The Veiled Earth

By Aaron S Gallagher

For the first time, all three books of the Veiled Earth series are together in this one anthology.

Magic is real. Magic exists. Magic once permeated the world, intertwined with humanity. Magicians once controlled the very fabric of their existence. At the height of the magical renaissance everything changes. Hidden away from humanity, magic became the stuff of legends, of myth. Thousands of years have passed since magicians walked the Earth. Now the magic has returned, and no one can explain why.

Valentien Dunne is a magician, gifted with the power to change the world.

But should he?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indies United Publishing House, LLC
• Release date: Aug 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644560488

Book preview

PART ONE:

JUNKIE

1

A man stood in the center of a single long room. The room resembled the lone occupant- rundown, beat up, and dirty. His ribs were slats under his skin; fragile and distinct like the keys of an ancient, decaying piano. His eyes, staring and manic, seemed as transparent as the windows. His long, tangled reddish hair hung clumped and caked with grime. His mouth was a thin cut in his face showing the hillocks of his teeth. They showed through the veneer of his gums in exactly the same way the rusty nail heads poked through the faded wallpaper in the bathroom.

He stared fixedly at a green baize card table, the ancient felt tacky and threadbare. It had been salvaged from a pile of trash in front of the building one day and it looked it. The tabletop was empty but for a playing card, an old ace of spades with creased corners from a long-gone Bicycle deck. He leaned closer. His heart raced faster, pulse thumping in his temples. The moment was coming. His eyes were wide, sclera slightly discolored and red-veined. He had a tombstone smile and he rubbed his arms together, scratching the inside of both elbows, the old familiar Junkie Shuffle.

The card lay more or less in the center of the table. At first it seemed to be still, but the card began to pulse. Every time he drew breath, the surface of the card bulged gently. When he exhaled it deflated. He waited a couple of breaths until the dirty, yellow-white face of the card with the single black spade in the center card bowed outward and seemed ready to burst. He drew his right arm back, straightened his fingers into a rigid knife tipped with dirty fingernails, and drove it down onto the surface of the card... and through it.

He felt almost no sensation, only the faint impression of damp velvet pressing against his hand and wrist. He felt nothing save a slight tingle at the intersection of the card and his arm. Groping in the damp space, he felt something move. It struggled but he grasped it firmly.

Like every good junkie he always saved a taste for the end. Just a little taste to get him through until the next score. This was his Hail Mary fix, the end-of-the-line fix. The last one. The last one before the next last one, anyhow. He licked his chapped, split lips, grinning like a skull in anticipation of the rush. Finally, he dragged his clawed hand from the card and whatever otherspace it contained. For just a moment it seemed the skin of the surface of the card clung to his arm as he pulled. Then it snapped whatever tenuous, filmy hold it had and collapsed back. It became just an aged playing card again, although singed a little in the middle as though someone had lit a match beneath it.

His arm lashed out in arc between the card and the open window. From his spreading fingers a startled dirty white dove flapped three times and vanished into the city air.

He squeezed his bruised eyes shut and held his fetid breath, waiting. There was nothing but a tingle, a faint sensation somewhere near his stomach. He slammed both hands onto the card table, catching sight of a single falling bead of sweat as he closed his eyes. 

Lurching upright with a forlorn cry, he began to sketch in the air, trying to carve his words into the air again, to bring the red and yellow fiery lines into being. He slashed at the air, going through his spells one by one. Nothing happened.

Hopelessness and desperation gripped him, and he felt his bowels clench and roil. The knowledge he had tried so hard to unlearn bared its teeth at him and grinned. He knew that grin- it was his own.

He tried every spell, every permutation. From the heavy-duty ones all the way to the parlor tricks: lighting a lamp or lifting a cigarette, or making a faint knock on the wooden walls. He could cast none of them. The dove had been the last of it. He had nothing else. Not a thing. He’d known it was possible. He’d suspected it might happen eventually. Just not to him. Not to him. 

His eyes flew open then, filled with horror, desperation, and rage, but not sanity. He became a whirlwind storming around the small room. Screaming wordlessly, he snapped the weak back of the table with doubled fists. He kicked his pillow. He snatched up a stray glass and dashed it against the wall, and didn’t even see it explode in a storm of shards. He stormed blindly around the room, a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. He threw himself at the wall and collapsed sobbing to the floor. Eventually the sobs ceased and he lay panting. He stared dully at nothing. That was it, then. He couldn’t even feel it anymore.

It hadn’t started like this. He’d had potential once. Potential? Hell, he’d been great once. Great? He had been the best. There were people in the world whose hands trembled when his name came up in conversation. He knew there were still people who would give an eye, or a leg, or a testicle (theirs or anyone else’s) to learn from him. And of course there were still people out there who would breathe a sigh of relief when they knew for certain he was truly, irrevocably dead.

How had he come to this?

It wasn’t his fault, of course. It couldn’t be!

It was... it was...

Who was he kidding? Who was there to kid? He knew exactly where the blame for his fall lay. He had mastered many things in his short life, but self-deception had never been among his myriad talents. He knew all the things he could be and had been- liar, thief, murderer, sinner, bastard, coward, hero, bastion, saint. He wouldn’t lay the blame for his mistakes at anyone’s dirty, torn, and bruised feet but his own. Besides, he’d long ago chased away the few who would have borne the brunt of his accusations. Killed a couple of them, too. His scrawny shoulders would bear the weight of his sins. That much he would do. He couldn’t have fallen so far unless he had truly, completely, and epically screwed up beyond all belief.   

Maybe he should just kill himself. Wouldn’t be hard. He was close to starving. It wouldn’t take much for him to go into arrhythmia. Or he should maybe go out the window. He was high enough, right? Just a quick drop, a sudden thump, and as Neil Young had put it, outta the blue, into the black. Or he could get a gun. Or a razor blade. That would be even easier. A warm bath, a quick slash. Bleeding out is like falling asleep. Pills? How about pills?

The last of his dogged pride and determination surfaced, startling him. This bullshit. This cowering, puling, weakness! Disgusting. He’d become disgusting, a perversion of everything he had ever been! He was a world-shaker, by God! He was a Magician. And he was worth any three practitioners. He was worth any ten. He was worth all of them put together! Wasn’t he?

He’d had power once. But that was before. He needed more and more just to get that glow. He needed the big ones. And he knew he didn’t have it in him to cast the big ones anymore.

His head rocked back to thump against the wall. The thought came to him from out of nowhere. He’d always eschewed props. He was hands-on, and he disdained anyone who ever needed help. Those weak-willed pukes who needed a wand, or a ring, or a hat. Anyone who couldn’t bring the power without a focus wasn’t worth his time. Wasn’t worth his spit.

He cringed to realize he’d sunk so low as to need one himself now. Him. But maybe.

Maybe. Maybe with a focus. He could use a focus to increase the power. Maybe that could substitute for his weakness. Maybe he could distract the power from his powerlessness. He could get the glow. Another push and... he could-

He dashed the thought away with a shake of his head. Be honest with yourself. It’s time. And not one of the coward’s ways. You? A razor? Found in the tub, pale as milk, and skinny as a starving dog? How would you look on the slab? Would you look like the most powerful man in the world?

No. Another loser hobo who didn’t have any control over the world. Just another failed miserable life. No mourning, no funeral. No Great Loss.

But not just another spell. Nothing would do for him but the grand-daddy of all spells. The big one. The last one. And no dodging the price. Nope. He would cast a spell and let it consume him. His ghastly smile stretched his lips wide again.

Something they’d talk about for generations.

They’d feel it.

He’d make them feel it.

Maybe he would.

2

All rise.

The shabby-suited attorney tugged his client to his feet as the Honorable Judge Leo Faraday entered the courtroom.

Be seated, the bailiff mumbled. The attorney pushed his client down. The man didn’t resist, slumping back into his chair.

Faraday checked his notes and set his glasses on them. He rubbed the bridge of his nose between two fingers and sighed. He folded his hands and fixed the plaintiff with a ponderous gaze. His years on the bench had given him plenty of practice in staring through the defendants that plodded through his court. His ponderous gaze rarely failed to give the men and women before him pause. His current target, however, apparently didn’t even notice the judge had come into the room.   

Mr. Smith, do you understand why you are here? Faraday asked the plaintiff.

The skinny man stared into space in silence. The judge shook his head. Yet another derelict waste of resources. Arrested in the ruins of some kind of tourist trap, a ‘magic’ store of some kind, according to the report, with no insurance, of course, no licenses to operate. No tax records. No public record at all. A derelict shop in a derelict building in an alley out of anyone’s way in downtown Brooklyn.

The facts were few: shortly after Mr. Smith entered the premises, the shop burned to the ground. Several bodies had been recovered from the ashes. Officially he was a survivor of the terrible blaze, not suspected of the cause. Preliminary findings revealed wiring in the building hadn’t been close to code in that neighborhood since the early fifties and there had been no fire alarms, sprinklers, or fire door.

The man refused to speak. He hadn’t made a sound since his arrest. Officially the charge was assault and resisting. According to the arrest report, after officers pulled him out of the rubble and paramedics brought him back to consciousness he’d begun screaming hysterically and tried to crawl back into the burning building.

After he had managed to land a flailing fist on the nose of one of the officers, they Tased and booked him. His fingerprints weren’t in the system. No identification. He was either an illegal or the rarest of all unicorns; a human who had never been recorded on a single document. Few could live off the grid anymore. Anyone who had ever held a legal job, rented an apartment, or held a library card in America would show up in the system eventually. He didn’t have the look of an immigrant about him, which meant exactly nothing. Eventually they would uncover his identity. Perhaps he’d never committed a crime or served in the military but he would have been footprinted as a baby. Or he went to school somewhere. Or someone would know him. Until then they called him ‘John Smith’.

The fire in the little curio shop had burned itself out in the same way wildcatters put out oil fires with smaller explosions. Most of the building had been destroyed within minutes, the temperature turning cinderblock and red brick to puddles of molten stone. A surprising amount of relics remained intact in the puddles of damp ash and burned beams. Blood in jars, beeswax, and scores of crystals now shattered and black with heat. Hippy-dippy, new-age stuff and nonsense, the judge thought. Dried herbs and insects. Nothing that made sense to anyone on the forensics team. A thousand bits and bobs. Oddly, things that should have burned were pristine in their jars and assorted containers.

The authorities knew none of the preparations, implications, or uses of such ingredients. Merely legal or illegal ramifications. The patrons of the shop save one were deceased. The tiny store filled with dark and secret things was destroyed. The fire burned for hours into the night, hotter than any the fire department had seen. The fire chief likened it to a magnesium fire. And yet of the seven bodies found inside, this one man had survived.

There was no evidence to indicate Smith had set the fire. The court-appointed attorney had been most adamant on this point. He was new and dedicated, filing numerous motions. The attorney argued every motion and objection so vehemently that the judge had to speak to him in chambers and calm him down.

Judge Faraday knew the facts. He liked facts. He was blissfully ignorant of the concept of magic or of components used to augment spells. He would have laughed in the face of anyone trying to explain the concept of magic to him. He had no use for such nonsense. He cared about the malnourished and hopeless shambles before him. The poor man seemed constructed of sticks and orange fabric. He had refused food and water. They’d had to drop an IV of saline and nutrients. His sunken eyes stared wherever his face pointed.

Judge Faraday considered the evidence and the facts, ready to pass sentence on the real charges of assault. Hysteria it might be, but assault it still was. As he started to speak ‘Smith’ reached up with his left hand to scratch and pull at his jumpsuit. The shirt chafed at the neck. The shackles he wore afforded little movement, so he reached up with both hands. He tugged, snapping the buttons. They bounced across the table and ticked their way towards the bench, the tiny popping sounds echoing in the quiet room. The public defender watched them. The bailiff watched them. All eyes followed the runaway buttons except for Faraday’s. He peered at Smith. More importantly, at Smith’s chest. Smith had tattoos etched into his skin in ink that was so dark and so impossibly black that they seemed to absorb light. No tattoos had been reported during his booking. The ‘Identifying Marks’ section of his arrest record should have been filled with a detailed description of the tattoos plus pictures, but no one in the booking room had seen them. Or rather, they’d seen them and forgotten them immediately.

Faraday’s eyes traced the symbols, followed the dark lines embedded in Smith’s sallow skin. They looped and swirled in strange, hypnotic curves. They seemed to knot themselves together and simultaneously unravel. Although static, they seemed fluid. Faraday couldn’t know it but the symbol below the hollow of Smith’s throat meant Mercy, written in the least language of magic.

Faraday’s eyes followed the symbol. His eyes were tracing the figure and he inscribed it in the air between himself and Smith. For this reason Smith’s protective tattoos were etched backward: when someone traced the pattern with their eyes, they cast the spell on themselves.

It called to Faraday; called in a manner he had no way of consciously understanding. The call was very weak. A visible symbol in the Language isn’t strong and couldn’t control or demand, only influence. Sometimes, far more often than people realize, just enough can be the difference between life and death, heaven and hell, good and evil. Just enough had saved untold numbers of people. Just enough this time was all that stood between Smith and prison.

No. Faraday knew what would happen. It was so obvious that this man didn’t care what happened to him. He could barely stand up on his own. Faraday decided it was up to him to be merciful rather than strict. Well, it was his courtroom until they took it away. The prisons were full of truly bad men. Smith was at most a minor failed crook. Something ate at him. He didn’t seem dangerous, just misguided and under the influence of some powerful, corrosive thrall. Maybe he would benefit from help. Maybe. Faraday’s decision balanced precariously on the scale of his civic duty, almost leaned in favor of righteous indignation, but the gentle weight of the Mercy tattoo weighed the scale down just enough that his pointer fell onto compassion. It was a near thing, but sometimes just enough is just good enough. 

As you refuse to testify in your defense we must surmise the details. How the fire on that property started is unknown, but as you are the last living participant the investigation and its findings must fall to you to answer. The issue of your assault of police and firefighters isn’t in doubt, although several possible answers exist. And although no tests have been performed I can’t help but feel you are under the influence of some foreign substance. This court has seen far too many men and women’s lives destroyed by drugs. Too many are sent to the penitentiaries when perhaps they needed to be taken into an understanding embrace instead.

Faraday said, I am inclined to be a little more lenient on you than perhaps others would be. Despite the seriousness of these potential crimes, despite your lack of participation in your defense, I am going to offer you a final chance. The judge leaned forward, and picked up his gavel. Mister Smith, rise for sentencing.

The public defender had to grip Smith’s arm and lift him. Smith hadn’t meant to bewitch the judge, merely to scratch an itch. Nothing more. But was it an instinct or impulse? Strange things happen in the world of magic. Fate, karma, invisible forces, and divine intervention: perhaps these things are random. In any event the protective symbols did their job. He narrowly escaped a terrible fate. He would suffer worse. He would be condemned to live.

It is the ruling of this court that you be remanded to a public rehabilitation clinic. You are to remain under guard and you will undergo therapy such as the doctors of said clinic see fit. The lack of a prior criminal record is the single reason I’m inclined to offer you this opportunity. The questions of the fire and your assault will henceforth be tabled until later when you are more able to understand and answer for yourself. On a personal note, I hope that you find yourself in this place, son. May you find someone inside yourself worth saving and the strength to do so. Sentence to be carried out immediately. Court adjourned. The harsh bark of Faraday’s gavel echoes through the room.

As the bailiff cleared the room and guards removed Smith from the court, Faraday rose and exited. By the time Smith had been escorted into a van, Faraday was on his way home. He enjoyed the scenery and congratulated himself on being so wise and merciful to his fellow man.

3

He couldn’t tell which was worse, rehab or the street. Probably rehab. At least on the street he could end his life if he chose. Inside these sterile walls he had no choices. Even if he wanted to end his life, these insufferable... competent... caring people, damn them, had taken that option from him.

The ride from county lockup went swimmingly... for the guards. Two burly men lifted him easily as a sack of feathers and tossed him onto the bench, where they shackled him down.

Listen close, friend, his new companion breathed at him, the words floating on an almost-visible stream of garlic and mint, because I’ll say it once. I’m having a bad day. It started at four A. M. and it’s gone downhill since. You’re my last buggy ride today and it’s going to be a quiet one.

He pulled a short baton from a loop on his belt. See this? See how it’s not rammed up your ass sideways?

Smith said nothing.

In order for that happy state of affairs to continue, all you need to do it sit there and drool quietly to yourself, friend. Comprende? Si? No? You keep your trap shut and I won’t shove my boot in there. You make me make a mess, and I’ll do it. See if I won’t, the guard said. He locked Smith’s ankle chains into the floor bar, jumped down, and slammed the doors shut. An hour later the van jerked into motion and pulled away from the tombs.

The intake process in the rehabilitation facility was straightforward. They signed him in and gave him a concrete cell with a narrow cot and a window. The cot was sheathed in rubber and the sheets were thin and clean. The room reeked of industrial disinfectant. Smith was docile as they led him to his room, and while the unhooked him. They set him on the cot and laid him down. He closed his eyes. The orderlies were used to screams and raving and physical violence. Meth and crack were the more common drugs they dealt with. His placid appearance threw them off. Only his impatience foiled his own plot.

Before they could close the door he had hurled himself off the cot and ridden one of the orderlies to the ground with his hands around the man’s throat and his knees in the small of his back.

They dragged him off before he could do much damage. A nurse came running with a needle full of Zyprexa to calm him down. She came at him from behind, quick and quiet, as she had done a hundred times. While the orderlies grabbed his arms, she went to his hip.

He twisted, cat-like, wrenched his hand free and grabbed her wrist. She stared into his eyes. His pupils were wide and empty, and to her horrified gaze, there seemed to be no one there. He simply wasn’t home. Later, she would have nightmares about those eyes. One bottle green, one white. 

He yanked hard on her hand intending to stab himself with the needle. It flashed toward his throat. The nurse screamed and the world slowed around her. She could see the tiny bead of liquid pooled at the tip of the needle spreading down the spike as it jabbed toward his skin. She could see his fingers buried in her flesh, knuckles red, nails white. She could see the spot just under the hollow of his throat where the tip would land. The needle entered his flesh- and stuck in his breastbone.

She let go and jerked her hand away. He stared down at the hypodermic jutting from his chest. He grabbed it and pulled, and the nurses and orderlies watched in horror as he jabbed himself in the chest and stomach. Over and over, he plunged the two inch needle into his body. Miraculously, he failed to do any lasting damage to himself. Frustrated, it occurred to him that he could try to inject into his veins in hopes that he could make a fatal embolism. He pulled back the plunger, filling the syringe with air. He drove the needle into his left breast, directly into one of the designs worked into his skin. The sigil carved into his sweating gray flesh there stood for ‘luck’. The needle snapped off just beneath his skin before he could injure himself. While he gaped and gibbered and laughed, the orderlies clambered atop him. They managed to pin his thin arms behind his back, a second needle slid into him, and his vision swam, and the world went sideways.

They bound him roughly into a straight jacket and ushered him unceremoniously into a smaller room with padded canvas walls. He stared dully at the off-white wall as they slammed the door. He had no more time to contemplate the wall because the heavy drug haze slid over his vision. In addition, they turned the lights out.

The second week went no better. Like the heroine and coke addicts surrounding him, he suffered through the night sweats, shakes, and periodic plunges into madness that accompanied the recovering addict’s slow progress, he never knew when to expect a sudden loss of reality. For two days, he had raged and screamed himself hoarse trying to get the doctors to release him so that he could pull the maggots from his flesh. He had lunged at the doctors and nurses, screaming hysterically, snapping and biting and foaming at the mouth until they sedated him again.

The doctors considered methadone but his blood screens kept coming back negative. They tested his blood, hair, and saliva, and they couldn’t even find a trace of aspirin in him, let alone narcotics. Volunteers sat up with him and talked him through his episodes. They held him while his stomach voided itself miserably of the bland broths and fruit gelatin they fed him, and patiently mopped up afterward.  

They encouraged him to try and use his mind again; to reason rather than react. They treated him as another addict, despite the fact that there was absolutely no pharmacological reason for him to be going through withdrawal. The tests proved nothing but malnutrition. He lived with delusions, undeniably, but through no chemical cause.  

Baffled, they tried treating the symptoms as psychological. The head psychiatrist, Ben Havelmord, gave a preliminary report to his board.

Schizotypal disorder with psychotic features. Possible borderline personality disorder. Every drug test, as you know, has been negative. As far as we can determine he isn’t under the influence of any chemical that wasn’t introduced here. He acts like a drug addict in withdrawal, Havelmord said, but for no reason.

He still refuses to speak, but nightmares and violent outbursts tell us he’s capable of producing sounds. Responds to written intelligence tests but nothing complex, and he won’t participate in group therapy. He seems to be lost in his own world much of the time. However, it must also be noted that while we have no way to accurately judge his intelligence, Mr. Smith exhibits instances of a complicated and sophisticated psyche. He demonstrates amazing control in remaining silent for so long. Whether it is an attempt to avoid prison is a question I cannot answer yet. According to the police he isn’t wanted anywhere for anything they’re aware of. There’s no evidence to suggest that he’s playing a game. None of the usual signs, anyhow. No sly glances, no secret smiles. No sense of playfulness. He exhibits no inclination to speak, and no inclination to friendship or camaraderie. I cannot say yet whether he is a danger to society. I believe his symptoms to be controllable, but whether with therapy or through medication I cannot opine.

The doctor adjusted his glasses and observed the panel digesting his findings. They talked amongst themselves for a moment.

You do think that his condition can be treated? Perhaps cured?

Havelmord smiled. Certainly. This isn’t a fugue state. He’s not in a coma. He’s seen some trauma, sure, but nothing to indicate that he’s broken, so to speak. It’s more like... like a case of battle fatigue in a front-line soldier. PTSD. He’s retreated to protect himself. He is intelligent. He hides in a self-imposed prison of silence. However, he cannot deceive himself forever. Our task is simple. When faced with bare reality, he must be ready to accept it. Once that happens, he will never again be able to retreat into his private fantasies because he will be too self-aware to delude himself again. I believe that we cannot consider our duty to Mr. Smith discharged until such time as he has been helped to find reality.

Polishing his glasses with his tie, Havelmord thought well of himself. In a sea of garden-variety illnesses, here was a case with some meat to it. It would be a challenge and he was looking forward to it. Perhaps there was an article in it.

A throat cleared on the far side of the table. Havelmord turned to his left and took in the slight figure of Michael McKellan, their resident social worker. McKellan’s sphere of influence was confined mainly to human rights and ensuring the patients received the proper treatment. He had constantly-tousled sandy brown hair, as though he always walked into his wind. His brown eyes were alert and watchful. His build was too slight to account for the air he exuded. He seemed to take up more room than his body filled.

Havelmord raised his glasses and peered at McKellan. Yes, Michael?

McKellan said, Question, if I may. It seems to me that this panel is extremely interested in curing Mr. Smith and is looking ahead to the day when his sanity is no longer threatened... that is to say, when his version of reality agrees with yours.

There was not a single smile to be found among the panel of doctors. Doctors, McKellan had found, were without humor where their own ideas were concerned. He continued undaunted. However, you seem to be forgetting a slightly larger issue. He’s here by court order for the treatment for addiction. He’s here for a chemical dependency. He is not here for psychiatric care. I’m not sure that this larger diagnosis and subsequent treatment can be considered, morally or legally.

Well, let’s just file it under ‘charity’, shall we? Havelmord said to him. Mike pursed his lips.

You’re experimenting on a man who hasn’t given consent, Mike said to him.

He’s court-mandated, Havelmord responded.

Only for drug addiction, Mike countered.

The rest of the table watched them bat the problem back and forth.

He’s here for addiction, true. Perhaps we’ve missed something. His continued therapy would be perfectly legal.

Only if his blood tests turn up something, Mike said. Three so far, and nothing more than what we’ve already put in him.

Well, Havelmord said, let’s continue to treat him until we find something, shall we?

Mike raised an eyebrow.

Until we have ten clean tests running, say, Havelmord conceded.

Mike considered it. All right, Ben. Ten cleans, and he’s out. Until then, he’s a patient.

Agreed. Havelmord adjusted his glasses. Now, I’ll have my first session with him before lunch, as a way of getting to know him, and him getting to know me. Familiarize him with my way of working, you might say...

4

Havelmord took his time. Hypnotherapy produced solid results in many cases, but not all. Smith gave every impression of being easily hypnotizable; sometimes people aren’t. With the lights lowered, Ben guided him deeply into sleep with a simple repetition of breathing exercises and began with a series of questions; name, date, and so forth. The panel was mildly surprised when Smith began responding in a low, clear voice. Smith wouldn’t give his name, didn’t know the date, and was fine being called Mr. Smith. Smith’s had a smooth and calm voice. It seemed odd coming from that narrow, starved face and those cracked lips.

Havelmord sat on a chair while Smith rested with his hands folded over his stomach on a remarkably ugly green couch.

Can you hear me, Mr. Smith?

Yes, I can hear you, Smith said in his low, calm voice. He sounded at ease, a welcome change from the trembling edge of pressure on which he seemed to live.

Would you tell me your name, please?

You call me Smith.

That is the name the court gave you because they don’t know your real name. Or is Smith your name?

No, it’s not my name.

What is it?

I respectfully decline to answer, Smith said.

Excuse me?

Smith will do. It’s not my name, but it’ll do.

I don’t understand you, sir.

I’m sorry.

Havelmord flashed a quick glance at the gallery of observers watching from behind a two-way mirror.

Perhaps I didn’t ask you the right question.

Perhaps, Smith crossed his feet at the ankles. He appeared to be deeply asleep.

Why don’t you want me to know your name?

No idea.

What do you mean?

I mean that I have no explanation for my evasions, but it seems like a good idea. An instinctive choice. And I try to pay attention to my instincts.

Havelmord frowned, but decided to try a different tack. Where are your parents, Smith?

If I ever find that out, I’ll try and let you know.

Excuse me? Havelmord asked.

They died when I was very young, Smith explained.

I see. Havelmord made a note on his pad. You were referring to an afterlife, then?

Perhaps, Smith said, and his lips quirked in a half-smile. Havelmord frowned at the mirror. Hypnotized subjects never made jokes. They became recalcitrant through self-doubt or a lack of knowledge. Such pedantry was outside Havelmord’s experience and he had personally hypnotized hundreds of patients.

Would you like to ask me any questions?

No.

I see. He consulted his pad again. What do you do for a living?

Breathe. Eat. Sleep. The usual.

That’s not what I meant.

"Did you ask the wrong question again, doctor?

No. I think you are purposely choosing to misunderstand me.

I’m trying my best to answer honestly, as you asked, Doctor, Smith said. His voice had begun to take the sing-song cadence that Havelmord habitually used. Havelmord didn’t notice, but a few of the gallery did.

We’ll see. I will rephrase, then. What kind of job do you do in order to make money to pay your bills?

I’ve been a dishwasher, a waiter, a construction worker, and a shoe salesman.

I see. Do you enjoy those jobs?

No.

Why not?

Would you enjoy them?

I don’t know if I would.

You wouldn’t, Smith said with surety.

Why is that?

What are you?

Havelmord hesitated. I don’t understand.

It’s a simple question: what are you?

I’m a doctor.

Why not answer ‘a human being’? Or ‘a husband’?

I’m not sure what your point is. Havelmord glanced again at the glass. His own patient, grilling him? He raised a hand to the panel of glass, palm up, a signal to the rest of the doctors, asking if he should continue or wake the patient. A single tap on the glass gave him an answer: no. Havelmord lowered his hand and examined again at the haggard man before him, breathing deeply.

He studied the lack of emotion on Smith’s face as the man said, My point is, you define yourself in a certain way. If being a member of the human race were the most important thing to you, you would have said. Alternatively, being a husband, or a father. However, you are a doctor. You went to great lengths to become a doctor. You have a passion for your work: it is not just what you do, but how you define yourself. I am not a dishwasher. I am not a construction worker or a shoe salesman. I do not define myself that way. Would you be happy doing something else than what you do? No. You trained as a doctor. You would hate being a shoe salesman.

I suppose that’s true.

Damned right, Smith said with sudden vehemence.

And what were your trained to be? Havelmord asked him. I’m a magician, Smith said.

Do you mean... like a party magician? Or an entertainer in that way? Havelmord asked?

No, Smith said. Those are illusionists.

What’s the difference?

They know they’re fake, Smith said.

Havelmord darted a look at the glass. You’re saying you don’t know you’re fake?

I know what I am.

You believe in magic? Havelmord asked. A treasure trove! All the way to the center of the man’s delusion in one session- almost too easy. He felt a faint stab of disappointment.

Of course I do.

But magic isn’t real.

I must be crazy, then, Smith said.

Do you think you’re crazy? Havelmord asked him. Is it something that worries you?

Not in the least. I don’t worry about being crazy. If I were crazy, my trouble would be over. My problem is that I’m not crazy. My problem is that I’m the sanest man alive.

Can you prove it?

I don’t need to. I know it’s real, Smith said.

Havelmord smirked at the window. He turned back to see Smith scowling at him, although his eyes were closed.

Are you agitated, Mr. Smith?

No, I’m tired of you.

You’re a magician, you say. You’re a sleight-of-hand artist, then? Birds from hats, card tricks, and the like? Havelmord needled the man purposefully. Smith failed to take the bait.

No, that’s an illusionist.

What’s the difference?

The difference, Smith said, is that illusionists are faking it. It’s always a trick. Magicians aren’t faking it. They can do the magic.

But magic isn’t real, Havelmord said.

Not for you, no, Smith said.

Not for anyone, Havelmord said. You understand, don’t you, that magic isn’t real?

Smith smiled.

Do you understand that?

No, I don’t, Smith said. But it doesn’t matter what I say.

Why not?

Because you’re not interested in having a conversation. A conversation by definition, takes two people discussing something of mutual interest, attempting to explain their discordant points of view, and hopefully, arrive at a consensus. A successful conversation isn’t one in which one person convinces another that their point is correct, but one in which each can see the other’s vantage, Smith said. Each can understand the other’s reasons. You haven’t any interest in understanding my point of view," Smith said.

You’re not listening to me. You’re waiting to talk, so that you can trap me in some kind of internal inconsistency. You’re waiting for a chance to ipso facto me into admitting that your reality is right and mine isn’t. You’ve no interest in understanding my point of view, or understanding why I believe what I do, let alone in being persuaded that mine might be correct.

Havelmord shifted uneasily, shooting a glance at the watching gallery again. 

Are you still asleep, Smith?"

What do you think?

I’m unsure, which is why I asked.

No, you’re sure I’m not, which is why you asked. You don’t trust your instincts, so you seek outside verification.

You’re awake, then.

Am I?

I’m not certain.

See? You don’t trust your instincts. Again that half-smile.

I believe this session is over.

Why? Smith asked. Because your findings don’t correlate with your theories?

Havelmord, startled, said, What?

You think you know everything about me, Smith said.

I know nothing about you except what you choose to tell me.

Only because you don’t trust your instincts, Smith said. I do. That’s why I know you. All I have is what you tell me, which is why I know more about you than you do about me.

And what do you know about me?

Your name is Benjamin Havelmord. You are married and you have a child. You wish you weren’t a doctor. You seem to think that when you don’t understand something, it is the fault of others, instead of your own inability to perceive the world correctly. You’re left-handed, and you were adopted.

How do you-?

You give yourself away with everything you say, Dr. Havelmord. By the way, your wife... does she know?

I beg your pardon.

Smith smiled. Never mind. What was your mother’s name?

Why, it was Beth.

That’s your wife’s name, isn’t it? Beth, or a subsidiary, like Bethany, or Elizabeth?

Now, wait a minute...

Your wife has the same hair color and general build as your mother. Their meatloaf is almost identical.

Smith’s face flushed and his voice grew increasingly hoarse. It was by far the longest speech he’d given in some time. Dr. Nichols rapped twice on the glass.

Mr. Smith, we’re going to-

I know. We’re going to end our session for today. If you think that’s wise, Doctor, who am I to argue? Smith opened his eyes. Are you going to snap your fingers, or shall I?

Havelmord was nonplussed. How did you do that? Or were you never under at all?

Of course I was. You are very good. I was open and honest and under your direction, Doctor. But the conversation became so interesting I decided to take a more active role, Smith said, uncrossing his ankles.

You need to calm down.

Smith stretched his arms wide. I am calm, Doctor, as you can see. Perfectly so. You seem a little agitated, though. Do you need something to help you relax?

I think we’re done for today, Havelmord said, and stood up.

If you say so. It is a shame, though. I think this is the most interesting thing to happen to you all week.

That’s not why I’m here. Excitement is not part of my job description. Helping people is.

Oh. And here I thought you just enjoyed the rush of power you get from being able to control what people think.

Havelmord sputtered. Do you think I am controlling you?

No, but that’s because I’m aware of you. There must be so many people in this place unable to see through you. You must be very happy here.

Why are you acting as though I’m your enemy, Mr. Smith?

Because you are. Smith’s voice went dead. The emotion he’d displayed moments before vanished.

Why am I your enemy?

You’re normal.

Why does that make me your enemy?

Because like seeks like, Doctor.

If like seeks like, Mr. Smith, then you should be seeking us out.

I can’t do that.

Why not, Mr. Smith?

Because you’re not like me. No one is like me. I am alone. I’ve seen everything there is to see. I want something new. This world tires me, Doctor, because it’s banal and boring. I long to see something new, can you understand that? I want to be somewhere I haven’t yet been.

So you’ve seen everything in this world, is that it? You have traveled everywhere, and met everyone and done everything? I find that unlikely, especially for, and you should pardon my harsh attitude, a junkie from the inner city of New York.

So, because I’ve never left the city, you don’t think I’ve seen everything?

Your question answers itself, Mr. Smith.

That’s because everything is the answer to its own riddle, Doctor. However, I was not asking about the circular nature of the world, I was asking your opinion. You know, a formulated thought not based on something you read, but instead your own gut reactions to my state of being. Can you honestly give me an answer from your instinctive senses?

I’m not sure what you’re reaching for, Mr. Smith.

I’ve been trying to tell you, dolt. I’m trying to reach something new, Smith said dispassionately.

I see.

No, you don’t. You make me tired, Havelmord. We’re through for the day.

Precisely what I said to you, if you recall.

"There’s nothing wrong with my memory, Dr. Havelmord. Nevertheless, unlike you, I reached a conclusion on my own, because I am finished. Not because I became uncomfortable when you stopped being under my power."

I-

We’re done, remember?

Havelmord flushed. He clenched his teeth. The panel could see his jaw throb when he did. Well. Obviously we have a lot of work to do before we’re ready to conduct a civilized conversation.

Whose civilization? asked Smith.

Havelmord turned his back on Smith. Good day, Mr. Smith. An orderly will take you back to your room.

Duh.

Excuse me?

Do you ever say anything original, Havelmord? Not based on things you have heard, or experiences you have had in this past, but truly original? Something original, all your own?

Havelmord lost his patience. He lurched towards Smith with a fist made. Fuck you.

Instead of a reply, Smith applauded.

Havelmord turned and left the room, slamming the door open.

Smith examined himself in the mirror. He brushed his stringy hair out of his eyes. He stood up and began to pace, lecturing to his unseen audience with one hand behind his back, the other gesticulating before him. He lowered his voice, shifted his posture, and before the panel became Ben Havelmord. The likeness was eerie, and uncanny.

Subject displays aggressive tendencies brought on by challenges to his belief system. Fundamentally self-consciousness about his decisions, brought about through years of making a rote diagnosis of identical problems. When confronted by a truly challenging case, Dr. Havelmord loses all pretense of professionalism and imagination. I should think that his lack of original thinking would make him a candidate for head of the facility. In addition, his Oedipus complex is blatant, and would be interesting if he were not a repressed homosexual. One wonders if his wife knows of his preoccupation with his mother. It would be instructive to see side-by-side pictures of the women-

The orderly came in.

Time to go, I suppose. Smith turned to face the mirror. Ladies and gentlemen, that’s all the time we have today.

5

Dr. Ben Havelmord, Mike McKellan, Dr. Jane Eisener, Dr. Harve Nichols, Dr. Frank Grimshaw, and Dr. Emil King had assembled in the meeting room. Everyone except Havelmord sat; the doctor raged around the room. McKellan in particular found the man’s agitation humorous.

Calm down, Ben, Dr. Eisener, director of the facility, said in a placating tone of voice. Her thin frame was long in her chair. She stood a little over six feet two inches tall. The staff called her the Amazon behind her back and ma’am to her serene, beatific face. She wore a slightly rumpled all beige pantsuit almost the same color as her hair, one of a seemingly endless supply. She was not married and no one in the room had ever seen her with a girl or boyfriend, acquaintance, or friend. She never attended social functions any of the others had been to except professional conferences. She did not smoke, drink, or eat meat. They assumed that after they left for the day, she simply went into her office, shut the door, and plugged herself into the wall outlet to recharge until the next morning.   

It’s nothing to get bent out of shape about. He punched a few of your buttons. You let yourself lose control. He played you pretty well. Soft touch at first. Then the references to your mother, your wife-

Hey!

I’m just talking, Ben, she soothed. He found every button you have, and he did it with minimal exposure. You’ve worked difficult cases before, people smart enough to do to you what you’re doing to them.

Havelmord blew air between his reddened lips. That doesn’t make him right.

I didn’t say that it did. Your reactions say a lot though, don’t they?

Ben leaned over the table. What the hell are you implying?

Eisener sat back in her chair, coolly gazing into his eyes. Only that you wear your emotions close to the surface, allowing an educated or a trained eye to pick up nuances. It hasn’t been that long since your behavioral classes, has it?

Havelmord stared for a moment, then shrugged, and slumped into his chair. Yeah, yeah. Bastard’s good, I guess.

They sat silently for a moment, digesting the situation. Harve smiled to himself. Ben eyed him and said with belligerance, What?

How is Elizabeth, anyhow?

Shut up.

Sorry. Harve grinned.

She’s fine. Ben managed a smile and said, Ask about my mother and I’ll pop you one.

No problem.

Havelmord checked his notepad. This guy doesn’t have fingerprints in the system. No clue as to his identity. At least he’s not a criminal or AWOL. Now that he’s talking, his preliminary exams can include the Wechsler Standard Intelligence Test, House Tree Person, and others. All we have right now are the paper responses.

Grimshaw spoke up. What did the I.Q. show?

One-forty one-fifty range. Above average. Genius, or genius-minus. Unfocused but willful.

And you expected him to be an easy subject? I’m surprised he didn’t hypnotize you, Ben, Grimshaw said.

They chuckled. After a bit, Ben joined in.

Okay, so I handled it poorly. He was not a junkie with a suicide fetish, half-crazed by withdrawal in that room today. He was coherent. In control. He was calm, and rational, and acted like-

McKellan spoke up for the first time. He acted like an expert head-shrinker, is what he acted like.

There was no friendly gaze between them but Havelmord nodded. Exactly. He acted like a psychiatrist. A good one. He used every bit of information, visual and intuitive, and played me. Just like a psychiatrist.

Mike appeared thoughtful. Or...

Or what? Eisener asked him.

Or a professional con artist. Someone who makes a living knowing what other people are thinking. Mediums, stage magicians, bunko artists and the like. They’re experts in reading faces and body language, Mike said. He could just be good with people.

Jane nodded and turned to Ben, who shrugged his skinny shoulders. Maybe, he admitted.

So. Where does that leave us? Jane glanced in turn to each of them. Emil? You’re quiet. Anything to add? The Egyptian man, with his dark skin, bald pate, and round-rimmed glasses, resembled a more virile Gandhi. One who, instead of hunger strikes and nonviolent protests, took out his frustration in a gym. He said, I have a full patient load, and have no time to invest. This one seems like a lot of trouble, and a lot of care. I don’t want anything to do with it.

You’re missing out, but okay. Ben? You want to keep the lead on this? she asked him.

May as well. He doesn’t like me, but... it gives us a place to start.

Agreed. Anything else, folks?

McKellan glanced at his watch. I’m supposed to be interviewing him right now. I’ll let you know what happens. Ben, I’ll stop by your office after, okay?

Havelmord nodded and said, By the way, I noticed something today, Ben said to Michael.

What’s that?

His eyes.

What about them?

They’re not the same color. It’s very unnerving. Put me off.

Mike nodded. That would do it.

All right, I think we’re done. Jane smiled. I’m going to go to lunch.

6

Three times Mike visited Smith. Three times they sat in silence, not exactly staring one another down, but just existing. Mike had a head full of things he could do. He’d never been worried about sitting quietly. Smith seemed to have the same kinds of inner resources. He never closed his eyes. He never nodded off. He didn’t cough, fidget, or even move. The first time, he lay on his bunk with his hands behind his head. They watched each other for a half hour before Mike stood up, nodded amiably, and left.

The second visit, Smith sat in the chair and watched Mike as he sat on the bed for nearly two hours. Mike had no idea what Smith did in his head, but personally, he had been reading Twain the entire time. It entertained Mike to picture the copy of the book in his mind and turn the pages He could smell the paper and feel the tactile pressure off the paper, both brittle and yet alive and supple.

The third time, Smith stood in the corner with his hands behind his back and watched Mike reclining in the chair, legs in front of him, crossed at the ankle, looking perfectly comfortable. After fifteen minutes Mike got up and left. In the corner of his eye he saw Smith smile. Mike didn’t care. It was a reaction. Mike had a feeling that sooner or later Smith would talk. It wasn’t a contest or a test of wills. Mike just thought that Smith was feeling him out, testing to see if he cared enough to put up with the silence. Well, he might not care overmuch, but Mike felt strongly about patient care. As a social worker his job extended to the quality of life, rather than quantity. He would do what it took to make Smith talk to him. And his intuition was right.

The fourth visit began no different than the others. After the orderly buzzed Mike into the wing, he went to Smith’s room. Michael sat in the single chair. The chair, the bed, and the door were the extent of the furnishings. The door was shatter-resistant glass and the orderly sat at a desk not far away. The circular ward had seven rooms, and each was under supervision.

Mike watched the man evenly, not staring hard, but not looking away. They sat in silence for twenty minutes, by the clock over the orderly’s desk. Mike used the time to study Smith. Although still rail-thin, he was certainly far healthier than when he’d arrived. His skin tone had softened from the sallow gray it had been to a more human pale pink. His eyes were steady, no nervous glances away, no darting stabs upward. Mike had almost made up his mind to leave when Smith spoke.

Makes it hard to jerk off, you know? Smith jerked a thumb at the glass door. He spoke quietly, with a voice full of mischief. He lay on the bed, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

Is that a legitimate complaint? I could arrange for a screen, Mike said easily, as though they had been talking the whole time. He struggled to contain his interest and to mask his face lest he show too eager a countenance and spook Smith back into silence.

Nah. Just trying to lighten the mood.

I see.

Besides, there’s a fairly cute nurse on the night shift. I don’t mind if that one watches, he punctuated his sentence with a leering tone.

What’s the nurse’s name, Mike asked him, on the night shift.

Bob, I think.

McKellan laughed. They grinned at one another. The smile on Smith’s face fell away.

You know who I am? Mike asked.

Well, you’ve got a sense of humor and you’re not concerned about my sexual attentions, so you’re not a shrink.

No. I’m a social worker. We think fucking is healthy.

Smith shot a surprised look at Mike. He smiled again, and then resumed staring at the ceiling. Michael strode over the awkward silence with ease.

Ben Havelmord was right about you.

Oh? How so?

Your eyes. They’re not the same color.

It was true. Smith’s right eye was green as jade, but his left was all white. At first, Mike thought there was no iris in that eye, that maybe he’d lost it as a result of some accident, or birth defect, but the iris was simply too white to be discerned from the rest of the tissue at first glance. The eye seemed empty, as though drained of pigment.

Smith touched the left eye furtively. Yes... that’s right.

You seem surprised, Mike said.

I’m always surprised, Smith said. I wasn’t born like this. It happened a couple years ago. A... an on-the-job accident, you could say.

I’m sorry, Mike said. Do you still have sight in that one?

Oh, it works just fine. It just looks dead, Val said. He closed that eye and rubbed the lid with a fingertip. Feels the same.

Had you forgotten?

Oh... no. Maybe. I just haven’t thought about it in a long time. I haven’t seen my reflection lately. No mirrors in here.

Too dangerous, Mike said.

Yeah, I guess.

You know, we could get you out of this ward if you weren’t interested in killing yourself anymore.

Even if I cared, how could I prove that? I don’t have the chance to kill myself, so I can’t abstain just to prove I won’t.

True. However, if you give me a chance, answer my questions, and let me talk with the other doctors we can make assumptions. If you take part in your treatment, instead of grandstanding like you did with Dr. Havelmord. It was amusing. It was funny. It was also extremely counter-productive and doesn’t impress anyone. It’s not about cooperation, and it’s not about going along to get out. It’s about taking an interest in getting better. Do that, and maybe get you out of here into a regular ward. They have cable, you know, he said in an amazed, child-like tone and Smith laughed again, flashing that quick fading smile.

If that’s my incentive, I’m crazy. I want to beat my own brains out with a television remote control. I’m going to chew off my arms.

Yeah, I know. For me, it’s game shows. I almost went Elvis on my television they announced the game show network. 

I’ve never owned a TV, Smith said.

Curious. It’s fairly rare.

I’ve had other distractions.

Magic?

Smith closed his eyes. Absolutely.

I’ve read your file, I’ve talked with Dr. Havelmord. Mike smiled at his lap, and then up. I’ve watched the videos of your sessions with him several times. You’ve not made a friend there, Mr. Smith.

Call me Val.

Mike paused, recovered, and covered his surprise. He smiled at the small man, prone, arms behind his head, looking at the ceiling.

Val?

Yep.

Is it short for something?

Valentien, the other man replied after a moment’s hesitation. It’s Russian.

Are you Russian? Mike asked.

I have no idea. Given the hair and my eyes... er... eye, I rather think I’m Irish like you.

How’d you get a Russian name?

I haven’t the slightest idea. My mother named me Valentien. She died before I could ask her why.

How did she die?

Val opened his eyes. Poor choices.

Oh. Okay, Mike said. Listen, just let me know if you don’t want to talk about something. I’ll respect your boundaries.

You won’t have much choice. My boundaries are clearly marked in red.

What’s your last name?

Dunne, the skinny man replied.

Dunne?

Yeah, Val said. Valentien Dunne. He spelled it.

Was your father Irish? Mike asked.

I don’t have one, Val said.

You... you don’t have one?

A dangerous glint in Val’s eyes reminded Mike uneasily of a weasel’s. Val’s eyes were not red, but they clearly carried a warning nonetheless. Mike said, You don’t have one. No problem.

Told you, Val said. Boundaries.

In red, yeah. I got it.

A moment had passed before Mike continued. What’s your middle name?

What’s yours?

Arthur, Mike said.

How... mythical.

Yeah, well, Mike said. It was my father’s name.

I don’t know.

Mike frowned. Come again?

I don’t know my middle name, Val clarified.

You don’t have one?

I didn’t say I didn’t have one. But I don’t know what it is, Val said.

Huh, Mike grunted. What about your birth certificate?

No one knows. I doubt if I ever had one. I got a new one when I turned nine. Foster system. Registered with the state and they issued me one. At least they let me keep my name. Dunne, none, Valentien. Birth date unknown. Middle name unknown. Parent’s names, unknown. I was a street kid. I don’t remember where I came from. My mother died when I was three or four. I’ve never had a driver’s license, I’ve never voted, and I’ve never paid taxes.

Mike blinked. That’s... unusual.

Naah, Val said. There’s millions of people who don’t pay taxes.

Mike smiled wanly. I suppose that’s true. But how do you survive? How do you make a living? Shoe salesman?

"You know I was shining