“Once upon a time, there was a dead man.”
“Compelling start,” the corpse remarks, and you swivel to point the shovel at it.
“If you interrupt me, I won’t tell the story. So shush.”
It scowls, but mimes zipping its lips, settling back.
You turn back to your shoveling. “Once upon a time, there was a dead man. He was clever, and quick, and talented, and, in the end, it had not been enough.”
The dead man’s name was Jack. He’d always joked that eventually he’d change his last name, become Jack Alltrades. He’d never gotten around to it.
And now he was dead, and that was really inconvenient, because he still had things to do, but he wasn’t that dead–he could still breathe, talk, walk, fuck, he even looked alive, but he knew, knew in his heart of hearts, that he was dead.
See, there are three selves–body, mind, and soul–and we all know that if you lose one of them, well, you die. Jack still had his body, Jack still had his mind, but…as far as he was concerned, the soul he had was no longer his.
No, it wasn’t a deal with a demon, it wasn’t a deal with the fae, it wasn’t finding religion–or losing it, for that matter. It was just no longer his. He’d had one all his life, yes, but this one–this one no longer matched who he was. It was a matter of days, at most, before it overwhelmed him.
Now, everyone knows wizards don’t exist. Sure, there are occultists, there are people with knowledge, there are people with talents that science can’t be explained. Jack didn’t know this, though, so there is a wizard in this story.
He traveled three days’ drive, across the country to a small island in a lake on a small island off the coast of Washington, to the door.
I know where it is. I’ve been there. I’ve stood on the threshold. I’ve knocked, even. But it would never open for me, and it would never open for you.
Jack, however, believed in magic.
So the wizard opened the door.
I will not describe the Harper. I’ve never seen her, anything I said would be guesswork. But she saw Jack, and Jack saw her, and the Harper tilted her head and said “little thing, why do you seek my aid? A love potion? A spell to cover a murder? A rune to keep you safe?”
Jack hesitated, wringing his hands on the doorstep. “I need your help.”
“I could tell.” She smiled invitingly. “Come in, young man. Warm your hands by the fire, and tell me of your woes.”
So Jack did just that. He hung his coat and hat by the door, sat by the fireplace and warmed his hands as the Harper made them tea, sat down in her rocking-chair and stared into him, and the words spilled out of him like a waterfall.
“I’m not myself, Harper, I’m not who I used to be. I can feel it, deep in my soul, that it isn’t mine anymore. I’m–I’m on borrowed time. I know how this goes. I know how it can overwhelm, how I’ll become someone else, how I’ll stop being me and change.”
The Harper simply tilted her head, the way any woman of her persuasion would, and smiled. “Would that be so bad?”