Author: Taxi

“How does everyone know what to do when on the road?” Orpheus asked innocently. “I mean, I’m shocked these machines don’t crash into each other all the time!”

They had been driving for about four hours now, and John Andestinic had been assaulted with such irritating questions as these since the moment they stepped forth from the Mill. Hrktos had excused herself, teleporting away on other business after leaving orders with John to bring the academy’s new ward to the city himself in the analogue fashion. Orpheus had caught sight of the sleek black 1935 Panoramique automobile with its rounded square frame and elegant seats almost immediately and was totally enraptured by a sight the likes of which he had never before seen, though it certainly reminded him in its shape of the horse-drawn buggies upon which the workers came and went in search of work. He was tempted to ask where the devil they would attach their horse when he noticed a veritable hum and a certain emanation of heat in the frontmost box of the carriage, so instead he asked, “What manner of creature propels your car Mr. Andestinic?” Unawares of the consequences of his actions, Andestinic answered freely, explaining that this was his automobile in which he had arrived with Archmage Hrktos and in which they two would now be departing for Canoniç (he pronounced the name of the city in the archaic way of the Orthodoxy, with the added ‘its’ ending, further piquing Orpheus’ curiosity about the man), and all the while explaining that the machine was propelled by an engine fuelled with the very energy which Whitecross Mill and other mills like it were charged with producing. Naturally, this answer led to a multitude of other questions which excited from the young hermit like undiscovered heirlooms just now revealed in a chest of drawers just now exposed after many years of being regarded with indifference; Orpheus examined each question slowly in his mind like a fresh jewel, its hues and refractions enveloping his attention completely, before he ventured forth to ask it of his new guide. Andestinic had been tasked with the harbouring of dewy-eyed recluses many times before, and several had not had such a familiarity with the concept of magic as this one, but nevertheless answering these long unreachable questions seemed distasteful to him in this instance. Perhaps it was on account of his earlier disagreement with his superior (indeed, Orpheus could detect some animosity in Mr Andestinic’s voice whenever Hrktos came up in conversation) or perhaps he was simply tired on account of his years of experience in the field. Still, nothing could stay the young Mr. Whitecross’s curiosity from reaching its realisation.

“Why should the Mill produce this energy, and how does it reach the car?” “Where did all the millers come from?” “Does Canonic really glitter with the light of a thousand stars each night?” “Who built Canon City? When and why?” And many other such questions.

Eventually, as they ventured deeper into the wet, toxic landscape of Canon City’s hinterlands in Thel, Orpheus began to desist from his interrogation in the interest of taking stock of the scenery. He endeavoured to memorise every metre of the region as they passed the grey mounds of sodden mud and the blackened trenches and craters which mired the land as they passed – remnants of recent wars which Orpheus was sure to enquire about at a later time when his priceless memories were not at stake of being left unsealed. He even took pains to note well the interior of the Panoramique’s cab, which was lined with luxurious velvet and dark leather, with wooden panelling and metal detailing to the effect of an almost royal level of comfort which could only have been dreamed about but hours ago. This comfortable interior served well to protect them from the extreme and absurd conditions just beyond the cab’s frame as they passed from the flooded wasteland of the south onto a severely dry mesa which proved equally as barren from the lower region separated by a ledge of only a few metres. The entire terrain of the hinterland, Orpheus was beginning to notice, was remarkably flat, only faltering in its uniformity by some ruined settlement or ancient funeral mound that rose up on the horizon like sleeping gods. As they travelled further north, such landmarks became more frequent, though no less unique, and the terrain began to sport a fashionably pale grass which grasped at the flat soil with greedy roots, its imperial expansion severed only by the sealed road upon which they drove. The road, which Mr Andestinic identified as the Interstate 3, inspired in Orpheus a hope for the grandeur of the city to which it led, as he imagined the broad boulevards which would criss-cross in an orderly grid between strong, stately buildings. Indeed, they soon found themselves driving through the winding streets of a small town named Villymisti, which, though modest, boasted some rather handsome looking brick buildings, including a dignified looking (albeit small) government building. When Orpheus expressed his astonishment at the immense size of the town’s advertised population (roughly ten thousand), John impressed its absolute scarcity in comparison to Canoniç with a smile that spoke volumes.

Further, the town was large enough that one or two automobiles drove its avenues, and once the third had zipped past with more speed than Orpheus had ever imagined possible, his latest question was prompted.

“There are certain rules,” Andestinic began to explain, “which everyone agrees to follow in order to make life easier. You understand?” Naturally, Orpheus asked about who made these rules and why they ought to be followed. “Well,” Andestinic replied, now somewhat more willing to answer questions for whatever reason, “the United States government creates the laws, and if everyone finds them agreeable, then they are enforced by the police. People like me, for example. Anyone who won’t follow the laws gets locked up, you see.”

“And what if they don’t want to be locked up? What if they escape?” Orpheus said, thinking now of the terrible fate of his Father. He was imagining the poor man trapped against his will in the clutches of this Hermeticus villain, and the thought of it was making him like the idea of imprisonment less and less.

John looked across at Orpheus at last, his eyes having been trained on the road as they exited the town and rejoined the highway. “There is a certain point when enough broken rules causes the government to decide someone ought to die for their crimes, son. Men and women who well and truly refuse to follow the rules are executed by the state.”

Orpheus seemed to think about this for a while, watching the cars drive past. Eventually, he turned to the policeman beside him and said, “so the law is only upheld by violence?”

Mr Andestinic chuckled at this, “Straight to the point there!” Then his expression darkened, and he seemed to recede into his thoughts as he drove. “Violence is the only thing the world answers to,” he said softly. He put a cigarette to his mouth and lit it with the end of his wand, clearly ending the conversation.

They drove in silence now, which would never bother Orpheus, whose entire childhood was silent. As much as he wanted to ask more questions, he of all people understood Mr Andestinic’s desire for silence. The overwhelming cacophony of the outside world was already overwhelming his senses, the thrum of engines and the shout of pedestrians distracting him from his peaceful thoughts. Sure, the workers at the mill were rowdy and the millhouse itself was restless in its engine song, but such sounds were familiar, and retreating into the further parts of the manor usually dampened their impact, while the noises of the streets were strange and exciting and inescapable from the cab, padded though it was. Orpheus attempted to focus his attention on his leather seat, counting each stitch that fastened the dermis to its cushion; the sensation was pleasant, and not entirely unfamiliar. He imagined the poor creature from which the skin had come – her name was surely Kern and she had certainly come from somewhere distant, in a bright and pleasant meadow with a white tree on the horizon. Though he had never witnessed a scene like it, he tried to picture what might go on in a place like this, how Kern would chew on that grass and how old Mr Whitecross would coerce her into a barn and stab her with a long, thin knife for the slaughter.

Orpheus jolted upright with a shiver, shaking off the odd thought. John cast a glance over at him.

“Got the heebie jeebies, hey? Come on, let’s get some lunch. I’m running on empty here!”

So, they pulled into a small dirt lot next to a round looking building with a neon sign that read, ‘Anna’s Diner.’ Inside the metal swinging door, the vinyl floors and oily counters were a novel experience for Orpheus, and he smiled with eager anticipation as they settled into a little booth. With the sun now well past its apex, the diner was beginning to quiet from the lunch period, though a few delivery drivers sat at the bar drinking colas. Someone had put on a toe-tapping little tune on the jukebox and the lady behind the counter, presumably Anna, was bobbing her head as she poured another soda for a customer. As he pulled into his side of the booth, Mr Andestinic pointed his wand at the rack of paper menus, calmly speaking the word ‘Ueτæheπ.’ After a moment of hesitation, the menus slid from the counter, apparently already on the brink of falling, and glided, as if by accident, across the diner and onto the table.

Naturally amazed, Orpheus exclaimed through his agape mouth, “Wow! Will I be learning magic like that in Canonic? I always asked Father to show me, but he was always too busy. He’ll be so amazed when he comes back and I can cast spells…” The young man almost trailed off into his own thoughts if he were not eager for more answers.

“Perhaps, but you’ll have to learn some theory first. Most bubblers – that’s a mage by the way – goes through his fair share of theory classes. Can’t get your wand to pop any more than a squeak without it.” Andestinic was speaking through a cigarette now, occasionally glancing up over his reading glasses as he perused the menu. He gave a dastardly smile, lips pulled tight over the white of the cigarette. “Take your pick of the menu kid, today’s meal is on Hrktos.”

In the wild overcorrecting hunger of any starved man, Orpheus resolved to order three mains and a dessert, with a soda to spare. He was nevertheless careful in his selection, taking sober stock of each item. Anna, who had come round from behind the bar to take their order, was patient enough to answer his questions as he ran his finger down the line. Eventually, Orpheus decided on a steak frites, a cucumber salad, a lamb wrap, and an apple pie. The hostess beamed as she marked down the request, finally turning to Andestinic, “My, the young man sure knows how to order!” She returned promptly with Orpheus’s soda and a coffee for John.

“Of course, you could take on any course offered by the Academy,” John was saying. “You don’t have to be a mage…  Perhaps you might train to be an officer? Captain Hall would make a fine officer of you.”

“No,” Orpheus said, barely considering the idea. He took a sip of his soda, and quickly realised why Mr Andestinic had called mages ‘bubblers’ before – the fizz that he had felt when his assailant had cast off (and later when the Archmage had done the same) was identical to what he felt on his tongue as the sweet, dark, almost oily beverage swirled around his mouth. The young man decided he liked this feeling. Eager to get through the theory of magic as quickly as possible so as to begin casting spells, he leant forward and asked, “So, what can you tell me about magic?”

“Hm. Well, I’m no teacher, but my knowledge certainly isn’t stale. Magic isn’t quite what most people imagine it to be; there isn’t one way to approach it. Everyone connects to the aether in different ways, see. You ever been to church?”

Orpheus shook his head and John muttered something profane about Julius Whitecross the heretic. “I have read the Bible, though!” Orpheus put in, coming to his Father’s defence. This seemed to please Mr Andestinic.

“Better than most new students, I suppose. Well, think of it like the Trinity, then. Each of the three connect with God in their own way, right? Thelonius through his heritage, Kathan through his spiritual training, and Ibex through his rigorous study. They each connect to the same thing, but in a way that suits them. Magic is much the same; you have to meet it where it asks of you, but you can do so on your own terms while you’re at it. Understand?”

Before Orpheus could respond, Anna arrived with their meals. The steak frites was glistening with hot oil that enjoined with a sprig of rosemary to produce an aroma of unimaginable proportions; the cucumber looked fresh and crisp, and the entire salad was coated in a dark vinegar that was currently saturating into the pale green veins of the gorgeous fruit; the lamb wrap seemed (at least to Orpheus, whose salivatingly slow appreciation for each dish in this reasonably serviced roadside diner had received a brief glance from Andestinic, who then promptly returned to his sandwich) expertly crafted, each component serving its dutiful role in the production of a far superior whole bound by a thin prison of paper; finally, the apple pie, which was surely to be left last as the dessert portion, had a gentle sprinkling of sugar upon its densely packed surface that surely would resemble an early winter snowfall if he had only ever had the privilege of seeing one. The scene reminded Orpheus momentarily of a pleasant moment in his peaceful childhood when an old lady in bright stripes had brought for him at the house a little blueberry tart sprinkled with the same snowlike sugar that had delighted the senses as much then as the apple pie did now. Still, there was no time to dwell on such memories – the meal was afoot! The ravenous young Whitecross dined methodically, first selecting a cucumber and turning it about on his fork, then taking a well calculated bite out of the wrap (so that he might enjoy the maximum amount of flavour), then carving off a slice of steak and forcing a chip onto the end of the already stuffed fork. After each curated bite, Orpheus announced to Andestinic a name as he would at home with the elder Whitecross. After the third announcement (which happened to be ‘St Johannes of Hallad’) the detective held up his hand.

“Enough, what the devil are you saying, man?!”

Orpheus gave a quizzical look, “why, I’m simply describing what each flavour reminds me of.”

“Well, cut it out. People don’t like when a fella says odd shit at the table, okay?” Andestinic shook his head slightly, as if to rid himself of whatever odd sensation had come over him. His dark curls (now revealed from under his hat now that they were inside) shook with him, eventually settling down like the shadowed leaves of a tree in the night.

The young man shrugged, “I can’t help it if my words give you the hee-bee jee-bees, but fine,” he said, repeating the words he had first heard spoken only an hour ago with stilted inexperience. This elicited a chuckle from Andestinic, only shaking his head again as he returned to his meal.

About an hour further along the road, the landscape changed once again. Orpheus began for the first time to see picturesque meadows of green grass which stretched endlessly, dotted as it was in countless pockets of colourful wildflowers and the occasional house with a wraparound porch. The young recluse gasped aloud when this scene first came into sight, its pleasant border meeting the very edge of the low red mesa which they were just now dismounting on the shallow decline of the Interstate 5. Somehow, not a grain of sand breached the edge of the desert only metres away and Orpheus felt that the atmosphere changed slightly as they passed over the threshold of this new, impossibly nice realm. From time to time, a red column of sand was carried on the wind far above, eclipsing the white clouds like an army of tiny crimson soldiers returning to the city from the bloodshed of war. Still, not even a mote of red was detectable on the surface of the bluish-green plain besides the poppies which littered the field like pools of the spilt life-force of generations past.

Andestinic glanced about him as he drove, perceiving Orpheus’ astonishment with this new, previously unfathomable vista.

“Wait ‘til you see the Windy City; Canoniç will be totally different again to anything anyone has seen.” The tenured detective always took pleasure in this moment, when people finally got to see the beauty of the home he had come to love. It made the bothersome questions worth their while.

“But what is it, Mr Andestinic? How is it possible that these hills aren’t desert?”

“This region, called Efthea, is under the protection of an exceptionally made blessing of meadows. Damn good fizz right there. Rich folk prefer to live here over the deserted wastelands back before. Only problem is that the blessing uses up a heck of a lot of ambient magic in the atmosphere.”

“So, all the energy at the Mill was being processed… for this?”

“In some cases, yes. Most of the magic on the continent sits on the wind like sand. It all ends up in the Windy City eventually,” John said with a shrug.

After an uncharacteristically picturesque few minutes, they passed beyond Efthea (its central town was visible downstream from a river overpass, its glistening brass peaks and blue-capped houses just as resplendent as the surrounds) and up a sloping drive along a low black cliff which saw a return of the same marshy, grey wasteland that was familiar to Orpheus’s eyes. The surface of this terrain, however, was coated in a thin film of red sand that had travelled from beyond the blessed fields on the spirit winds. The effect of this red coating was a sunset-like appearance as the crimson light reflected off the pools of murky peat. From this new vantage at the edge of this wet field (where the occasional rice paddy could be spotted, and a few rice farmers raised their bent heads to observe the veritable queue of automobiles which trafficked along the highway in anticipation of what was ahead), one could observe just above the treeline of the mangroves that densely held back the flat terrain the metal peaks of the towering buildings which bundled together with militant order. Further, as they left the sanctuary of Efthea, the wind returned to the landscape, now stronger than ever, so that the tough frame of the cab began to shudder with animalistic fervour, adding to the epic, almost somatic effect which came over Orpheus as the city of the world came into view. Andestinic leant over the steering wheel and pointed at the spire of one building which reached higher than any other, its golden leaves seemingly touching the clouds like the crowning fronds of a thyrsus, “That one’s the Sauer building, the tallest building in the world.”

He leant back into the driver’s seat, content to enjoy once more Orpheus’ astonishment.

The greatest day of our protagonist’s life began with oranges. Once a week, Father would turn up the radio, let the boy into his office, and give him something new to eat. Father would sit in his chair like a king, his dark wizard robes flowing gently from his shoulders, and he would note down the description his boy would provide of the new sensation. Today, it was oranges.

“It tingles my tongue,” he said plainly, “and it tastes of the shield of Samix, scourge of orchards.”

“Curious.” Father would only ever reply thus. He never asked for elaboration, only held up his metal instruments in the air, and made further notes.

Earlier that morning, the boy had seen the oranges arrive from the vantage of his chamber on the third-floor turret of Father’s estate in Whitecross Mill. The room was meagre, with a thin mattress on a painted metal bedframe and little else worth boasting over. The little barred window from which he saw the oranges arrive looked out on a dirt ‘courtyard’ hemmed in by three other buildings – the black-brick millhouse and the two stout lodgings where all the gruff residents sleep. In the evenings, the foreman, Mr Ramm, would dole out the gruel to the accompaniment of a droning clarinet-song as the engineers and labourers milled about the pale and ruddy well. Someone would leave a tin of the stuff, dark and sludgy as mud, for the boy, and he would begrudgingly eat it in silence. He wasn’t allowed to speak to the other residents who laughed and fought and sung in the yard below; instead, he was left to his books (he only owned three, since he had managed to name them in one of Father’s experiments: the Holy Bible, the Odyssey, and then the Aeneid) and the grim outlook of the dining hall out onto the barren wastelands scattered upon which were dozens of dull bronze filters that captured the magic from the wind, funnelling it into the reservoirs in the mill.

In a word, the boy’s world was grey. Utterly grey. The only respite he received from his monotonous solitude came in the form of Father, who was often absent for months or weeks at a time, always to some new business expedition in some inexplicable town. The boy had once overheard Mr Ramm talk with gentle nostalgia about a place he called Canon City – a huge amalgamation of great civilisations, a complex of countless towering church spires and sprawling institutions and the most spectacular of vistas, being surrounded by acres of meadows and forestry both pleasing to the eye and sustaining of the belly – but when asked, Father simply explained with brevity that no such place could exist. Still, there was never any room for animosity when Father returned from his travels, since he always brought with him some new taste, some exotic texture, or even a pleasant painting on rare occasions. These exemptions to the repeating monochrome found at Whitecross Mill were joyous and simple and never were two gifts the same. Though the gifts could not remain on the premises, at Father’s insistence, they brought with them a whole new outlook to the week that shaped and redoubled every plain and unceasingly ordinary experience from the chrysalis of memory into a renewed creature of splendid memory. Even as he turned his thoughts over in bed, his senses naked to the darkened world of night, the tastes of cumin, the touch of velvet, or the tune of a pianoforte reached out to him from days prior, lifting him up into an ecstatic vision of the moment he first encountered its pleasure, carrying him along its length on wings of sonorous aetheriality as the symphony of his memories harmonised with one another, forming a veritable orchestra of recalled and redoubled phantasms which felt just as real as that initial introduction; he shook hands with the apple-skinned cellist, who shared a face with Perseus; he made jests with the violet-scented bugler, whose soft countenance was like that of Queen Victoria. In such a way he would meet each one of the players in the ensemble that was his youthful memory, taking note of who each member was and whom he had not yet been able to meet. He always seemed to fail to make the acquaintance of the faraway and faceless conductor before falling to sleep or stumbling across another distraction. Life still managed to take its fill of distractions, even when reduced to a dull pallor.

Today, as he returned his metal instruments to their leather case, a scent of vinyl oil, pure and discrete, accumulated about Father. Magic. An expression of recognition seemed to flicker on his wrinkled face before turning to confusion as he glanced at his watch on the table. Then, he became stoic again, his face returning to its typically emotionless neutrality.

“Will you show me some magic today, Father?” The boy stood, stretching his disused legs. He knew that that particular scent usually meant Father’s divinations were at work, and he would leave for his important work.

Father straightened his tie. “No. It seems I have a guest who has just arrived. Wait for me here and I shall return you to your chamber when I return.” With a satisfying flourish, Father turned for the door, his robe trailing in his stead.

Elated at the opportunity (rare as it was) to have Father’s office to himself, our protagonist leapt into Father’s chair. It was thick and wooden – ash probably – and had a velvet cushion on it that reminded him of St Peter. The boy had asked once why certain sensations reminded him of certain words, but Father simply explained that the entire point of the experiments was to find out. In other words, he did not know. The words always demanded to be spoken, and Father always seemed to recognise them himself. He seemed to like the proper names the best: Xanacras the Unbroken, St Andrew Nehpyr, the Archangel Gabriel, and today, Samix, the scourge of orchards. They seemed to satisfy him, though he would only ever crease his wrinkled brow and respond with ‘Curious.’

Now, the hand mirror was taken up from the long, heavy desk upon which instruments and books were strewn. The boy examined his reflection, proudly comparing the resemblances he shared with Father. They had the same hooked nose and grey eyes, but where the boy’s hair was cut short and dark, Father’s was perfectly silver and always slicked with pomade.

Bored, he began to roam the room. It was comfortably circular, with a quiet hearth at one end and a steel spiral of stairs at the other. The walls were lined with a waist-heigh cabinet and thick blue curtains which wrapped the entire space like a parcel. There was a handsome little photograph in black-and-white of Father shaking hands with a woman in a gown holding a wand. She’s probably one of Father’s guests, he thought, though he never met any of them. They were always received downstairs and in the salon, which was off-limits to him. Indeed, he rarely even left the building at all, being provided every basic need from within. Once, many years ago, the sunroom caught fire, and the boy had to flee the house to safety as the millers hurried to douse the space with water from the well. He had giggled and sped about the yard, shouting encouragements and orders to the men just as he’d seen Mr Ramm do as they worked. He smiled faintly to himself at the memory.

Suddenly, a flash of colourful lights seeped through the gaps in the curtains, along with yelling and a sensation all too familiar, yet entirely new – magic, yet this time dark and evil. Then, a malicious silence.

The boy froze. What could be happening out there?

The sound of the main door shocked him to action. In an inexplicable act of desperation, the boy rushed down the stairs into the main hall. Catching a glimpse of his Father’s white hair, the boy’s fears became softened, and he rushed forward into the antechamber.

Only to discover an unfamiliar face before him!

This new man appeared immediately wicked and cruel, his beady eyes and thin lips stretched into an awful smile that struck fear into our protagonist. His black cloak spanned the breadth of the opened door, steaming from several points where a hole was burning through. In his hand was a staff – a tall wooden shaft tipped with horn in the shape of a bell. Father’s staff. Once placid and inspiring, it now seemed malicious in the hand of this stranger.

The boy mustered his courage in his Father’s defence, “That isn’t yours!”

The stranger simply smiled down at him as he closed the door behind him, “You must be Orpheus.”

The moment of becoming was upon our young protagonist. He had never known a name, had never thought to need one. It was ever only the boy and his Father. Words were interchanged and names were not. But words thin and wear out, names are more resilient, stonework in the architecture of memory. In that second, the boy knew the stranger to speak true. He was Orpheus Whitecross, son of Grand Wizard Julius Whitecross. What an odd thing, to learn one’s own name, and to be told it no less, and then to be nameless never more.

Stunned, Orpheus could only nod.

The man approached more closely now. “Your Father has fled my might in the wake of our duel. He will not return.” The words sliced through Orpheus with fearsome violence. No truer words had ever been spoken, nor had they ever harmed so greatly the psyche of this poor lad. Unlike the enunciation of his name, which had been warm and familiar, this statement came icily. “Now, come with me,” the villain before him was saying distantly. He took a step forward, and suddenly Orpheus was snapped out of his trancelike desolation. Something came over him as he scuttled back from this invader, and his grim expression grew into a terrible scowl.

“Don’t come nearer!” Orpheus shouted. Then, “my Father will return! You’ll see…”

The vile man attempted vainly to adopt a gentle countenance as he said “Your Father is being kept away by very powerful magic, boy. If you come with me, I shall explain all. Then, we can—” He paused, his beady eyes trained strangely as if through the closed door, and his expression changed in an instant. After another fearful glance, he began to speak, more hurriedly now, “She is here. Time to go!”

With a raise of the staff and a shout of “Aυλιm!” he lunged for Orpheus, attempting to grab him by the lapel. Orpheus side-stepped just in time to hear a satisfying “zhum” as the offender seemed to pass into incandescent dust before his eyes. The dust dispersed into an indetectable wind, but not before Orpheus could steal from it the taste of green apple, rosemary, and an unfamiliar flavour. The name Hermeticus reached his mouth, but could not breach it, for it was incomplete, held back like water in a dam from breaching on account of that third unknown component which prevented him from discovering the full identity of the man who would now become his sworn enemy and sole quarry.

Orpheus fell back, broken. Where could Father have gone? Where could this Hermeticus character have disappeared to? Surely Julius Whitecross would return home to his son and to his Mill? But the vile conviction with which that man spoke… No! He mustn’t believe him. He couldn’t! Father would return, all that Orpheus need do was wait.

Orpheus was interrupted from his resolutions by the hurried appearance of a woman poised for battle, silver staff held upright. She wore a bright red dress with a little black jacket, and her grey hair was coiffed perfectly. Orpheus realised he recognised her from the photograph with Father, and a name sprung to his lips, “Vania Hrktos.”

Her concerned expression softened and she smiled pleasantly as she stood upright, flattening the front of her dress with her other hand. She spoke with a strange accent, similar to Father’s in some ways but wholly different in others, seeming totally artificial such as those put-on voices on the radio, though it came naturally to her elegant and elderly tone. “Why yes! You, dear boy, must be Orpheus? I understand your Father had had something of a scuffle.” She knelt down, placing a kind hand on the young man (for indeed, a young man he had become, a boy no more). Vania seemed to have comprehended instantly scene as she crossed the shattered threshold of Julius Whitecross’ estate, though her old friend had never shared anything regarding his son before. Still, this morning of the 24^th of Quattor 1940, she received a premonition that Julius would suffer terrible and that an innocent would need her help. So, she rushed across the countryside to discover his fate.

All this she reported to the person on the telephone in Julius’ salon. It was a round black box with numbers on the front which seemed to put her in contact with someone called ‘operator’ (what a strange name!). Still, Orpheus was in such a state of shock that he barely registered the impermissible entry into this previously restricted room (which, admittedly, was in a sore state following the earlier duels, charred spots marking the green wallpaper, the fine furniture upended and shredded).

Soon, another man entered the room, which made Orpheus jump. Vania reassured him it was alright, introducing him to Civil Enforcer John Andestinic. It all seemed such a rush to young Orpheus, who had never spoken to so many people in his life, let alone in the span of an hour! He decided that Father would not be approve of his meeting so many people but determined that all would be forgiven if he could be rescued and returned home. He weighed up whether he should ask them for assistance in this task as he watched Vania and John discuss something at the window across the room. John was a rustic looking man with a dark shadow of a beard and a grey trenchcoat. His black, gnarled wand was thicker and shorter than Father’s pale and simple wand of antique length, which Hrktos had just before bestowed upon Orpheus. He eyed the silver inlay as he considered Vania’s offer to him: allow her to assume control of the Mill in Julius’ stead, join her in Canon City, and she would teach Orpheus magic. The thought was almost too much to manage! Canon City is real? He thought. I can learn magic like Father? Just the name of Canon City brought with it a plethora of imagined images to Orpheus as he pictured its grand streets and lofty buildings and it seemed still unimaginable to him that such a place could be real and that he might soon see it. But at the same time, the thought of leaving the Mill seemed an impenetrable barrier, not simply for the reason that Father might return in search of him, nor even that he might disapprove, but that the idea of living anywhere but his home was so foreign to him that he could not even fathom what might await beyond. Orpheus had long ago abandoned the dream that all prisoners nurse, resolved to spend his time immersed in memories of half-experienced days.

Mr Andestinic seemed in agreement about this. He was saying so quite clearly to Vania, “Archmage, I must object; the boy’s Father would not approve!” The pair spoke in hushed tones, but it was evident that Vania was being deliberately unsubtle. This was important enough for Orpheus to hear, even if John disagreed, as he did.

“Look at him, John. Orpheus has been held captive here his whole life. We have a duty of care now to protect him, and we can do that best from Canon City. Besides, he must be around 17 and a citizen of the United States while we’re at it. He has a right to freedom and a proper education, whether we like it or not.”

“So, it’s up to the kid then, whether he wants to join us in the windy city?” John asked, turning to face Orpheus at last. He spoke with a similar ‘Transcontinental’ accent to Vania, but there remained, detectable under the artificial speech patterns of the city, a rich, foreign manner of speech that reminded Orpheus of one of the Mill’s engineers from years back, who had apparently travelled from the east. “Whaddaya say ‘Pheus? Looking to ignite the spark of wisdom?”

Orpheus Whitecross, for the first time in his life, was faced with a genuine decision: to discard this little, false world for the sake of the (more) real, much larger world beyond, despite his Father but equally in service of him; or to remain at home, obeying his Father but forever wondering; in other words his decision was this: whether to live or to die, but in that life was the little death of what was before, and in that death was the false life of shadow and self-assurance. He considered this all deeply, weighing up the teachings of the Bible and his other books. On the one hand, a man must obey his father, but on the other, he must protect his family’s honour. Which was the right one? He considered the redemption of Thelonius (the Christ-figure of Orpheus’ Bible), how he had thrown off the mantle of emperor and crucified it – his own little death – in the name of casting off the demiurge of his violent life, taking up his new life as a holy man. Yet he also considered Odysseus, who left his home in the name of a promise; had he not wandered for many years, losing everything, only to return home to a place fully metamorphosed not just by time but by his absence? Then, he considered Aeneas. He had recognised that his home was destroyed, that his life waited for him beyond. So, he brought his father with him, and met his destiny in the great unknown, ever servile to his family and his faith. Orpheus stared down at his Father’s wand, his wand, its long shaft slightly longer than his thigh, and it seemed longer than he could possibly bear. But he could not deny that it was his destiny to bear, just as it was his destiny to return the wand to its rightful owner. He would not be leaving Julius Whitecross and his Mill behind, for Orpheus would be carry it all with him to this great, urban frontier.

Orpheus smiled up at the two Wizards before him. It was a rebellious smile, an eager smile, a resolute smile. Though it felt unfamiliar to him, though it pained him from lack of practice, he smiled, for he knew his destiny awaited him in Canon City. “Let me get my books,” he said. “Then we can go.”