The Wizard
Lara Manning sat at a table in the Seaview Mall Starbucks, drinking a venti double mocha latte with a dollop of sweetened whipped cream. The pricey beverage was a bit extravagant for the unemployed young woman. She should have gotten a regular coffee at Dunkin' and saved herself some money, but Lara had had an emotionally exhausting day looking for work—attending two job interviews and filling out a dozen applications—and she felt she deserved something special for a treat.
While she relaxed and savored the rich, creamy chocolate/coffee brew, she indulged in a little harmless people-watching.
The patrons of Seaview Mall could be divided into specific categories. There were the ever-present teenagers who went to the mall after school or on weekends to hang out with their friends and rarely spent money except in the food court. Then there were the harried young mothers, pushing strollers and tugging reluctant toddlers by the arms. Often one or more of their children were crying or screaming and attracting glares of disapproval from other customers and mall employees. In stark contrast to these two categories, there were the no-nonsense shoppers. Primarily professionals and businessmen and -women, they knew exactly what they wanted and where to find it. Conservatively dressed and groomed, they walked directly to the item, took it to the check-out counter, paid for it with a platinum credit card, quickly exited the mall and hurried to their late-model BMW or Lexus in the parking lot.
A fourth group, which surprisingly had much in common with the teenagers, was comprised of senior citizens. However, while they were frequently seen on weekdays, they rarely appeared on weekends when the mall was crowded. Like the teens, they viewed the mall as a place for social gatherings and rarely spent money, preferring to window-shop or simply sit on a bench in the center court.
One elderly man, in particular, caught Lara's attention. She guessed he was about eighty, perhaps a little older. Unlike many men of advanced years, he stood straight and tall, the picture of good health and vitality. What made him stand out amongst the other senior citizens was his long white beard. It was far longer than any beard she had ever seen, extending well below the man's waist. Yet despite his abundant whiskers, there was nothing about the old man to suggest Santa Claus. He was thin, not plump; his beard was narrow rather than full; and his countenance was more stern than jolly. Lara thought he would be a natural at a Renaissance Faire, dressed in a long wizard's robe and tall conical hat embellished with kabalistic symbols.
Yes, the young woman decided, he is definitely more of a Dumbledore or a Gandalf than a Kris Kringle.
The elderly, bearded man had made such an impression that later that night he appeared to her in her dreams.
"You're the gentleman I saw in the center court of the Seaview Mall today," the dream version of Lara said.
"Yes, I am," the man replied with a pronounced British accent. "You, young lady, have keen powers of observation."
"I should have put that on my resume," the unemployed woman laughed. "Or maybe I'll just use you as a reference from now on."
"This is no joking matter. I've come to you in your dreams for a reason."
"You're telling me that you're here of your own volition and not because my subconscious mind put you here? What are you, an octogenarian Freddy Kruger?"
"I am Malgos the Great, apprentice to Merlin and mentor of Mordred."
"Mordred? As in the son of King Arthur and Morgause?"
"Ah! So you are familiar with Mordred and his parents?"
"I've always had a penchant for the tales of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. I also know that Mordred betrayed and murdered his father at the Battle of Camlann, thus bringing an end to Camelot."
"Sadly, young Mordred did not turn out as I'd hoped he would," the old man admitted sheepishly. "He let his ambition get the better of him. And because he turned to evil, everyone accused me of teaching him the Black Arts."
"How unfair," Lara replied sympathetically. "Why blame you for his actions? How could you have possibly ...?"
Before the dreamer could complete her question, however, the alarm clock on her night table started buzzing, its jarring sound rudely awakening her from her slumber.
* * *
Lara gave little thought to the dream the following day, but she did recall the mysterious old man several times. It was no wonder she dreamt of him in connection with Merlin and Mordred; after all, he looked remarkably like a wizard out of Arthurian England.
That night there was a continuation of the dream.
"You've come back," she observed.
"I have business with you that I failed to complete last night."
"Business? Good! I need a job. I hope it pays more than minimum wage."
"There is something you must do," the old man announced, ignoring her attempts at humor. "You are to write a book about me."
"But I can't do that."
"Yes, you can. You were quite good at creative writing in school."
"But I never took on anything more ambitious than a short story."
"Don't worry, my dear. A book isn't much more than a short story with a lot of filler."
"There's more to it than that, I'm afraid," Lara insisted, but the old man brushed her objections aside.
"Look at the practical aspects of my proposal. You are unemployed, and you don't have much money in the bank. If you don't find a job soon, you'll be in serious financial trouble. I will help you get through the next several months while you write the book. Afterward, you will make a great deal of money once it's published."
"Do you have any idea how difficult it is for an unknown author to find a publisher? There are probably millions of talented writers around the world who'll never see their work in print. Honestly, I think I'd have a better chance of winning the lottery than of getting a book published."
The old man laughed again.
"But you have an advantage over all those other would-be authors."
"What advantage is that?"
"Me."
* * *
Along with store circulars, advertisements and bills, Lara received a registered letter in the mail, notifying her that she had won the grand prize in a contest of which she had no memory of entering: a laptop computer, a printer and twenty-five thousand dollars in cash. Ironically, one of the sponsors of the contest was Wizard Wipes Cleaning Products.
What an odd coincidence! It's as though this prize fulfills the promise Malgos made to me in last night's dream.
She eyed the computer screen suspiciously after carefully following the set-up instructions. Since Microsoft Office had been pre-installed by Dell, she clicked on the Word icon. Immediately Merlin, the animated Office Assistant in the guise of a wizard, appeared.
Another coincidence? she wondered.
"This is ridiculous!" she chastised herself. "It was only a dream—or, to be precise, two dreams. There is no wizard. I simply saw an old man with a Guinness Book of Records beard, and my imagination ran away from me. And as for winning twenty-five thousand dollars and a computer? Just lucky, I guess!"
Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Lara gingerly placed her hands on the keyboard and began to type. The day wore on, and she found herself lost in the fantasy world she was creating around the image of the bearded old man. Before long, the character named Malgos, the protagonist of the tale, began to come to life and take on a distinct personality.
Maybe she could write a book. Hadn't J.K. Rowling been out of work when she penned her first Harry Potter novel? Between the prize money and her unemployment checks, Lara could, if she watched her spending, last at least eight months to a year without finding another job. But finances aside, did she have any chance of getting the work published should she complete it? Only time would tell.
Weeks went by, and soon the plot started to take shape. Malgos, not nearly as well-known as his teacher, Merlin, was nonetheless a force to be reckoned with in Camelot. His exploits included helping brave knights rescue damsels in distress, outwitting fire-breathing dragons and counseling King Arthur in times of crisis.
As the book progressed, Lara began to imagine herself as the author of a series of bestselling, well-loved novels set in the world of fantasy and magic. She could even envision her books being brought to life on the silver screen with a great veteran actor like Anthony Hopkins playing Malgos. It might be as popular a movie franchise as Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Six months later, the first draft of Malgos the Great was finished.
"Now, what do I do?" she asked, staring at more than seven hundred double-spaced pages that had come out of her Canon printer.
With a heavy sigh, she turned off her computer, put the printed pages in an expanding folder and went to bed, promising herself she would begin searching for a publisher in the morning.
* * *
As Lara sipped her second cup of coffee, she went to her desk and found a magazine lying open atop the folder that contained her manuscript.
"I don't remember reading any magazine last night," she said as she picked it up and examined the cover. "I don't even recall buying this."
It was a recent issue of a literary journal, one she was not familiar with. The magazine had been left open to a page of advertising. Prominent among the ads was one for Mr. R.M. Geddon, a literary agent with offices in New York, Boston, Los Angeles, London, Paris and Tokyo.
The novice author, who had no knowledge of the publishing world, decided it might be best to have an agent represent her. But would Mr. Geddon take her on as a client? She supposed that would depend on whether or not he liked her work. She spent the day preparing a synopsis of her book and writing several drafts of the cover letter. Finally, she selected one and sent the summary to the agent.
Four days later, she received a reply. Mr. Geddon himself phoned to set up an appointment to meet with her at his Boston location later that same afternoon. The agent, it seemed, was most anxious to read her manuscript.
* * *
Lara entered the spacious office on Tremont Street, surprised to see that no one sat at the reception desk.
"Hello?" she called.
"Ah, Miss Manning," the agent said as he stepped out of the darkness of an unlit hallway.
There was something about Mr. Geddon that caused the young woman to feel undeniably uncomfortable. Perhaps it was the disturbing intensity in his green-eyed gaze.
He's got snake's eyes, she thought. Cold-blooded, calculating and cruel.
The writer quickly brushed her foolish, unfounded first impression aside, fearing that her dabbling in fantasy for the past several months might be causing her to lose her grip on reality.
"Come in and sit down, Miss Manning," the agent said, indicating a large conference room to the right of the reception area. "I can't wait to read your manuscript."
She took a seat at the long mahogany table and handed the printout of her book to Mr. Geddon, who sat across from her. The agent eagerly scanned the pages.
"Very good," he said, reading selected chapters at random. "Excellent."
After forty minutes, he put the manuscript down, smiled and announced, "I know just the company that will publish this."
Lara let out a sigh of relief.
"Do you really think so?"
"I don't have the slightest doubt."
Three weeks later, Lara returned to Boston to sign the contract authorizing Excalibur Press to print and distribute her book.
"Just sign here," the agent said, "and you'll be a very rich woman."
When the nub of Mr. Geddon's fountain pen touched the paper, his client saw through her agent's office window a bolt of lightning rent the sky. And as she dotted the "i" in Manning, a loud clap of thunder echoed through the room.
"It's done," Mr. Geddon announced cryptically, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction.
"Excuse me?" Lara said.
"My work. It's done."
* * *
Lara's delight at having her book published was dampened by the evening news report. According to CNN's news anchor, a deadly virus was spreading through much of the former Soviet Union, an earthquake claimed thousands of lives in South America and there was a terrorist attack at a U.S. embassy in the Middle East.
"I don't know why I bother watching the news," she said and pressed the power button on her remote control. "It only depresses me."
"Don't you want to enjoy our moment of triumph?" a voice asked from the shadows behind her. "I think we ought to have a celebratory glass of champagne."
Lara uttered a startled scream and reached out a trembling hand for the telephone.
"Don't be afraid. It's only me."
She stared at the clean-shaven old man. She was certain she had seen him before, but she didn't know where or when.
"Who are you?" she asked fearfully. "How did you get in?"
"You don't remember me. I'm crushed."
He smiled mischievously at her.
"You gave birth to me—in a way. Rebirth, to be more precise."
"Malgos, the wizard in my dreams, the old man I once saw in the mall."
"In the flesh," he said with a theatrical bow. "Finally. After all these centuries."
"What are you?"
"One of the most powerful wizards ever to raise a wand and cast a spell. Oh, I know you think I'm nothing more than a figment of your imagination. Either that or a senile old man. Right?"
Lara did not deny it.
"You're wrong on both accounts. I'm a living, breathing man, and I'm in full control of my faculties. I was Merlin's finest apprentice. I knew as much about the art of magic as my teacher did—more in fact. He and I differed in our ultimate goals, though. Merlin wanted to establish a fair and honorable society of men. He nurtured young Arthur and helped him create a utopia in Camelot: a kingdom led by a wise and just monarch and his loving queen, where the knights of the realm were all pure of spirit, mind and purpose. Blah, blah, blah."
"And you didn't share his lofty ideals, I take it?" Lara asked.
"No. I didn't believe in might for right but in might for power. What self-respecting wizard would be content to sit on the sidelines and watch mortal men aspire to greatness? I had no desire to witness the beginning of an age of reason and light. I loathed his dream of a time of peace and prosperity for man."
"What was wrong with that?"
"It was boring!" Malgos laughed wickedly. "It was like a sporting event where neither team scores any points, a monotonous existence without challenge, victory or defeat. I didn't want to be a mere educator; I wanted to be a participant, a player in the game. So, I left Camelot and built a mighty fortress in Glastonbury. From there, I entered into fierce competition with Merlin, a sort of chess match of the minds, if you will. Oh, it was impressive! With each move my former teacher made, I counter-moved and checked him."
"What exactly did you do?"
"In effect, I introduced a serpent into his paradise. First, I bewitched Guinevere and Lancelot into falling in love and betraying Arthur. Next, I cast a spell on Morgan le Fay and her nephew, Mordred. Then, I had only to sit back and watch Merlin's world slowly unravel. Eventually, however, my former mentor became aware of my interference, and he put a curse on me."
"How is that possible? You said you knew more about magic than he did."
"The devious old wizard caught me unaware," Malgos explained defensively. "I was banished from this plane of existence until such time as a scribe brought me back to life through the magic of the written word. That's why my name is mentioned nowhere in the chronicles of Camelot."
"My book brought you back to life?" Lara asked with disbelief.
"Yes. You have resurrected me, and I am as powerful now as I was then."
Malgos pointed to the television.
"You see, I have already begun my work here."
"What work is that?"
"The virus in Russia, the earthquake in South America and the terrorist attack in the Mid-East. And those acts are only the beginning. Merlin is no longer here to stop me."
"And what happens to me now?"
"Your book—or rather, our book—will become a huge bestseller. Fame and fortune will be your reward, just as I promised. As for me .... You'll have to excuse me; I have to go now, my dear. I have a very important date in Washington."
Suddenly, Malgos was gone, leaving behind a wisp of smoke and a faint burning odor.
The author fell back onto her living room chair, exhausted, as though she had run a marathon or scaled a high mountain.
"What have I done?" she cried.
Although innocent of any conscious wrongdoing, Lara Manning nonetheless felt the weight of guilt bear down upon her. She had hoped to create an enjoyable work of fiction, light entertainment, a landscape of fantasy into which a reader could temporarily escape reality. Instead, she had unknowingly committed a grievous error. Like the fabled Pandora, she had opened a forbidden box and unleashed a menacing evil on an unsuspecting world.
A wizard once asked Salem to write a book. What he wrote was The Cat in the Pointed Hat."
