The Stranger's Magic: The Labyrinths of Echo: Book Three Read online

  The woman sidled up to me at the speed of a race car. How can she run so fast in the sand? I thought. Then I reminded myself that anything was possible in this World.

  And then I lost my mind.

  I still can’t explain why a bunch of grungy gypsy women made me so furious. Moderate run-of-the-mill irritation would have been an appropriate response to being surrounded by a school of brazen, slatternly beggars. Yet a wave of insane, uncontrollable rage engulfed me and began dragging me away with it.

  To my surprise, I liked my rage. I liked letting it take me wherever it wished. I liked riding the crests of its waves. I was ecstatic. Quite physically ecstatic. Each square inch of my body quivered in joy, anticipating a tempest, and the air around me also quivered in the same sweet way, as though the air was an extension of myself. I could no longer sense where my body ended and the surrounding environment began. I had never felt better, however insane that might sound.

  The gypsy ladies did not seem to sense any misfortune in the offing. They didn’t change their course. They kept coming toward me, mumbling something about my destiny and their starving children.

  “So you’re a fortune-teller, honey?” I whispered to the loudest of them, surprised at the tender trembling of my own voice. “Too bad you couldn’t foretell your own death, sweetheart.”

  I didn’t spit at them, even though my poison would likely have killed them all instantaneously. At that moment, it seemed that I would derive too little pleasure from such a primitive procedure. With the utmost delight, as though stretching my body after a good night’s sleep until the joints cracked, I stretched my arms toward her. My forearms were already covered in long dark spikes. I somehow knew that each spike was as poisonous as my spit, but piercing through someone’s body with the spikes was infinitely more enjoyable than spitting. I had never felt anything like it in my whole life!

  When the spikes pierced her, the woman fell dead on the sand and turned into a heap of dirty, lice-ridden rags. This was no metaphor: her body had indeed disappeared. Only the colorful, tattered fabric was left lying there. The woman—the human—had never existed. I should have guessed sooner. There were no people here, only a series of mirages—each one more disgusting than the next.

  The raucous friends of my first victim hesitated, but I didn’t wait for them to reach me: I ran after them. The left side of my mouth was smiling a voluptuous smile, but the right side remained senseless and immobile, like after a shot of Novocain. Thank goodness no one offered me a mirror. I doubt that Sir Max from Echo would have liked the spectacle.

  Moments later, everything was over: an unattractive heap of assorted colorful rags lay on the sand, and I moved onward. I walked to where the dark silhouettes of other apparitions that desecrated my beautiful once-empty World could be seen against the background of silvery-white water. Frankly speaking, at that moment I wouldn’t have been able to forgive real people for such trespassing. I was determined to kill anyone who happened to get in my way, no matter what their damn bodies were made of.

  The strangest sensation was the ringing quiver of space around my arms, delightful and tormenting at the same time. The horrendous spikes were gone, but I had no doubt they would appear again as soon as I neared the next victim.

  I knew in advance what I would see by the water. Yet when I came close enough to make out the details, I gasped: this was too much! On the bright sand of my beach was all I had once hated—with a helpless, inexplicable but tormenting hatred—about the seaside. Ugly, fat women in bright bathing suits, eating food from plastic bags melting in the heat of the sun, their thin-legged, big-bellied husbands sipping warm beer from burning-hot bottles. Raspberry-pink sunburned girls in bikinis, with disgusting pieces of paper stuck to their peeling noses, and their bow-legged companions in skin-tight swimming trunks. Drunk teenagers, obese men in boxer shorts, loud old hags . . .

  I remembered one trip to the beach with my parents. I was around five—a horrible age when you have just begun to realize your absurd but absolute dependence on the will of grown-ups, but you have as yet no strategy for a guerrilla war against them. Nothing particularly memorable had happened to me that day, but when I got home, I snuck into a closet and cried there in the dark, my face buried in the folds of an old coat that smelled of mothballs. “I don’t want to grow up! Take me away from here!” I said again and again, addressing no one, fearing that being among those horrible, ugly creatures would turn me into one of them. That I would grow a beer belly, my face would turn purple, and then . . . then I would die, obviously. What else was there to do? Loiso Pondoxo couldn’t even begin to imagine the black magic of my home world.

  “Oh, what an excellent idea,” I whispered. “I don’t know who decided to pollute my wonderful World with this human garbage, but letting me kill them all at once was a brilliant plan!”

  Then I picked up the familiar sweet mixture of beach smells—perspiration, sunblock, fortified wine, boiled eggs—and lost my human form. Not metaphorically but literally. The creature running around the beach like a hurricane could not have been human. Its (my?) arms turned into something unspeakable and started ripping the pink and chocolate flesh all around into shreds. It was sublime.

  “This is my world, get it?” I yelled. “Everything here will be the way I want it to be! And I don’t want you here! Get out of here, you bastards! Go to hell, to your resorts, to Golden Sands, to the Florida Keys, to Palm Beach! Just get out!”

  Sometimes they died a regular organic death. Sometimes, however, I noticed that the meat of the flesh turned black and shrank like burned paper. I didn’t care.

  I regained my senses when it was all over. I found myself sitting on the wet sand. Kind, lazy waves were licking my boots. They had already turned my footwear into a mess that was painful to look at. I felt peaceful and empty inside. The preceding events seemed like a vague but sweet dream. I felt quite emotionless about it.

  “Looks like you can lose your temper on occasion after all.” I heard Juffin’s mocking voice behind my back. “Too bad Sir Dondi Melixis wasn’t here to see you. He would have given you a raise. Dear, dear, look at you. You used to be such a nice boy. You should be ashamed of yourself, Sir Max.”

  “Well, I’m not,” I said in an indifferent tone.

  “Okay, maybe you shouldn’t be,” said Juffin, smiling and sitting down next to me. “Maybe it was a trifle. You’ve learned to fight your mirages. That’s a good start. There’s just one small thing you still have to learn: how to do the same to the one who sends them.”

  “Sure thing. Bring him on,” I said, still indifferent.

  “Ha! ‘Bring him on,’ he says. You’re in no shape for battle, son. I don’t think you’d be able to kill a chicken after the performance you’ve just put on. Which was exactly what our friend Gugimagon was counting on, by the way.”

  “Was it him?” I didn’t feel like I could be bothered to care. I was as imperturbable as Sir Lonli-Lokli, if not more so.

  “Wasn’t me, for sure.” Juffin took the turban off my head and, with the cunning smile of a provincial magician, pulled a clay pitcher out of it. The pitcher was a replica of the pitchers in the Glutton Bunba.

  “I think a sip of kamra wouldn’t do you any harm. Don’t pretend you can’t drink it without a cup. I can’t be bothered to fetch one for you. Why are you looking at me like that? Did you think you and our precious Maba Kalox were the only ones in the whole World who could do this trick?”

  “No,” I said and smiled. “Deep down inside I’m sure there isn’t any trick you can’t do, and that you’re the boss of everyone and everything. It’s just funny that you pulled a pitcher out of the turban.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing. When old Mackie Ainti taught me the trick of the Chink between Worlds, he posited that for best results one should search the chink just below one’s back,” said Juffin. “Back then, I was easily shocked by such statements. I even thought of quitting my studies, thinking Magic was a dirty business.”


  “Hey! This kamra really is from the Glutton,” I said.

  “Of course. You thought I’d treat you—and me—to some poison?”

  Juffin grabbed the pitcher out of my hands and took a few gulps. I put my hand in the pocket of my Mantle of Death for a cigarette. Then I snapped my right fingers to light it. That was a bit too much for me. I was more or less used to performing miracles on demand, but this was almost mechanical. Time out.

  “Are we waiting for something in particular, or are you just giving me time to catch my breath?” I said.

  “Both. We’re waiting for the blissful moment when I’m sure you’re fully restored. Then I’ll summon that elderly rascal Gugimagon.”

  “I’m not fully restored?”

  “Well, how shall I put this? A half hour ago, you looked pretty bad to me.”

  “Where were you all the time I was . . . fighting my mirages?”

  “I was standing on the Threshold of this World, up to my chin in a sea of pleasure, watching your immortal feats. I decided to keep my distance, though, just in case.” Juffin laughed heartily, as if he thought I was the greatest comic of all times and my massacre of the beachgoers was one of my best acts.

  “Were they really just mirages?” I said.

  “Not ‘just’ mirages, but . . . Well, sure, they were mirages, all right. You see, I think I managed to trick Gugimagon. Until the very last minute, he was sure you’d come here alone because he thought I’d stay with Sir Shurf, guarding his precious body and his no-lessprecious soul.”

  “Why did he think that?”

  “Last night, I gave Shurf a little of my blood and told him to drink a drop of it each time he felt his Rider approaching. A magician who is not too experienced in such matters could easily mix up Shurf’s body with mine. My bet was, first, that Gugimagon wasn’t very experienced in these matters; and, second, that I still scared the hell out of him. And I was right, which I’m very glad about.”

  “Was that the secret you didn’t want to tell me about yesterday?”

  “Indeed. My trick couldn’t have worked any better. Gugimagon thought you’d come to fight him alone. He was well prepared for you. Gugimagon calculated that your fit of rage would completely exhaust you, which is what happened. You know, Max, he’s scared of you, too. Not scared to death but still scared. And he really, really dislikes you. Shurf was right: it’s personal.”

  I gave Juffin a puzzled look. He shrugged, made a helpless gesture, and even raised his eyebrows, as if to say, yeah, that’s just how it is, buddy, nothing more to discuss.

  “The first thing he decided to do was to throw everything you hate at you. Things that you least wanted or expected to encounter in your World. And this is, indeed, your World, your very own World,” he said.

  “What do you mean ‘my own World’? I know I’ve been seeing it in my dreams for a long time, and I’ve always loved this place. But how can anyone own a whole World?”

  “It’s simple: without you, this coast wouldn’t exist. First you dreamed of fragments of a World that had never before existed. Then a miracle happened—one of the few phenomena that we cannot explain and have traditionally called ‘miracles.’ This place became real. It materialized. It became real enough to exist even after you die. There are many Worlds that began as someone’s dream. Most of them are as unclear and ephemeral as their creators. But you, you have a rare talent that allows you to give your fantasies a long-lasting existence. The beautiful nameless city in the mountains, the predatory enchanted garden that you brought into existence near Kettari, and now this place . . . Strange that Gugimagon took a fancy to it. Perhaps because it’s easier to enter a newborn World?”

  I kept staring at the boss. What metaphysical nonsense! He must have been mocking me. Oh, whatever. Let him mock me all he wants. I just didn’t want to live with this new truth about me and inhabited Worlds. A solipsist wakes up one morning with a terrible hangover and . . . there is nothing around him. What a sad joke.

  The ground was disappearing from under my feet again. How many more times was that going to happen this autumn?

  “Are you pulling my leg, Juffin?” I said without much hope.

  “Why would I? And what are you so worried about? As though this is some groundbreaking news. It’s funny how scared you are sometimes of a simple statement of facts.”

  “Yeah, it’s hilarious,” I said. “Actually, after all that’s happened to me, I could probably do without your last ‘statement of facts.’”

  “Indeed. But if I were you, I’d be dancing with joy. Or does the thought of your own omnipotence not thrill you?”

  I analyzed my feelings and shook my head. “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry. But if you give me back that pitcher of kamra, it’d probably cheer me up a bit. I’m a very primitive creature, you see.”

  “Fine, here’s your slop, you primitive creature. It’s almost cold now,” said Juffin, handing me the pitcher.

  I finished the lukewarm kamra and decided it was time to have some fun. “You know, I feel I’ve taken a good rest and I’m ready for action. How about you summon Gugimagon real quick, I punch him in the face, and we go home?”

  “You won’t be ‘ready for action’ for at least another couple dozen days,” said Juffin. “I don’t mean your mood or how you feel physically. I mean your potential for repeating your recent exploit. But that’s irrelevant. I can handle Gugimagon myself—that’s a piece of cake. The problem is that I might hurt you by accident while killing that fellow. You’re too weak. I’d love to send you home, but you’re in no shape to go anywhere now.”

  “Is it really all that bad?” I said.

  “Bad? No, everything is just fine. Better than fine, even. You can stand up, you can even make fire with your fingers—though you technically shouldn’t be able to. We have two options. Option number one: you can take a vacation and stay here for a couple dozen days until you acquire the status of ‘conquering hero,’ just like you’re supposed to. That’s an excellent idea in many respects. There’s a catch, though. During this time, our friend Gugimagon may pack up his suitcases and head somewhere at the other end of the Universe. At least that’s what I would do if I were him.”

  “And option number two?”

  “Oh, that I like even more than option one. I’m going to bury you right now and then summon Gugimagon.”

  “B-b-bury me?” I said.

  “That’s right. Earth offers excellent protection from all kinds of things, especially the earth of your own World. I believe it’s going to be something special. Now stop making sad eyes at me, Max. Your head is going to be sticking out. You’ll be able to breathe all you want, and you’ll get to see the battle of the titans. Boy, do I love performing before a live audience!”

  “Oh, okay,” I said, happy that I wouldn’t be buried alive. “But then you’re going to have to leave my hands sticking out, too, so I can applaud.”

  “No way, mister. Right now your hands are your most vulnerable assets, what with all the things you’ve done with them.”

  “Suit yourself. You’ll get no applause then,” I said, stretching out on the warm sand. “Do whatever you want with me, Juffin. I think I’m going to take a quick nap.”

  “Don’t even think about it. No naps while Gugimagon is alive.” Juffin produced a small ceramic bottle of Elixir of Kaxar from the pocket of his looxi. “How come you’re the one drinking this stuff and I’m the one who remembers to bring it?”

  “That’s how it’s supposed to be. It’s called specialization.”

  I took two bracing gulps of the tastiest tonic in the World—in all the Worlds. It was an overdose, of course, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

  “Don’t choke on it,” said Juffin.

  He rose to his feet and moved a few paces away from the water. He hesitated a little and gave an approving nod. He then picked up a small rock from the ground, turned it over and over it in his hands, and hurled it to the ground at his feet. A bright column of
sand launched into the sky, quivered, and scattered into millions of shiny grains. It looked like a miniature explosion, except that it was completely noiseless.

  “Your little burrow is ready,” he said. “It’s time to bury you, before you start wanting to brawl after overindulging on your potion.”

  “Have you ever seen me start a brawl after drinking it?” I said.

  “Praise be the Magicians, I haven’t. Yet. And I pray to the heavens I won’t ever see it,” said Juffin, laughing. “Your show today impressed me immensely. I could have sworn that Loiso Pondoxo had risen from the dead. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was your favorite schoolteacher: you emulated his style today. For your information, out of all of my acquaintances, he was the only one who could do those tricks with his hands.”

  “I’m sure you’re trying to flatter me, but your praise doesn’t make me feel any better,” I said. “That infamous Loiso Pondoxo of yours—he turns up everywhere! He even managed to be the father of my girlfriend, of all things. Are you sure you killed him, Juffin? Recently I’ve begun to suspect he’s going to swoop down on my head one of these days.”

  “I did a very good job killing him,” said Juffin, though he paused to think about it. “I put him in a rapidly disappearing place. I believe Loiso disappeared along with that place long, long ago. But even if he didn’t, I don’t think he’ll ever ‘swoop down on your head.’ I locked his personal Door between Worlds after him. And believe me, I locked it very well. Loiso was an unsurpassed master of Apparent Magic—I was no match for him—but in questions of travel between Worlds, he was no better than a novice, much like you are. The trickiest part was to lure him into Xumgat. The rest was easy.”

  “Will you tell me about it?”

  “Some other time, perhaps. I’m kind of busy here. Hop into your hole, Max. We’ll look silly if Gugimagon gets away from this World. Naturally, it won’t be easy for him. He’d need to find a good ‘horse’ for that. He probably won’t be able to get to Shurf, and those who brought him here are all dead. Still, we shouldn’t underestimate him. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turns out he has other involuntary helpers besides those unfortunate mental patients and our Sir Shurf. After all, he has been preparing for this journey for no less than a hundred years.”