The Scion of Wizards
by Walt Hicks

I stood alone in the swamp, staring at the huge thunder head looming ominously in the dark western sky. A sudden jagged streak of lightning ripped through the cloud mass, the hoary wrinkles on the face of a sorceress’ frozen corpse. I was searching the skies in vain for the omen, the sign that had to be there. A wet, rancid stench hung like the
brooding pall of death in the thick air, and night creatures great and small made their trilling, buzzing, growling, chirping noises in the dark. None dared come near me, not even the mosquitoes, because they feared me.

Chanting the Words of Release, I carefully removed the ancient hat, gingerly folding it away into my Star Wars knapsack. I was naked beneath the threadbare robe, in accordance with the Old Ways. I trudged disheartened down the worn path winding through the swamp to the clearing and my bicycle. Another night and the End of Time was still
on, the relentless, mysterious mechanics of the Universe unfolding as they must.

It had been said (by Merlin, I think), that “woe be onto the Generation whose Salvation lies in the Hands of the Young.”

Well, I’m only twelve, but I do have an Old Soul. That’s what Mom and Dad always say.

I wasn’t told that I was One of the Descendants, no one came to train or instruct me; I was born with the knowledge from the generations that I had been chosen (by forces still unknown) to be the Guardian at the Gate, so to speak. This knowledge comes as a birthright, that and the power – oh, the power!

I could not only walk at one week old, I could also levitate – myself and others – and possessed the wisdom of my ancient predecessors, if not the honed sense and control of the powers. I kept my talents in check, of course; not even my parents realize the scope and range of what I am capable of at a mere decade in corporeal. As I said, my soul
is considerably older, older perhaps than time itself.

Time – that which goes on endlessly, in permanence, or so you have been led to believe. Unfortunately, there are forces that are eternally trying to terminate our version of being. They exist in a dimensional plane just a hair’s breadth away from our own. There are times you might even see them, out of the corner of your eye, flitting by impertinently. You may feel their breath upon your neck, causing the hair to stand upright. They are the cause of the abrupt drop of
ambient temperature in any given room at any given time for no apparent reason. Some of them make you feel uneasy without cause. Over the centuries, the superstitious have called them by many names – demon, vampire, rakshasa, ghost, lycanthrope, poltergeist, monster, alien. It has been theorized that some of them have become so powerful that they are able to induce events such as car, train, and airplane crashes, earthquakes, floods, fires, even war. That, I don’t know. All I do know is that sometimes natural and celestial events conspire to cause the veil-thin astral patina to nearly vanish entirely, allowing these creatures free access into our world. If at some?point, they are all able to get in, they would most assuredly destroy each and every one of us if presented half a chance.

Enter the Wizards.

Armed with the Spells and Enchantments of the Ages, we stand guard, awaiting those moments in Earth Time when the fragile barrier between realities becomes worn thin. You may have noticed (and all these things were foretold by various previous Wizards like Saint John, Nostradamas, Edgar Cayce, and Jeanne Dixon) the increased frequency of
floods, earthquakes, fires, hurricanes, planetary strife, armed conflict, and a seeming mass insanity among the people of earth. These are all signs, possible portents of the End of Time. Wizards are always placed near some fissure, fracture or weak point in the Barrier. It’s hard to believe that in the tiny Central Florida town of Lake Obsidian something this monumental could be staging itself. But, we live in very dangerous, very unbelievable times, I am afraid.

A screeching barn owl shattered my dark reverie. I whirled, and saw the massive night creature framed in a blood-red full moon. The Sign. False wisdom cloaked in death would bring on the River of Crimson, unleashing the demons into our world. I just had to figure out where the scout creature was hiding itself.

Tired, I mounted my ten-speed and head for home. Twice on the way home, I ducked Lake County Sheriff Glenn Sharkey on patrol (it was past two a.m., after all), nearly revealing myself to him in my excitement at unraveling one piece of the complex, ominous puzzle. One thing a Wizard must maintain is his concentration. I nearly dropped my
Cloak of Invisibility when the Sheriff’s patrol car headlights swept across the Old River Road.

I snuck into my bedroom window and slept an uneasy, nightmare-fraught slumber.

The next morning, I rose as usual, quickly, quietly consuming a bowl of Honey-Nut Cheerios (I had finally graduated from Fruity Pebbles – I still have trouble discerning what is proper for me as a twelve-year-old). My ‘mother’ eyed me worriedly, and my ‘father’ cleared his throat, following her light kick to his shin beneath the table.

“Everything okay, Champ?” he asked, perfunctorily ruffling my hair. “You look tired.”

I smiled my charming twelve year old smile. “Yes sir.” I grimaced. Almost too polite. I still wasn’t quite over chivalry. “Dad, who’s the smartest person you know?”

“Well, definitely not our Hillbilly ex-president -- ‘Ah feels yopain’,” he mimicked reasonably well, garnering a withering look from Mom. “Uh, well, son . . . there are many great scientists, doctors, but in my book, Bill Gates. He’s like a total geek-a-tron, but he’s rich and pretty damn smart, I’d say!”

Mom gave up and took the ball. “Honey, is this for a school paper?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Well, Travis, that science teacher of yours – Mr. Monroe – he was quite a highly honored student in his day. He graduated cum ma sum laude, and could have done almost anything he wanted, but he decided instead to devote his life to teaching. Quite noble, I should say.”

With his fist, Dad rubbed his snout vigorously, the universal – and quite timeless, actually – symbol for a ‘brown noser’. I giggled in spite of myself, and Mom scowled.

But just then a primeval, ice-cold, End of Time kind of shiver ran through me. Of course, she was right. The scout demon would have to be very nearly under my nose, otherwise why would I have been placed here?

Mr. Monroe. The Harbinger of the End of the World. The End of Time.

“Honey?”

“Champ?”

I snapped from my Ancient Revery. The weight of the Wisdom of the Ages slipped from my youthful face, and I smiled like a grim death mask.

“I’m fine,” through gritted teeth. “Honest.”

The hours dragged until fifth period Biology under the tutelage of a Demon.

Mr. Monroe smiled at me, brilliant eyes boring into me much longer than they normally did. He knew! Somehow, he knew! I was unsure of just how long the creature had inhabited the shell everyone else knew as Mr. Miles Monroe, or if he had actually been born into the role from the beginning. It didn’t really matter. I had to stop him. Somehow.

I warily took my seat, feeling my gorge rise nauseatingly. Mr. Monroe walked up and down the aisles like a calculating predator. I smelled the fetid stench of a slaughter house wash over me as he passed my desk and paused. He slowly turned to face me.

The smiling face inched closer and closer to mine, the putrid, rotting breath nearly overwhelming me. Mr. Monroe’s smile slowly split the entire breadth of his head, and the maw opened wide enough to consume me – and my desk. On thickly veined stalks, his bright blue eyes rose over the shark-like mouth, and he eyed me with evil amusement. He
laughed condescendingly and a shower of fat, writhing maggots spewed over me from his dark, expansive gullet, and aghast, I brushed them frantically from my hair and body until they covered the tiled floor in a squirming blanket. I jumped from my seat and stumbled horrified to the back of the room. I tripped over my own book bag and sprawled onto the floor to the great amusement of my classmates. I squeezed my tearing eyes shut then reopened them. Mr.
Monroe had returned to his ‘normal’ appearance and he regarded me mock quizzically. ? He winked conspiratorially and whispered, “Gotcha.”

Round one, Demon: 1, Wizard: zilch.

All that evening, I tried to prepare myself for the final confrontation that was near -- very near. There were two earthquakes that day, killing more than six thousand people on opposite sides of the globe. Two jet air liners exploded over Jerusalem with mass casualties on the ground. There were three separate incidents of school violence resulting in
fifteen deaths, in three separate states of the U. S., which plotted on a map, formed a perfect isosoles triangle. Our President made a speech about accountability, and how the American people should be prepared for siege.

They – the world, in fact -- should be prepared for much worse than that . . . for the Demons have gathered at the Gate. With a twelve-year-old Wizard the only obstacle.

That night there would be no sleep, only intense meditation in preparation for what had to be done. I had performed this Ritual countless times before in a hundred different lifetimes, but never in the form of one so young. The Wisdom of the Ancients notwithstanding, I still possessed the fears and nightmares of a twelve-year-old.

The sunrise gold-plated my orderly room, and I saw my reflection in the mirror – sitting naked on the floor, back erect, flowing mane of white hair and a shock white beard. And my tired, ancient eyes. I blinked and the Travis-me returned, a scared-to-death kid. I showered, dressed, and put my hat, robe and staff into my Star Wars knapsack. The characters on the bag stared at me hopefully.

My ‘parents’ were quite obviously worried about me, and I only spoke a few terse words. Before I left, I stopped and turned back toward them. I felt my eyes glistening – I had truly come to love them – and a solitary tear escaped from my left eye. It was the Symbol of Approaching Conclusion.

“Guys, you’re the best. I really love you.”

I turned and left them in their speechlessness.

The hours approaching the showdown dragged like separate eternities – take it from one who knows. Finally, I settled uneasily in my familiar desk in fifth period Biology. There was an anxious, staccato-charged energy hanging heavily in the air. The class regarded me nervously, for once. Mr. Monroe entered the classroom.

He too could feel the volatile tension in the room. The Demon smiled. “Good afternoon, class,” he said mockingly. His tongue, covered with oozing sores, flicked across the width of the room, capturing an errant housefly. With the sound of a cracking whip, the horrific appendage slithered back into his mouth and he slurped down the insect with glee.
A half-dozen greasy maggots dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Monroe,” replied everyone but me. I retrieved my trusty staff from my knapsack and stood in the center of the aisle.

“Well, well. Mr. Goat-Boy Travis has brought something for show and tell,” he growled. Some of the class tittered with glee. Others were stunned into silence.

“Demon,” I said in a very old, very tired voice. “In the Name of the Ancients, I banish ye to the Cold Hell of the Nether Side of the Barrier.” At that, I unleashed a crackling bolt of eldritch energy from the staff. Everyone dove beneath their desks.

The ancient power caught Mr. Monroe just under his right eye, disintegrating nearly half of his head. His hideous tongue writhed like a serpent, encircling the ruined eyeball, consuming it in a single gulp. Mr. Monroe’s head smouldered.

“Not nearly good enough, Wiz,” the Demon rejoined, then threw a ball of fire at me. I leapt across my desk, narrowly avoiding being incinerated by the furnace-hot blaze. Unfortunately, Lucy Denver, sitting directly behind me, was instantly cremated where she crouched beneath her desk.

I quickly fired two more bursts from the Staff, heading toward the door. In good conscience, I couldn’t continence any more of my classmates being killed in this battle. One shot was good, and the Demon’s claw-ended left arm fell to the floor. I felt sick when I heard the crackling fireballs consume two more of my unfortunate schoolmates.

Dashing down the hallway, I ducked into a broom closet and locked the door.

That was about half an hour ago. I can hear the Mr. Monroe Demon outside, pacing the hallways, slaying mercilessly the inopportune straggler, and roaring like the EndTime Beast that he truly is. In a moment, I will catch my breath, muster my courage, and face him one final time, for the Fate of the World. I find, curiously, that I wish I could have
been the little boy, the young man, the adult that I might have been in this life. No matter. The Beast is at the Door. Here and Now.

******************

Sheriff John Glenn Sharkey, a former Navy SEAL who had become burned out from constant exposure to death and destruction, had settled with his family in quiet Lake Obsidian some years before. When he got the call at 2:30 that afternoon -- shots fired at the Lake Obsidian Middle School -- he could scarcely believe it. Probably just fireworks,
he kept telling himself. Until he wheeled his patrol car into the parking lot.

Students and teachers were gathered in the east end of the lot, in shock, horrified. Sharkey directed them away to relative safety behind the parked school buses. Then, levering his Glock Nine auto loader in front of him, he kicked open the front door.

The remnants of a panicked exodus from the school were apparent. Papers and books strewn about, knowledge abandoned in the face of fear. Sharkey saw the shadow of two figures in the hallway next to the broom closet, the door
swinging ajar like a dark and hungry maw.

Sharkey scarcely recognized the Biology teacher, Miles Monroe. Half his face had been blown away, his left arm was dangling from a shred of flesh, and there was a huge hole in the center of his chest. Across from him, Sharkey saw some kid he didn’t recognize, a large caliber revolver a few inches away from his clenched left hand.

“Jesus Christ. Not here. Not fucking here,” he breathed aloud in the blood heavy air. The kid had a dark mottled bruise similar to a powder-burn on his right temple.

The Sheriff removed a handkerchief from his pant’s pocket, wrapped it around the pistol and tucked it into his waist band. He quickly made a nerve-wracking tour through the class rooms, searching for survivors or more perpetrators. The body count ended with one teacher dead, seven students. Sharkey carefully canvassed for booby traps, since some of the students had been burned to death – some kind of homemade napalm, Sharkey reckoned. He walked out
about the time back up – his squad, the feds, the state, city, (the parade of ghouls) – showed up. Sharkey finally got home at daybreak of the following day.

Glenn Sharkey hugged his wife and fifteen-year-old son, holding them longer than was really comfortable for either of them. He threw his uniform in the trash and took a long, hot shower. Sharkey got out, sat naked and trembling on the floor, his back to the bathtub, listening to the hot water drum against the porcelain. He picked up the spiral-bound notebook he had (against his own better judgement) pilfered from the horrific crime scene. On the outside, the
scribbling and doodles of a young man, a super hero drawn on the cover with ‘Travis’ in block letters across the exaggerated chest. On the inside . . .

Sharkey wasn’t sure what it said. It was written in a very neat, tight script in some language that looked like hieroglyphics to him. Or Latin. He didn’t know. Then, John Glenn Sharkey wept alone -- bitterly -- for the past, for a twelve-year-old boy unknown to him, for an uncertain future. He wept for things that he could not, nor would ever
know. He wept for the Scion of Wizards.

©1999  Walt Hicks

Visit DeathGrip, The web site of Walt Hicks.

June 2000 HofP