Francis wiped the sweat off his brow as he pushed open the field gate. The day scorched. The humidity built. He paused in the yard. Dan's bike and sidecar stood parked by the side of the cottage. Quiet reigned, even though noon approached. The cat mewed plaintively at the door. Perhaps he should come back later. The priest smiled to himself. An excited Jamie, for whom the sun rose and set on Dan Weaver, had told him at the morning service that Dan and the covered sidecar had roared through town without stopping the day before. Dan must have driven day and night to return this quickly from the north. Before he left, his cantor had promised he would sing at the first service after his return. Francis had doubted it and the thought of kidding the happy couple propelled him to the door.
He knocked. Silence. The cat wound round his legs, remembering that Francis had fed him for the last few days. The priest knocked again, the sound echoing through the cottage. Something clinked inside, then he heard movement. The latch turned and the door creaked open.
Dan leaned against the door jam. He wore no shirt and his feet were bare. He blinked at the day through swollen, blood shot eyes, his face haggard. The sickly smell of a liquor treated hangover wafted from him. He rubbed his hand across his face.
"Oh. Hi. Uh. Come in," he mumbled. He turned and for the first time Francis saw the heavy layer of scars branching over his back. A transpo. The priest couldn't believe it.
"You should put a shirt on," he suggested, too stunned to think of anything else to say.
If Dan heard him he gave no sign. He limped to the stove, his foot dragging with exhaustion, and picked up the kettle to make tea. Francis stared around the cottage. An empty whiskey bottle had rolled against one of the chairs. A half full one perched on the floor beside it. Flour, sugar and broken eggs were splattered over the kitchen window, the counters and across the floor. Broken crockery lay beneath the walls it had scarred. The baby's crib, so lovingly sanded and stained, huddled in a smashed heap at the foot of the stairs, the mobile crushed beneath it. There was no sign of mother or child.
"Dan. What happened?" asked the priest, aghast.
Dan continued filling the kettle. "I'm afraid I," he paused, "don't have any..." His voice died into the croak of a whisper. "Cookies."
His head bowed as his chest heaved. He gasped into sobs. Francis took the overflowing kettle from his hand.
"Sit down. Let me make the tea," he said. "Go on."
Dan collapsed into a kitchen chair and buried his head in his arms, shaking with grief. The priest put the kettle back on the stove and turned on the burner. He stood in silent sympathy until the kettle whistled and the tea was made. A jug of milk rested intact in the fridge.
"Do you take milk?" Francis asked, not mentioning the fact that the sugar crunched underfoot. Dan nodded. The priest set a cup of tea in front of him and sat down across the table. Dan sniffed and raised his head. Francis handed him his handkerchief and he wiped his face.
"Whiskey," said Dan.
"You're an alcoholic, aren't you? That's why you work in a pub, yet don't drink. You shouldn't really have any..."
Francis froze as the half full liquor bottle rose into the air, floated across the room and settled on the table. Dan sent him a crooked half smile as he tossed a glug of whiskey into his tea then took a gulp from the bottle.
"Welcome to the freak show," he remarked bitterly. "And meet Dante the one and only wizard transpo. You've never seen anyone like him. But watch out. If you get too close to him, you'll end up dead." His face crumpled back into grief.
"Dan. What happened?" repeated Francis.
"They're all dead. Madam. Reba. William. My Martha." He paused, trying to control himself so he could speak. "Even Magic Mouse.
"I...I got there just before the sun rose. Went in at the back field. It was too easy. Didn't even have to get round the defense fence, which I thought was odd." He looked up at Francis for a moment. "Cause Madam said she'd set it so I couldn't come in. She wanted to keep Martha. Wouldn't even let me speak to her
"I got to the yard between the house and the barn and there were no dogs. Everything was too quiet. Then the sun rose. I saw them. The frozen dogs. And Madam. And the boy John. All red in the dawn.They were turned to stone. Madam looked angry. Not afraid at all. She must never've known what hit her. Then I smelt the smoke coming from the house and I rushed in to find Martha and the baby. The kitchen was filling with it, coming from the clinic. I checked the bedrooms, the empty crib, and the bathroom but nobody was there. So I ran through the house to the clinic. The smoke was thick, I started to cough. I couldn't see. Then I felt the heat and I saw her way down the hall. It was so thick, I could hardly see her.
"First just her feet. Lying in the hall on her side, the baby in her arms. They weren't moving. I tried to get to her, I tried, but the heat and smoke drove me back. I tried my magic. Bring water, move her to me, turn the smoke to dust. I tried over and over. I couldn't concentrate. It wouldn't work." Dan pushed back a sob. "I tried to save her but I couldn't. I ran choking into the yard and ran to the barn to get... I guess a pail of water. I don't know what. Oh Gaia." He paused to collect himself. "William was chained to the wall. Fresh welts and blood running down his back. I got him down. He flopped into my arms, his still face in death agony. They'd murdered him with the correction rod. Just like his son. " Dan covered his face with his hands to block out the memory. "It's me they wanted. William died because of me. I know it." He took another swig of whiskey. "Francis. I murdered a wraith. That's the cloak you have. It came looking for me. To take me, I don't know where, and I killed it. They must have traced me through it. I thought if I went away, found a secret faraway place, that Martha and the baby would be safe." He collapsed into grief.
"Who wants you, Dan? How'd you end up a transpo?" asked Francis. Except that he had seen the scars and watched the bottle float, the whole story would have seemed unbelievable. Those with magic never faced transportation, though they could end up deciding on a genteel exile instead of prison. They never felt the correction rod. Only slaves and criminals knew its pain.
"I don't know. I've never known. I'm Dante, Weaver of Words. The Mage's bastard," said Dan. The priest looked incredulous. "Yes. I am. When I was fifteen, I woke up in the hell of a transport ship, unable to speak or gesture. The real me supposedly dead in a fire. Someone had kidnapped me and put this thing, this spider net thing in my head. I was at death's door by the time I ended up sold to Madam Elizabeth. I think now that I was bought on the black market and whoever waited for me in Botany got stiffed. I lived mute for a few years, everyone thinking I was retarded. I guess that's why I feel so partial to Jamie. They were pretty good to me, considering. But in the end, I got corrected for loving Martha. I shot myself in despair. That's why I limp. Why I have a beard. To cover the scars on my face. Madam found the fiber net in my head when she operated. She researched who I was and maybe someone noticed. Or my magic starting up again brought the wraith. I don't know."
"Do you have any idea who might be after you?" worried Francis. "If it's the rebels, Mike and I have a few connections. We may be able to help."
"I think it might be my half-brother, Yevgeny. Though it makes no sense. He's only been here a few months. Maybe the rebels too. Just, Yevgeny's the only wizard I know of who can turn people to stone. But maybe there's somebody I don't know about. All I know is: I'm being hunted and they died because of it." He pounded the table. "Damn."
The word jumped alive, jagged black and razor sharp. It slammed against the copper ankh which flew away from the window with a whoosh, imbedding itself in the far wall. Francis ducked.
"Sorry," murmured Dante. "Sometimes the magic's hard to control. I'm teaching myself, but it's hard with no feed back." He stared down at the table, watching his finger circle a watermark from the bottle. "Maybe there's some little trick or something that I don't know. It's not like anybody ever beat down the door for the Mage's Freak to be their ‘prentice." He dissolved into tears, reached for the bottle and took another drink. "Only she loved me."
"I think you've had enough for now, don't you? We can't talk if you're passed out," said Francis. He gently pried the bottle from Dante's hand. "You say you've never been ‘prenticed but that flying word was a pretty powerful piece of magic. And no one I know of can kill a wraith. You look young. It's some illusion you've created if you're not. If you are... How old are you?"
"Yeah, would be hard to talk passed out." Dante snorted with drunken laughter. "I'm nineteen, must be almost twenty by now." He stared at the ceiling, trying to work it out and failing. "Yeah, almost twenty. Can't figure out when my birthday would be here. I could have a party if I figured it out. Invite everyone who loves me." He leaned back in the chair as the pain began to ooze away. "Oops. I forgot. Ha Ha. Everyone who loves me's dead. Cancel that thought." He brightened. Dante fixed an eye on Francis. His voice turned confidential as he revealed a secret. "You know what? If you have lots of money, you can give people drugs and booze and sex and food and entertainment and stuff. They come to your parties and pretend to like you to get invited again. And if you get stoned enough, you can believe that all those people care for you. No problem."
"What's the extent of your power?" asked the priest, refusing to be lured off the track. This needed reporting to Mike. All the rumors about the Mage's experiments proved true. A powerful ally, perhaps even the next mage or the next bodhisattva, had fallen into their laps. No wonder his brother hunted Dante.
"What do you want? Rain? Springs crying blood? Wraith removal? Flowers to stone? I can't turn people or dogs to statues yet, though. Ha. Ha. Maybe a big donation. Then you'd come to my parties, wouldn't you? Money come." Dante waved his hand. Francis started back as silver crown pieces showered onto the table. "Course they've been picked from some rich noble's pocket. So maybe you don't want them. Never mind. I can always use them for something." He leaned forward and used his arms to gather the money into a pile. Dante put his head down on them. He sighed. "Money doesn't buy happiness. Did you know that?"
"Yes, my son. I know that," said Francis. He reached across and rested a hand on Dante's head. "You have friends here, Dan. Don't think you don't. You've quietly charmed everyone. Right down to Jamie who adores you. There's many in Free Alabama who'll want to help you. You're not a freak, you're a gift. I'll arrange a memorial service. Everyone'll come and support you. O.K? Go on up to bed and sleep it off. And no more drinking. It's a false god. You understand?"
Dante nodded. He pulled himself up and shuffled over to the stairs. He paused by the shattered crib. Dante bit his lip and picked up one of the plastic blossoms from the mobile.
"The flowers face down," he said. "Rebecca at the hardware said it's so the baby can stare up and laugh at them."
"I'll be back first thing tomorrow. I promise," said Francis. "You get some rest."
Dante climbed the stairs, the blossom clutched in his hand. The priest let himself out. He walked back the way he came, his head down as he examined each weed and rock in the path. He kicked at a stone.
"Oh, Gaia," he whispered. "Why do you allow such grief and sorrow?"
The woods seemed to murmur in return, "Why does humanity?"