Long Gone

The weak wind almost steals my top hat. My golem and I have been sitting on this bench for almost an hour now. The gaslamp flickers above us, its sound covered by the creaking of the boats on our right. I can feel my companion’s impatience growing as it moves and grumbles.

“Hours waiting, doing nothin’. If things keep going like tha’, I’m going to erode,” it says.

“I have always found your eagerness fascinating,” I answer, trying not to smile.

“What’s it to you?” it snaps back.

“You are made of stone, Isham; and yet you can’t just stay in one place… Fascinating indeed. Maybe I should have chosen a wooden golem instead.”

I lean back against the bench. No one is passing by, nothing is moving. The street resembles a dream. In the shadows, I can distinguish the shapes of the flowers and plants that the mortals put on their balconies.

Isham is still mumbling.

“And why’s it always me that carries the bag? It’s big and long. Me arms and legs are short. Would be much more logical for you to carry it.”

“Well, because that is what you were made for, old friend. I need you to carry everything needed for my craft.”

“No, it’s what you bought me for. And it sure ain’t the same, wizard.”

This is a conversation we’ve had for almost a century. And yet, Isham seems always to have something to add. It may resemble stones more than I give it credit for. Never stopping, never giving up.

“And what we waiting for this time anyway?” it finally asks.

I stand up, my joints protesting a bit. Searching in my long overcoat, I unfold an official-looking letter.

“The order was sent to me yesterday morning,” I say, giving it to Isham.

The street is still holding its breath. At this hour of the night, it should be full of people having fun, drinking, laughing, strolling and all those things that mortals do to forget about their condition. Even the buildings are dark. Isham gives me back the letter.

“Not even a cat in tha’ damn street,” it murmurs.

“Not even a cat.”

And then, I can feel it. We stay still as the energy flows around us in a whirlwind. The houses shake and tremble as the magic pulses. Ivory stones start to grow from the ground. Against the dark sky, the stone glows as the tower pushes its way to reach the moon. A peculiar smell of rot, rose bushes and blood rushes over me.

The door is made of cast iron. I light the oil lamp Isham hands to me. A message reveals itself, engraved with black magic:

Go away.

I swallow with difficulty. I tie my silver hair back and put on my monocle. Isham gives me my silk gloves and I put my hand on the gigantic door looking down on us like a snarling guard dog. Electricity tickles me. That lock is strong. Often, the simplest charms are the most dangerous. They are created with a lot of emotions. I take my time, borrowing strength from the wind and the nearby harbour’s water. Finally, as I struggle to breathe under the pressure of the magic, the Ivory Tower’s gate opens. I can hear the target scream in fury from the top of the building.

I get inside. The interior is bare. Dust, a marble floor, and, in the centre, a metallic spiral staircase. No windows. As we walk, my oil lamp dims. The air is freezing. Whispers tell us to go, to get out, to leave her alone. But we won’t. And she knows it. The darkness is so thick that Isham’s bag makes almost no sound. Thousands of cursed steps to reach the top. And with each one, pain. Like needles piercing my skin then nails trying to rip my face off my skull. My heart twists and tightens. My body can’t handle it anymore. I ask Isham to stop.

“I need a scroll.”

“Are you sure you’re up for… her?” it asks, giving it to me.

“Do I have a choice?”

I start to write a protective charm. Not an easy task here. My magic is Light, its source is life that I can bend and order with my Will. But the Ivory Tower is so full of darkness and death that I struggle to find energy. In the end, I have to use my own life force. Through my monocle, I see the shapes of dark entities, like shadowy smoke. I ignore them, to protect myself. But their nails brush my neck, and their distorted faces haunt me. If I lost my concentration, they would easily kill me. I sit down. My hand shakes. When I am finished, I put the scroll in my coat pocket. Walking is easier now.

Reaching the top, I put out my lamp. We listen, still hidden. Someone is playing the violin. A lullaby. A curtain of dusty lace flows. Her hair is long, touching the dirty floor as she sits on a wooden stool. Of a bluish-black, it rains on her white shoulders. The dress she wears was probably white, a long time ago. Her bare, tainted feet poke through. The last soft note of the song echoes in the room.

“You can’t stop me,” she says without facing me.

I push away the lace and enter the room. A nursery. For a painful second, I see it as it was, thanks to my monocle. Pale yellow walls, with clouds painted on the blue ceiling. Furniture of white wood. A rocking chair on my left, and a small padded bed on my right. And a big chest for all the best toys. Now, it is nothing but decay. With her violin on her lap, she waits for us to come further. The only thing left here is the bed. Isham goes to it. I don’t need to look inside to know.

“He is almost back,” she whispers.

“You know it isn't true. You have always known it,” I answer.

The little I see of her skin has violet scars.

“I am bringing him back,” she continues.

“Stop, please.”

She stands up, her instrument falling to the floor.

“Maybe you shouldn’a said that,” says Isham, running back to me.

The walls turn pitch black. The windows disappear, ivory covering them. My hand stretched, I take my wooden staff from Isham. Her long hair floats around her decaying figure. I focus. My silver life force crackles. It creates streaks of lightning as it strikes against her black tentacles. Will against will. My spirit touches hers. Her roots run deep and she feeds on everyone in this city. From the bag, I get crystals used for purification rituals. She screams.

“You won’t take him from me again!”

“Whatever this is, it isn't him,” I answer.

Her sorrow surges through her body, destroying the floor. My crystals fly around me. They create the circle I will need to ease her pain. We fall through the Tower. The magical energies slow down what would have been a mortal fall even for magical beings like us. Isham has grabbed my leg.

“She too powerful! For how long she been there? How come the Council didn’t-”

“It is not the time!” I scream.

She creates her own circle of blurry dark orbs. The staircase explodes, spikes of iron almost pierce me. Isham blocks one of them with its foot. Grumbling, he rummages through the bag and throws tarot cards. I add them to the circle for a more physical shield. But then, she calls the entities. Isham climbs my body to be on my back.

They attack us. When my shield gets hit, it hurts. My legs ache as if teeth had ripped off my flesh. I can’t even scream. One of them reaches through my magic and pierces my hand. Isham howls and punches it. But it’s too late and I almost let go of my staff. My circle of purification slows.

“She could at least face you. She tryin’ to kill you!” says the golem.

“She has been avoiding reality for too long. She will never be able to face anyone anymore.”

We touch the ground. On my knees, I tremble, nauseating. I almost let go of my staff but Isham faces me, forcing me to focus.

“Let me go at it.”

“No!” I scream. “I can do this. She is-”

“Going to kill ya,” it snaps.

Bricks of ivory crack on Isham’s back, almost destroying our bag. Everything inside me hurts. The woman, her own circle almost finished, walks backwards toward us.

“My son will soon be here,” she says.

“No. Something else will be there. And every soul in this city will be dead.”

I manage to stand up. My circle restarts stronger. But a baby starts crying.

“Give me the sanction,” continues Isham, enduring the fight against the entities.

“I can do it. She is mourning Isham. She-”

“The thing is coming!”

The padded bed reappears. I can hear the creature inside it moving. Coming to this world. Crying, I try a last time.

“If you stop now, I could help you see him again. The real him.”

But she only mumbles, “My baby… my baby…”

So, my throat sore, as a darkness and cold like I have never felt before start to destroy the Ivory Tower of Despair, I say the words.

“Isham, I give you the sanction.”

The bag falls on the floor. The sigil it was hiding on the golem’s back glows. It grows two meters tall and grabs the dozen of entities bare-handed, unstoppable. They vanish in smoke, screaming. At last, my circle comes together, my protector deviating any attack. Step by step, Isham goes. Coming closer and closer to the woman and the baby’s bed. And I walk alongside it, managing to capture the spirit of the woman in my purification trap.

“NO!” she screams.

A scream that turns everything into shards inside me. Isham strangles the demon trying to pass through the veil and devours it in a flash of light. And everything turns black.

The woman is lying on her back. The tower is gone. In the street, she looks almost human. I brush her hair with my bloody hand, finally able to see her face now that she’s dying. Her blue, cracked lips release a moan. Her pale eyes are full of tears.

“You killed him. You killed my son,” she says, her voice shaking.

“No. I freed you. I could still help you. Help you see him. Join his spirit in the Light.”

She does not listen to me. Isham, back to its small size pats my back.

“It’s no use. You said it. She long gone.”

He hands me my atame. And murmuring a few apologies, I stab her heart with the silver blade.

The street is full of noise. People come and go, having fun, drinking, laughing, strolling and all those things that mortals do to forget about their condition. They can’t see us. We look at the dust that has become the mourning witch.

“I could have…” I start, almost sobbing.

“Nah. You always want to. But ya couldn’t.”

Isham is right of course. But sending a soul in the Deep… the soul of a mourning mother entrapped by her grief and a bloody demon. It is never easy.

“Ya have to talk to the Council though. She shouldn’t ha’ been that strong. She musta’ been here for at least…” the golem tries to calculate.

“A century. Slowly feeding on the city for her ritual.”

“It shouldn’t’ve been like tha’. They could’ve called someone sooner.”

I get up.

“It isn't our place to judge Them, Isham.”

Adjusting my top hat, I drink a potion that will slowly heal my injuries. Then, I start walking. My old friend still mumbling, the mortals ignoring us as usual, we disappear into the night. Waiting for another letter. For another mission.