscles in his face twitching into the resemblance of a smile, Lucius made a quick gesture of his hand for Ailin to follow.
Ailin followed Lucius to that same secluded room.
From the center of the room, Lucius swung around and faced the now grown up young man, promptly informing him of three straightforward and easy to remember rules for initiates: the first, names were not spoken; the second, questions were not asked; and the last, what is seen and heard inside this room, and the location of the room itself, be kept secret.
Not much to them, Ailin nodded and quickly accepted these conditions without a thought.
Lucius taught Ailin the Andheri, which Ailin showed a great affinity for. Due to his latent talent and the quick and easy learning curve of this form of magic, it took Ailin little over a year before he was coming along well in the dark magic. But for the ease of it he began to pay a price. His skin aged, molted and broke down into scabs and lesions; he could almost smell the faint but rancid stench of rotten meat under his left breast. Alarmed, he would look over his arms and struggle to resist the urge to scratch off the dead skin; lift up his shirt and smell his chest. But no matter how hard he tried to smell he could never be sure. Acting on it compulsively, he hid the odor or the belief of an odor by dousing himself with perfume he found hidden in the sage's wardroom. His deformed skin he managed to conceal easily under a long-sleeved shirt.
Still, Ailin continued on every night, spurred on by the strong desire coursing in his veins. He progressed further into the craft, impressing Lucius with each successful lesson. Yet he could not deny the conflict raging within him.
The young conjurer, using his station as the sage's gardener to conceal his discretion, hurried to the back of the garden, where he had started the now finished rock wall.
Allowing his thoughts to wander, he questioned his morality or rather his lack of morality. How did it come to this point? Was he weak, made wrong or was the world solely at fault? He did not have the answers to these questions.
Ailin arranged his life out before him. He knew he could not return to the world half-remembered in his dreams. Finally having the courage, he swung around, looked up at the sage's study, and saw for the first time the seraph's tranquil face: smooth and oval shaped with long flowing hair. Reminding him of his mother, the sight of it caused the lies that kept them apart to swell to the surface.
Lucius told him the sage had told his parents they would not be allowed to see him again, solitude being the price one paid to become a sage. Ordinary as they were, they believed him.
Even if he could return, his mother most likely would not even recognize him. He was not sure if he would want her to. His ‘perceived' choices raced to the forefront of his mind, but none of them particularly appetizing. If only there was a spell to correct the wrongs in his life...
Unfortunately, magic did not have a solution for every problem in life.
Ailin suddenly heard a loud shout in his ear and he snapped back to attention.
“Turn and face me, Ailin!” the sage called out, referring to Ailin by the plain and simple name his parents had given him at birth, believing whoever apprenticed him would give him a new and magnificent name when he had earned it.
Ailin turned and saw the sage angrily approaching him before tossing a crystal shard at the gardener's feet. Ailin looked down at the small shard in surprise: the crystal shone brightly for a moment before flickering and turning dead.
“I'm afraid I will have to terminate your employment and, having already found your replacement, ask you to leave immediately. Your father, and might I add rather inconveniently, died without fulfilling the terms of our agreement, rending your contract null and void,” the sage told him, even though it was not much of a contract. The sage shouted on, but the sage's voice sounded only as a whisper in Ailin's ears, his eyes elongated with shock at the mention of his father.
“Too dim to understand?” the sage said, finally catching Ailin's attention. “Perhaps I should simply show you.”
The sage lifted up his hand and in his outstretched palm an engrossing miniature world played out inside a small glass globe. Inside it, Ailin could see his parent's farm – or what used to be his parent's farm, the land now belonging to the sage. He peered into the bright and diverse hues and tinctures emblazoned on the surface of the globe and saw his father working a heavy oak plough. Images of his son were clearly cast in his eyes – images where he appeared extraordinary.
The sage's farmhands simply looking on, the seasons unfolded. The years passed one after the next as Ailin's father overworked himself: planting continuously, never letting the fields lay fallow and allowing them the chance to regain their strength until finally he collapsed and failed to move again.
Not only had the sage grown slightly fatter from the produce produced on his parent's farm. Since that fateful day he had become a more famed wizard, which in turn translated into the precious gems that now adorned each of his fingers. And now the sage had taken away something from Ailin he could never return.
Remembering the day he first saw the sage, recalling only the one ring, the Ailin's face twitched and burned red. “Well, if you preferred stones so much you should have just asked,” he told the sage. He seized the sage with an invisible force that chained the man's arms tight to his side. Startled, the sage's eyes widened and he twisted to free himself, but he found himself unable, unnatural strength coursing through Ailin's veins. The sage tried to channel magic, but he found himself blocked.
Realizing he was helpless to resist, the sage's eyes widened considerably as he looked into his gardener's eyes and saw a hard and joyless life unfold in them, memory after memory.
Ailin picked up the largest stone that could fit, forced the sage's mouth ajar with his free hand and shoved the stone into the sage's mouth. He forced him to swallow and it disappeared with a loud gulp. He repeated the process until he thought the sage was full, which he decided was about six. Although half that was sure to be plenty for most men, ordinary or otherwise, he had to take into account how his belly had grown.
When the sage had swallowed the last stone, having too much of an upset stomach to resist, Ailin calmly placed his outstretched palm on the sage's already swollen belly and began a transfer of energy; wisps of pulsating red light whirled in an expanding dark cloud around the conjurer's hand. As the pressure steadily built up inside, the sage's belly swelled with the pointed shapes of objects forming inside.
Finished, Ailin let go and the sage fell backwards – dead.
In unison, memories, beliefs and ideas, foreign to him, surged free and pulsed through his entire body, bending Ailin's neck backwards. Lost amidst the fractured personality thrust to the forefront of his mind, Ailin could only stare aimlessly at the naked blue sky above. But a part of him surviving, Ailin remembered the seraph's face and it appeared in the colored layers of his eyes before coming to life and changing into his mother's face.
Having been watching, Lucius appeared and congratulated the young conjurer. Then, as the illusionist blossoms, sensitive to the area around them, spread open and sprang out visions of a screaming Lazarus trapped in the void between worlds, he added, “welcome back Garland – it's been awhile.” _________________________ Robert William Shmigelsky is a new but serious fantasy writer working part time as a residential care aide (nursing assistant) to support my writing.
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