Young Writers Society

This was my final paper, a short story, for a fantasy/sci fi survey I took a few semester's back. Some of it may look familiar as I cobbled it together with parts of both Honor, Chivalrie, and Gentilesse and Lygarde de Mayne.

The title comes from the Latin "vitreum 'glass,' which perhaps was so called for its color (cf. vitrium 'woad')".*

Vitreum

“Buy a looking glass and inscribe upon it ‘S. Solam S. Tattle S. Echogordner Gematus.’ Bury it at a crossroads during an uneven hour. On the third day, go to spot at the same hour and dig it up – but do not be the first person to gaze into the mirror. It is best to let a dog or cat take the first look.”

- Albert Magnus

Michael had this overwhelming sense of déjà vu. Same door, same dull, yellow luminescence and shadow extending over the portico in front, same nagging feeling of duty as he approached. He was dressed in the same style suit he always wore, dark blue, pinstripes, and a hat, the same one he had snatched from a haberdasher in Soho, who clearly was not in need of it anymore. And the claymore his fingers clasped around the hilt. It was comforting to have the metal under his flesh. His right knuckles rapped against the door; even they made a same sound.

The whole thing was rather eerie—ominous, really.

The sense continued, as the door was opened lazily, and the tang of cheap cigars and even cheaper liquor wafted from the inside. The same teenage girl was on the other side, hand apathetically resting on the door handle, same scowl of impertinence on her face. She had the same sauntering gait, same dirty blonde curls that bounced as she walked. She hadn’t even raised an eyebrow at the sword in his hand. Really, he was losing his edge.

Michael followed, if he had not heard the familiar lub-dub of her heart, he would thought he was stuck in some dream. He had the hunch his shoulders and duck his head as he followed the girl farther into the building. As Michael walked, he was assaulted by the familiar smell of something like spaghetti sauce with meat, and the mold that oppressively hung in the air. The same brown print wallpaper with tan fleur-de-lis covered the sides of the narrow hallway. The girl stopped in her normal spot, about three-fourths of the way down the hallway, opened a door.

As Michael stepped into the room, the girl shut the door behind him; the sound of it closing as ominous as the rapping on the door, earlier.

At the center of the room was the card table, and at it sat the same, four, old men, identical in every way: their skin wrinkled, their hair bleached the shade of snow, their eyes a piercing, crystalline blue.

The same red and white checkered table clothed covered the table. Dirty plastic plates and forks were stacked in the center, and each man had his own Dixie cup filled with red wine.

The men were playing poker.

It was all the same, the same room, the same décor, the same smell, the same feeling, the same damn men, nothing ever changed. Only he never actually said damn, out loud, anyway.

But as Michael looked in their eyes, he knew, somehow, this day was going to be different.

One of them turned towards Michael and spoke; he talked with his hands, the veins under the wrinkles were bright blue.

“Finally, we’ve been waiting forever, kiddo.”

Michael bristled at the mention of kiddo and fought the urge to ask the definition of forever.

Michael grunted. “I’m here, am I not?”

“Still haven’t cured of you of your beastly accent have we.” Another of the men spoke; it was more of a statement than a question, something Michael usually chose to ignore but today it just amplified the atmosphere of confusion and remembrance that had shrouded him like a cloak since he had arrived.

Another of the old men slapped down his cards, “Well, I fold.” He eyed Michael. “I see you brought it.”

“Havenna I always?” 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, what is it, where is it?” Michael felt an itch crawl up his spine, he abhorred their circular reasoning.

The man who had first spoken stretched out his arm, flicked his hand, palm face up, and Michael watched as blue mist swirled upward. Slowly, it revealed a pair of sunglasses.

“It seems we have a problem, there seems to be a rogue Wizard on the loose, killing and stealing souls, he needs to be found.”

Michael knew the implications of those words, and felt the need to twitch as four identical sets of blue eyes bore into him. Had not he done enough for them?

“Wouldna a Warden be better fer this kind of work?” Did they expect him to get down and dirty every time something went wrong? Plus, Wardens were chosen as guardians of magic, employed to keep the general non-magical populace unaware of the magical world, as well as going after renegade warlocks, and the like. They had the authority to terminate any creature, human, animal, magical lower on the food chain than them, which was a lot. Michael was not a Warden, nor did he wish to be. Wardens gave him creeps.

“Not this, this is terribly suited for your talents, only.”

Damn. He wondered if they would smite him to death right there with the smell of spaghetti sauce and mold in the air, the flickering of lamps on the walls, for saying no. He took a deep breath; they would twist his mind someway in the end.

“So, who is he?”

He ended up being a Wizard by the name of Malcolm, who had been killing and feeding off of their souls to increase his power. The problem was that the deaths had been happening all over the globe; he had some kind of way to jump from one place to the next, which had made him almost impossible to track. But, there had been an influx of deaths in the city, which had all the earmarks of soul-stealing, the old men had figured that he must have found a nexus somewhere nearby. They had given Michael a pair of sunglasses, which through he could track the trail of anyone’s magical insignia. Michael knew just what to do. He went and buried it.

Michael felt restless three days hence standing in the church – Saint Mary’s – near where he had buried the sunglasses. He had rested his sword on a pew next to his breakfast, a danish, before kneeling down for prayer. He was just righting himself when a familiar voice broke through his thoughts.

What is the matter?

Michael turned to see the seemingly stone figure of a gargoyle.

Made of stone with wings and claws and angry eyes, the gargoyle sat placidly in the aisle. 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.

“Hullo, Andrev,” Michael spoke before delving into the soft, sweet pastry as he grumbled about old men.

Old men, again, my condolences, what is it this time? Some fool needs some mother-henning?

Before Michael could reply to the voice in his head another called out to him.

“Michael, I thought I’d find you here.” Lucie de Bouillon came striding through the church, looking altogether commonplace in a fleece pullover and jeans, her dark red hair curls pulled back in a messy ponytail.

When she got to his side, she embraced him, a kiss for each check. “What is it with you and churches?”

He deigned not to answer, but let a ghost of a grin glide across his face.

“Luce, what are ye doing here?”

She raised a sculpted eyebrow in challenge as if he would rebuff her. “Came to help.”

“I dinna think that was good thing this morning, when I told you where I was going, and I havena changed my mind yet.”

She looked away from him, and frowned. “‘Cause you are far too pigheaded.”

He grinned, “Ye saying that’s bad?”

She scratched her nose, and then looked up, “At the moment, yes.”

He pondered the predicament, as much as he wanted to keep Lucie from harm, he knew she was capable of protected herself, plus her offer of help might come in handy, Michael had yet to meet the Wizard in person. If he turned her away, he knew she would leave, skulk, until he could go and find her, not to mention lots of humble groveling. He hated getting down on his knees.

“I s’pose, as long as ye keep out a sight, and quiet.”

She grinned, broadly. Michael groaned. Andrev was most likely tallying how many times Lucie had won and argument.

Of course, never could resist a good match, I do believe, though faint-hearted you are not, you are sunk, Welshman.

“Thanks for reminding me, boyo,” Michael grumbled.

Lucie looked around, finally seeing the gargoyle.

“Andrev, oh goody, this is going to be such an adventure.”

Michael got the feeling that this was not going to be one of those kinds of adventures.

The cool earth fell through Michael’s fingers as he dug up the sunglasses. He shook them off when he finally freed them.

“Sunglasses, at night?” Michael twisted in his crouched position to where Lucie was standing, huddled.

“It is a magical tracking device.”

“Oh, nifty. Where to now?”

Michael straightened to his full height. “I put these on, and we find the bugger.” He gestured towards Andrev. “Would you be so kind?”

Michael caught the slightest of glimpse of movement in the dark, that or his eyes were playing tricks with him. He waited with baited breath.

As if I would actually melt away or shatter into a thousand fragmented pieces at a look. Next time, I’d love to be compared to something more robust, perhaps a Dragon, certainly not a mere kitten.

Michael adjusted the glasses on Andrev’s stone face. “Meybe.

Do I look stylish?

Michael asked Lucie, “Hell, Andrev wants to know if he looks stylish or not.”

“Certainement.” The word for certainly in French rolled perfected off her tongue.

“Well,” Michael said, taking the sunglasses from Andrev and putting them on, “Let us go forthwith and find us a Wizard.”

It was disorienting at first trying to find his way, following the stream of bright blue that he saw through the glasses. Lucie had to guide him, so he did not run into any poles or walls or people. For some moments he lost the trail and saw only darkness, but he managed to turn the proper corner with Andrev’s prodding, and found it again. Malcolm was a sneaky bugger, Michael concluded, as he disappeared and then reappeared all over the place. His only downfall was that he stayed in the inner city and he cut a wide birth from any churches or grave sights. Michael caught on fast, this man was on the hunt. Well, so was he.

Michael rounded a corner, and the bright wisps stopped. Crouched in a cranny in the dark alleyway was a figure, or a shadow, Michael was not sure. But, as he crept forward, it moved, and Michael could see the solid definition. There in the shadow was the Wizard.

From the edge of his vision, he spotted Andrev, who was stiff as the stone creature he looked like. He nodded as she cloaked herself instantly. Malcolm was a thick man, wide and sturdy as a brick. His complexion was sallow and his hair was ragged, and it looked like he had not shaved in days.

The Wizard turned as Michael approached and sneered. “Who are you?” His accent was soft, almost unnoticeable.

Michael’s only answer was to point the sword perpendicular to Malcolm’s chest.

The man narrowed his eyes. “A name before you run me through?”

“How about, no.”

Malcolm growled, and raised his fist. When he spoke, it was through clenched teeth, “Well, then.”

Before Michael could lunge, Malcolm had raised his arm and flung it outward, towards Michael. The impact of the psychic hit threw him back into the wall of the alley behind him. It knocked the wind right out of him.

Damn, damn, damn…

Michael raised his sword just in time, and the second strike exploded when it clashed with the metal. Orange sparks shot out like confetti. It gave him enough time to get back on his feet again. Another shock, he raised his sword to block, and the energy of the blast jarred his arm. He shook his head to think more clearly. Why did everything seem so befuddled to him? Jolt after jolt came, and behind the array of orange sparks, Michael could see Malcolm and his flailing arm. Then, there was a slightly larger gap than before between the attacks, and Michael took his chance, he advanced on Malcolm, but the man fired back. The impact of the blast hitting his sword made Michael slip. As he tried to regain balance Michael dropped his sword.

Damn.

The affect was immediate. Michael momentarily stunned by falling on his back, felt his throat closing, at first he though it was fear, but then, he thought, I have dropped my sword before, me hands are just as useful. So it was not fear, it was just the pain of trying to breathe; he had to force the air out. The pain now extended to his chest, it burned deep like an old bone pain exposed to the elements. Michael turned his head to the side, he could see his sword, it looked like it was just within reach. Stretching as far as he could, pain tearing at his chest, throttling his airway, his fingers brushed against the hilt.

A sharp pain fissured his concentration and he convulsed. Just about the time Michael was wondering how long a man could stand existence without air, the pressure on his body lessened. He gasped for air, and blinked.

Above him, Malcolm was looking quite complacent, a rather serene expression on his face.

“I asked once, but it seems you have a rather thick skull, so I’ll ask again – name?”

“I… have… no… idea… what… ye… are… talking… about.”

Malcolm’s hand was curling into a fist and again the pressure was forced upon him, Michael marshaled through the pain, he had to think.

Think. Ye have to think. Oh, God, if Luce gets any of her crazy ideas…

“Name! What is your name?”

Michael! God, sheep-herder, do something. Andrev's voice broke through the pain.

“I am thinking…” Michael murmured.

“What was that?” Malcolm glanced back at him.

There is plenty of time for thinking when you are dead, Welshman.

Michael forced out another breath, so he could answer Andrev. “Like he can kill me.”

Malcolm was staring at him now, eyes narrowed, lips in a snarl, but he didn’t say anything just pumped his fist. Michael convulsed in pain. If only he could reach something…

Michael rolled his head to the side, he could just make out Malcolm’s foot, it was awful close.

Michael, came Andrev’s agitated voice, if you don’t bloody well do something, I…

Suddenly Lucie materialized. “Hey, you!”

It was all the distraction he needed.

Michael extended his hand towards Malcolm’s foot and managed to grasp the ankle with his fingers. Tightening on it, he yanked. Immediately, Michael could breathe again, think again. He reached for his sword, clasped it, and struck. Upon impact with Michael’s sword the Wizard died and then disappeared in a whiff of bright blue smoke.

Michael gasped for breath, and sagged against the wall, still clutching his sword.

Lucie, rushed to his side, and he smiled up at her. “Well, that was fun.”

“Fun!” she yelped. “This is your idea of fun?” A moment later, after she had calmed, and been asserted he was not going to die anytime soon, she muttered. “If this is what you call a date, no wonder there isn’t a flock of maidens after you.”

Michael found himself again at the door, this time the sense of déjà vu was significantly less. It still was the same door, same girl, same hallway, same wallpaper, same smell, same room, same table, same checkered table cloth, same cards and the same damn men.

Michael tipped his hat as he entered.

“Wizard’s dead. Oh, and the glasses, broken, destroyed.”

On of the old men muttered – “Figures.”

Suddenly one of them was on 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 this 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, unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Like they don’t already think I’m a crazy person, Andrev.” Michael twisted to his left, towards the voice, and into the face of a gargoyle.

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.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy either.” Lucie had appeared from behind the bushes. She sat down and wrapped her one arm around his neck. She leaned in, and rested her head on his shoulder. “Just special.”

Behind the sharp incline of the church’s steeple, the sun was rising.

* Online Etymology Dictionary