Lygarde de Mayne
Legerdemain [lej-er-duh-meyn]: a sleight of hand, trickery, deception, or any artful trick. Origin 1400-50; late Middle English: legerdemeyn, Middle French: lygarde de mayne, light of hand.
Tower Court WC2 // Modern Day London, England
It was a door; just a simple door. Dulled yellow light illuminated the inset door, shadows falling upon the portico in front. Michael knew this door, and was acquainted with its idiosyncrasies more so than he would have liked. As he approached it he tugged down the brim of his fedora, shielding his eyes from onlookers but allowing him to peruse them at will. He knocked his knuckles against the door, making a thumping sound.
The door was opened lazily, and the tang of cheap cigars and cheaper liquor wafted from the inside. A girl of about fourteen stood just inside and showed no signs of being surprised at his appearance, just the scowl of impertinence of having to open it for him. Her eyes narrowed, and she turned her back of him before sauntering down the narrow hallway. Her dirty blond curls bounced as she walked.
He followed.
Michael often wondered why not more people were surprised at the image of him, or how ridiculous he looked in this modern age in his tailored, dark blue suit, and a claymore clasped in his left hand.
The most he got these days was a raised eyebrow. Maybe, he was losing his edge. Funny thought, that.
Michael had to hunch his shoulders and duck his head as he followed the girl farther into the building. The walls of the narrow hallway were plastered with brown wallpaper with tan fleur-de-lis painted throughout. He could taste the mold that clung in the air and something like spaghetti sauce, definitely with meat.
The girl stopped at the end of the hallway, waited a beat before opening the door.
Michael entered. She shut the door behind him.
At the centre of the room was a card table, and at the card table sat four old men; four identical old men. Their skin was wrinkled and their hair was bleached the shade of snow, their eyes piercing, crystalline blue.
A red and white checkered table cloth covered the table, and the room was lit by oil lamps, remnants of a decade passed. There were dirty plastic plates and forks stacked up in the corner of each table, and each had a Dixie cup of red wine in front of them.
The old men were playing cards, a form of poker, Michael thought. One of them turned towards Michael as he entered; he talked with his hands, the veins under the wrinkles were bright blue.
“How good of you to show, Michael.”
Another looked up from his cards, and spoke. “Yeah, kiddo, we’ve been wondering when you’d show up.”
Michael grunted. “I’m here, am I not?”
“Still haven’t cured of you of your beastly accent have we.” It was more of a statement than a question, something Michael chose to ignore.
Another of the old men slapped down his cards, “Well, I fold.” He eyed Michael. “I see you brought it.”
“That I did.” Michael eyed the small room; it had not changed in all the years he had known it, as invariable as its inhabitants.
The man gestured towards Michael’s sword, “Ever think of naming that thing?”
Michael thought it rather silly to name his sword; giving it a name gave it power that others could harness and potentially used to exploit him. He did not fancy becoming some sort of doppelganger for some sick alchemist.
“So, where is it?” Michael was getting tired of all this talk.
The man who had been first to address Michael lifted his hand, and held it out to the side of him away from the table with a flick of his wrist and a snap blue mist started to swirl. It began from his palm and extended to the ground. The swirling mist grew bigger and bigger, and as it grew the man raised his hand until it was parallel to his head. Then he stopped. As the bright blue mist twirled like a cyclone Michael caught the shape of something, first the curve of a calf, the line of a throat, the rounding of a hip, the protrusion of a collar bone. The mist then started to wane, and when it had finally disappeared it left in its wake a young boy. The body was still, prostrate on his knees, until like attached with puppet strings his upper body slowly fell to the ground.
Michael looked at the young boy, in clothes that were too big for his scrawny fame, his shirt stuck to his concave chest. The boy finally came of his lazy daze, and with heaving breaths, he lifted his head and blinked his slanted brown eyes at Michael.
The wind was playing the tuffs at the ends of the willow tree, and those lengthy tuffs that hung from above dallied in the lazy stream below. Soft, wet dirt molded to his body underneath. The bank had formed a perfect nest for a summer’s day. Laughter, there was laughter, scintillating and vibrant as the sunlight through the patches of green. A child, a boy, scampered into focus with smiling, slanted eyes.
A hiss broke through the vision. Michael snapped back, clutching his chest and the medallion that rested on it.
The boy on the floor was baring his teeth, an estranged look in his eyes.
“Feisty schmuck! I warrant his bite is worse than his bark, eh, Michael?”
He looked to the old man who spoke, and it hit him like a jab to the stomach. He knew what he had to do. It wasn’t like he preformed exorcisms on a daily basis despite the image he projected or the word on the street.
Michael raised his sword above the boy, though he hesitated to call it human. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”
Michael was sopping up the demon blood which was dark and thick as pitch. Demons did not bleed like normal people did, their souls as dark as their dealer. Michael grimaced as a glob of it landed on the cuff of his suit. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief.
The old men had gone back to their card game. One of them spoke up, “I don’t get it, sonny, why you always insist on cleaning up afterwards?”
Suddenly the old man was one his feet and heading for Michael. When, the man was at his side, he wrapped his hand around Michael’s neck and drew him down. Michael felt the cold slick of a kiss on his cheek and the steady murmur in his ear. “Remember, you’re part of the family now.”
Michael nodded, and straightened to his full height.
“Can’t interest you in some of Mama’s manicotti, kiddo?”
“No, thanks.” Michael shook his head. He did not quite trust anything those men ate.
“Not even to go. You don’t eat enough.” The man took a sip of his wine.
“I’m fine.” Michael started to turn away from the table.
“The kid’s right, Gino, that stuff gives you terrible heartburn.”
The old men laughed. Michael slipped away as they deliberated the finer points of Mama’s manicotti.
Michael was sitting on a bench looking up at the angel that guarded the priory door of St. Catherine's. She was praying to heaven; her solid stone palms were pressed together, eyes closed and face slack in adoration of above.
Come to brood again, Welshman.
Michael did not turn his face towards the voice, but grunted in response.
Well, at least there is one less schmuck out there contaminating God’s green earth.
“Ye’ve been spending too much time with old men, boyo.”
There was a cackle at that. I thought we agree you wouldn’t address me in public.
“Like they don’t think I'm not a crazy person, already, Andrev.” Michael twisted to his left, towards the voice, and into the face of a gargoyle.
Made of stone with wings and claws and angry eyes, the gargoyle sat placidly on the stone wall behind the bench. It appeared unmoving and solid, but Michael knew that it was just a deception. This gargoyle was not hindered by a cage of any sort, he could move as free as any mortal thing.
If it any consolation, I don’t think you’re crazy.
Michael sighed. “Yeh. That means a whole lot coming from a gargoyle.”
I should take offence, sheep-herder.
“I don’t doubt that, boyo.”
Behind the sharp incline of the church’s steeple, the sun was rising.
