~ Continued from “The Beginning” ~
He knew he could not stay in the village forever. With the ruins of his childhood receding behind him, he marched into the unknown, propelled by terror and necessity.
Crastor had not gone far down the road from his village before he encountered a stranger. The stranger was tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair and a pointed beard. More strikingly, he had purple skin. The man called out some sort of greeting. He caught up to Crastor, breathing heavily but smiling. He said a few more things in a language Crastor couldn’t understand. He paused, then said slowly, “Illyrio”, as he gestured to himself. That must be his name. Crastor met the stranger’s gaze, then hastily looked down at his own feet. The stranger pulled a small cloth bag from his pocket. Inside there were some little brown morsels. The stranger popped one into his mouth and handed the bag to Crastor. Crastor sniffed at the bag warily, and then tried one. It was sweet and delicious. The stranger extended a hand to him. Crastor took it. Hand in hand, they walked down the road together. Purple or not, the man was living and he had food, which was enough for Crastor to call him a friend.
~ 15-ish years later ~
As Crastor surreptitiously brushed a long, blonde hair off of the cabinet where he was working, he vaguely wondered that one woman could shed so much hair. Admittedly, the fact that they’d fucked on practically every surface in the house may have had something to do with it.
The times he spent with Cara were the only joy in Crastor’s life, perhaps the only joy that he had known since he had gone to live with Illyrio. When Illyrio had first brought him to the isolated purple house, Crastor had marveled at its sturdiness, its spaciousness, and all the fantastic trinkets inside. But from then on, most of his time here had been miserable. That is, until Cara came along. He would never tell Illyrio about her of course, because Illyrio was the primary cause of Crastor’s misery.
Admittedly, life with a planeswalker was exciting in its own way. The potions they brewed together worked fantastically, and Crastor got to travel widely around Ireland selling them. Crastor had become adept at identifying herbs and stones with magical properties. While Crastor foraged and bartered on earth, Illyrio did so on other planes. Occasionally he brought Crastor along, and together they traveled through the portals to strange new worlds. They always avoided the local beasts and humanoids while Crastor was tagging along. Usually, however, Illyrio went planeswalking on his own, which these days was fine with Crastor because it meant he and Cara had the house to themselves.
Despite the exoticism, Crastor detested his life with Illyrio. After all, Crastor had grown up around Illyrio’s magic, so it was not exotic to him. Illyrio had a vicious temper, and he criticized absolutely everything Crastor did. Things had been worst when Crastor was young, and Illyrio controlled him with threats and occasionally violence. In those days, misunderstandings were all the more common because they did not yet share a common language. Illyrio was intent on teaching Crastor his language though, and Crastor did learn it slowly, arduously. Fortunately Planeswalkiri is nobody’s first language, and it was designed to be learned easily. Illyrio gave Crastor books and magical shells and mirrors that provided basic lessons, and once Crastor had learned what he could from those, Illyrio taught him the rest.
Besides being perpetually dissatisfied with Crastor’s work, Illyrio had also tested potions on him. Some of them healed his wounds, while others made him sick, turned him into an animal, or caused him to see things that weren’t there. They typically wore off eventually. Those that didn’t, Illyrio cleared up with additional potions or the occasional magic spell. Nevertheless, the insult was not lost on Crastor.
These days Illyrio was still prone to outbursts, but he restrained himself to angry rants. If he went too far, Crastor would run away for days or weeks. Running away was Crastor’s ultimate weapon. Crastor had grown more independent and more skilled over the years. Now that he could brew and sell potions on his own, the power dynamic in their relationship had reversed. Illyrio had grown dependent upon him, and they both knew it.
One of these days, Crastor would run away for good. Why he had not already done so, he could not say. He supposed that life with Illyrio was what he knew. Not only that, it was who he was. As desperately as he wished for an ordinary life, a part of him feared that he was too strange now to ever fit in to normal human society again.
Crastor had waited until this particular moment to broach a sensitive subject. It was a beautiful day by Irish standards, with a dull blue sky poking through patchy gray clouds whose edges were hard to discern. Crastor and Illyrio were working in the house’s central living room. One half of the spacious living room looked like that of a somewhat wealthy but otherwise ordinary family, with a hearth, a simple chair, and a couple of cushioned benches. The other half of the room was occupied by several dusty chests and cabinets, and two long tables joined in an L-shape. The tables were strewn with bottles, baubles and burners. Picks and brushes stained with blackened residue poked out of the bottles like weeds. Here and there half-finished potions languished where they had for months, or in some cases years.
Crastor had just come home with a large harvest of valley trumpets, a rare flower and the key ingredient in a laughing potion that was one of their most popular. Illyrio was preparing the potion. Meanwhile, he had set Crastor to the task of clearing out some cabinet space for the new batch. Illyrio was in a good mood and Crastor hoped he would stay that way.
“Illyrio, could I ask you something?” Crastor ventured. They had their backs to each other, as Illyrio worked at the table and Crastor crouched at the cabinet. Crastor did not turn around as he spoke, and he tried to make his voice light and casual.
“Go ahead,” said Illyrio, who did not look up from the mortar and pestle he was using to grind the flowers.
“Have you ever thought about long-term plans?” Crastor heard the grinding cease. A moment later, it resumed.
“What do you mean, long-term plans?” asked Illyrio, with a note of suspicion in his voice.
Crastor took a deep breath. “Well, I’ve been thinking. A man reaches a certain point when he feels ready to make his own way in life. To support himself.” Illyrio made a sort of disinterested grunt. “Maybe to find himself a wife and start a family,” Crastor went on.
“Nonsense, Crastor, you don’t want that life. You would be bored out of your mind.”
“I think it sounds nice.”
“What, to work alone, shackled to a gaggle of hungry mouths to feed?”
Crastor rolled his eyes, and then he was grateful that Illyrio did not see it. “I meant love. Love sounds nice.”
“Ah, of course love is nice,” Illyrio said, as Crastor heard him scraping the flower paste into a flask. “If it’s women you want, then take them. Enjoy them while you can. But take my word for it, love never lasts. Most families spend most of their time despising each other. Only when life occasionally throws some particularly harsh reality at them do they find a moment of gratitude. Then it’s right back to the misery of the daily struggle.”
“That can’t be true for everyone,” said Crastor hopefully. “I bet some people find a love that lasts. People who were meant to be together, forever.”
“Nonsense,” Illyrio cut in. “Most married couples hate each other, but they stay together out of necessity. You have no need for a family of your own. You have all the wonders of the multiverse, which I’ve collected here for us.”
“Most people have no need for the wonders of the multiverse,” muttered Crastor.
Illyrio slammed his fist down onto the table, so that the glass bottles trembled and clinked. “Ungrateful little shit!” he cursed. “You don’t want a normal life, you want a fucking fairy tale.” Crastor continued inspecting the potions in the cabinet, as if he could not hear. He knew the routine. “Oh poor me, I want to find true love but mean Illyrio won’t let me,” Illyrio said in a mocking, babyish voice. “Well guess what kid, life is hard and this is as good as it’s going to get. Where would you be without me? You’d have died in that village with the rest of your miserable lot. That’s how your true love ends, not just in death but in decay. One by one by one, every little thing about your precious beloved ceases to be beautiful and becomes a maddening irritation, until even her mere silent presence is an irritation, and then once you’ve given up on each other, you can still look forward to a few more years of dry, passionless sex before you give up on that, too. And I imagine you’d probably still find some way to blame me for it. It’s always damned Illyrio’s fault that you’re not happy. I’ve given you everything you could possibly need to be happy, and then I’ve given you more. I’m the reason you can read, I’m the reason you’re a passable potions maker, I’m the reason you’re alive. Do you know how many of your dull, no-magic primitive earth people would kill just to meet me? Fucking disgraceful. As soon as some girl breaks your heart, you’d come running home to me. You always do. So excuse me for trying to save you the fucking trouble.”
Crastor did not press the matter. Really, he had made more progress on it than he had expected to. Illyrio went back to grinding and the sound grated against his ears. Crastor went on sorting potions, perhaps pounding the bottles a bit too hard as he set them on the table.
Of course he would never be able to say what he really wanted to say, which was that he wanted out of the potion business, that he wanted a new life with Cara, and that he wanted to be as far away from Illyrio as possible. He’d brought up the subject on the obviously vain hope that he and Illyrio could have a reasonable conversation about it. He did not know why he even tried. Trying to have a reasonable conversation with Illyrio was like trying to pick up a feral cat.
“There,” Crastor said, standing up from the cabinet where he’d been crouching. “If you don’t need any of these I’ll get rid of them.” He gestured to the assembly of old herbs and potions on the table that he’d cleared out from the back of the cabinet.
Illyrio eyed them. “Many of these are still good,” he said in a sweet tone, as if defending a stray dog that Crastor had just kicked. “This one clears up headaches, though only at night. And the sphinx’s mane will last forever. The Aldrashi swamp root, well it must be good for something. At any rate it was very hard to get. Let’s see, and this one brings dreamless sleep, this one is a female aphrodisiac, and this one erases scars, though with several side effects.”
Crastor sighed, but made careful mental notes.
~
“This one is a female aphrodisiac,” he said as he showed Cara the bottle. She took it from him and turned it over in her hands.
“You know so many big words. What’s an afferdeezac?” They were sitting on a pair of padded benches they’d pushed together in the center of the living room.
“I only know big words about potions,” Crastor said. “It means you drink a little and it’ll make you even more of a sex goddess than you already are,” said Crastor as he kissed up and down her neck, brushing aside her blonde hair.
“Hmm.” She looked at it a little skeptically.
“He may be a son of a bitch, but Illyrio is good at his craft. It will work,” said Crastor through his kisses.
“I don’t doubt your father’s skill. But you know I don’t like this magic stuff. It’s not Christian. It’s unnatural.” She gestured toward the chaotic corner tables spilling over with magical miscellany.
“I know, my love.” Crastor tugged at her shirt to kiss her collarbone. “And soon I will sweep you off your feet. We’ll run away together wherever you want to go. But while we’re stuck here, we might as well have a little fun.”
Cara ran her fingers thoughtfully through the hair on the back of his head. “You promise you’ll make an honest woman of me?”
“The most honest.”
“And you’ll never look at another woman again?”
“May God strike me blind if I do.”
“And you’ll give me whatever I ask?” She lifted her skirt to expose a soft, pale thigh.
“Anything.” Crastor bent down and eagerly swept his lips over the delicate skin. As he kissed the crevice where her thigh met her crotch, he heard the sound of a bottle being uncorked. The rest was bliss.
~
Crastor stood on the road in front of Cara’s family’s house. He was beside himself with worry. It had been more than two weeks since he’d last seen Cara. She hadn’t been to their little meeting spot in the forest in all that time, at least as far as Crastor could tell, and he’d been checking there as often as he could. At first he thought she might be sick. As time went on, his concern turned to dread. It couldn’t have been the potion. They’d used it several times. The effect had been modest but noticeable. Perhaps her parents had found out about their relationship. But they’d never watched their youngest daughter closely, and she’d never paid much regard to their rules. If they’d forbidden Cara from sneaking out to see him, she would have simply snuck out anyway. Perhaps she’d decided to leave him. No, he would not believe that. Not like this, without a word. More than any other reason, though, he would not believe it because he felt in his heart that something terrible had happened.
The green countryside sprawled out behind the little stone house. The pasture was dotted with grazing sheep and bales of unripe hay. He willed himself to be calm, but the yawning pit that had been growing inside him now threatened to swallow him up. Please God, and the Irish gods and the gods of the multiverse and whoever else might be listening: let her be alright. He approached the front door as he had many times imagined he might, though now under very different circumstances than he had ever imagined. He knocked. Each knock landed with a dull thud.
A woman answered the door. Her faded yellow hair was streaked with gray at the temples, and the wrinkles around her mouth and eyes evoked a life filled with laughter. Today, though, she looked haggard and worn. The uncanny resemblance to Cara made it clear that this was her mother.
“Hello. My name is Crastor,” he began awkwardly. “I’m a friend of Cara’s.”
Her tired eyes seemed to be searching his face. “A friend of Cara’s?” she repeated.
Crastor nodded.
In a monotone voice, she asked, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m wondering if I might speak to her,” replied Crastor.
“Hm,” she said, frowning. “So you haven’t heard, then?”
Crastor felt like he’d swallowed a stone. “Heard what?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“Cara died two weeks ago,” said her mother.
Crastor instinctively put his hand to his heart, as if to keep it from breaking. For the first time in weeks, his mind was silent. He stood still as a statue as a cold breeze ruffled his hair and his clothes. No. No. It could not be true. Don’t let it be true. Let this be a dream, from which he would surely wake up any minute now. How could this have happened? His Cara, bright vivacious Cara, could not be dead. She was surely hiding somewhere in that house, just behind this weary messenger. That bright light could not have been snuffed out so unceremoniously. Yet even as he refused to believe it, he knew in his heart that it was true. He looked into the dull blue eyes before him, so like Cara’s, except their youthful glow was deadened with the fog of age.
Crastor forced out a word. “How?”
“Consumption. Least that’s what we think it was. It happened quickly.”
He felt tears welling in his eyes.
“I’m sorry dear. Were you close?” she asked.
“We were in love,” he said quietly.
Her eyes opened wide in surprise, then settled back into grief. “Oh dear, I’m sorry,” she said again. “Would you like to come in?” she opened the door a little wider.
Crastor shook his head. What a cruel image, that open door. The invitation he had always longed for was now being so freely given. A part of him wished to go in, to inspect every bed and every trunk, to verify to his satisfaction that she was not simply crouched in a corner somewhere, ready to pop up with a smile, to reassure him that it was only a joke. But he was breaking. This forced steadiness was untenable.
“No, thank you. I…” Crastor trailed off. He had nothing more to say.
“I didn’t know she was in love,” her mother ventured curiously, leaning in.
“We’d been talking about getting married,” he said miserably. “I guess it doesn’t matter now.”
Cara’s mother looked like she wanted to say something, but she was getting choked up.
Crastor couldn’t stand this. “I’m sorry. Goodbye,” he said abruptly, and turned back toward the road. He began striding away from the house. He was still in view of it when his strength faltered. Crouching in the middle of the road, he began to sob.
~
Crastor reflected coldly that the course of his life was about to be determined by a cow. He sat hidden amid a stand of trees a ways off from Farmer Giles’ house. He did not care that that the sky was an angry gray, threatening rain. The leaves whispered vigorously on the wind. He did not budge. He sat still as stone, facing the barn, his back against the sturdy ash trunk. Eyes narrow. Waiting.
The last few weeks had been a blur. He’d felt like a dead man walking. Or rather, lying in bed, since that seemed to be about all he was capable of. The grief was overwhelming. More overwhelming than even the love had been. Would he ever be able to think of her again without imagining her on her deathbed? Wondering if she’d thought of him, at the end? All the grief from the plague of his childhood—a disaster that he remembered only in pieces—had come welling up with a vengeance. Everything he had ever loved had sickened and died. Perhaps Illyrio was right, that it was better to give up on love.
Illyrio, that bastard. Crastor’s grief had been immediately followed by suspicion. Young, healthy people don’t just up and die like that. Alright, sometimes they do, but Cara had had such vitality in her! What if it had been the potion? Maybe it had only worked as an aphrodisiac because they’d believed it would. Maybe it was really some kind of poison. Yes they’d used it four times, each time several days apart, but maybe it was some kind of slow-acting poison. There were more poisons in Illyrio’s collection than Crastor could count. The potions in that cabinet had been old, and Illyrio might easily have confused it for something else. Or worse, he might have deliberately lied to Crastor about what it was. Crastor would not put it past him. Illyrio might have figured out that Crastor was thinking about running away for good. Crastor had the means, since he had always been the one in charge of their money, the earthly money anyway. Crastor could not let the matter go. He was unable to sleep, unable to eat. He was racked by the fear that at the very benches and tables where they’d made love, he was continuing to serve the man who’d killed Cara. If Illyrio had killed her—no, if Crastor had killed her—he had to know.
So he had given the potion to the cow. Three doses so far, several days apart. The last one had been two days ago. Now he waited in the cold morning light, as he had yesterday and the day before. She did not come out yesterday as he normally did, so he all but had his answer. Nevertheless, Crastor would see this thing through to the end. He would see the body. He knew he could save himself some time by sneaking into the barn and checking on her. Yet somehow for all his desperation, he could not bring himself to do it.
Finally, Farmer Giles appeared with his son. They had a cart with them, and together they went into the barn. A few tense minutes later, they emerged carrying the dead cow, and began to load it on the cart. So that was it, then. Crastor had killed the woman he loved. As raindrops began to prick at his skin, he felt he had no more grief left to give. He had only hot, iron rage.
~
Crastor was dripping wet by the time he returned home. Illyrio was leaning over one of the work tables. “This extract,” he said, pointing to some flowers that were soaking in a bottle of golden liquid, “are you making Heaven’s Gate, or a Bolstoi energy draught?”
It took Crastor a moment to realize that Illyrio was speaking to him. It took another moment to process what he’d said. Illyrio snapped his fingers at Crastor impatiently.
“Heaven’s Gate.”
“You’ve added too much glusinium. It will just make the drinker fall asleep. You can market it as a sleeping draught.”
Crastor nodded vaguely.
“Luckily it’s a rather harmless mistake. Do be more careful next time.”
Crastor started. Do be more careful next time? This is not how Illyrio talks. Illyrio would ordinarily call him an incompetent buffoon. He would have brought up the many times he’d told Crastor how to do it properly. He would have railed about this or that mistake Crastor made seven years ago.
“Oh, right,” Crastor said rather loudly. “I could have mixed it up with a poison. And that would have been unforgivable, wouldn’t it?”
Illyrio looked at him with furrowed brows. He shrugged and went back to reading a scroll on the table.
Crastor pressed on. “But of course, we mustn’t talk about such things.”
Illyrio sighed. “You sound tired, Crastor. Perhaps you should rest.”
The morning rain pounded on the roof of the purple house. Fury was rising in Crastor, and Illyrio’s gentleness was only making it worse. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?!” he snapped.
“Curious about what?”
“Why I’ve been like this lately! Don’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”
“What? That you have been even lazier than usual?”
“Yes! But you didn’t want to mention it. Why?” Crastor approached the table. “Why have you been passing up opportunities to criticize me lately?” Crastor was shaking, though not because he was cold and wet from the rain. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides.
“You’ve always been lazy.”
“Bullshit!” Crastor was shouting now. “You knew it would kill her!”
Illyrio gave a look of suprise, then consternation. “What in the multiverse are you talking about?”
“A female aphrodisiac.” Crastor snarled. “It was poison! You knew it was poison. Something that doesn’t kill on the first try. And you thought ‘Crastor, the little fool, he’ll never figure it out. He’ll be afraid to love again and then he’ll never leave me.’”
“What? I had no idea you wanted to leave, and I certainly had no idea you wanted to leave with a woman.”
“No. You knew. Or you guessed.”
“I didn’t. I swear it.” Illyrio was looking at him, dumbfounded. Crastor was sure it was pretense, and hated him all the more for it. He wanted to beat that surprised look off of Illyrio’s face with a heavy club.
“But now I can guess what must have happened,” Illyrio went on. “You need rest. Take as much time as you need.”
“I don’t need rest. I need Cara. And I need to get away from you.”
Illyrio bowed his head and spoke in a kind voice. “Crastor, listen to me, I had no idea. I made those potions a long time ago. It was a mistake.” Crastor scowled at him. Illyrio looked up and continued, “Yes I can be unfair to you sometimes, I know that. But you are like a son to me. And I’m proud of the man you’ve become. I did not plot to kill the woman you love. That is madness.” He paused. “If you want some time away from here, then by all means take it. Go travel.”
This was all so unlike Illyrio. Illyrio had always discouraged him from traveling, except as a necessity of the business. Illyrio must have been getting desperate.
“No. We’re past that,” Crastor said icily. “I don’t believe that this was an accident and I never will.” He paused. So this was it then. He looked into the face of the man who had been like a father to him for over a decade. He remembered all the insults and all the violence. What good times had they shared, really? There were a few happy memories—times they’d played together when Crastor was a child, and they’d laughed together over funny jokes. Times Illyrio had been a good and kind teacher. But even that paltry handful of memories was tainted now. They could not assuage the hate that arose when Crastor looked into that purple face. The mere sight of it stirred in him a loathing so passionate it was almost murderous. He was ready. Yes, he was more ready than he’d ever been. Crastor stood up tall in his wet clothes. “I’m leaving. Now. For good.”
“Crastor, you’re grieving. Don’t make hasty decisions you might regret. Give it a little time.”
“I’ve given you enough of my time,” he said as he walked past Illyrio and out of the room.
~
Once Crastor had gathered his clothes, his secret stash of money, and some other useful miscellany, he found Illyrio waiting by the front door.
“You really mean to leave then? You’re sure about this?” Illyrio asked.
“Positive.” said Crastor.
“Where will you go?” asked Illyrio. “What will you do?”
“What’s it to you?” responded Crastor. “Afraid I’ll steal your trade secrets? I thought I was too incompetent for that.”
Illyrio sighed. “Never mind. I just thought we could part on a friendly note.” He turned and picked something up off the table. “I’ve got a little parting gift for you. Here.”
It looked like a black rope. As Crastor took it, he saw that it was not a rope but a dead snake. As Crastor tried to drop it in disgust, the snake snapped to life. In the blink of an eye it shot toward him as it grew to many times its size. It wrapped itself around Crastor’s torso, pinning his arms to his sides. Crastor let out a terrified cry. In a matter of seconds, the snake was thicker than a grown man and longer than ten men. It had wrapped itself around Crastor’s whole body, except for his neck and head. As Crastor struggled to get out of it, he fell to the ground. The more he struggled, the more tightly the snake constricted him. “You bastard!” he tried to shout, but the snake was so tight around his chest that it came out as a sort of gasp.
Crastor wriggled on the ground but it was no use. He heard Illyrio’s voice across the room. “You don’t know how much this saddens me, Crastor. But you’re right, I don’t want you stealing my trade secrets. I can’t have you sharing or writing down my recipes. And you’re right that I wanted your little girlfriend dead. It turns out you’re not as much of a fool as I thought you were. But still fool enough to tell me that you figured it out.” Illyrio appeared at his side now. He drew a bottle from his pocket.
“There are a lot of potions that I’ve wanted to test on you, but I couldn’t because I thought they might kill you. Now that you insist on leaving, I can do away with mercy. I’ve been wanting to try this one on you for a long time.” He crouched on the ground next to Crastor’s head. Crastor was wriggling wildly, but Illyrio said a couple of words to the snake and it gripped Crastor still more tightly so that it was all he could do just to breathe. The snake wriggled him back toward Illyrio. “The truth is that I do love you,” said Illyrio, uncorking the bottle. “I hope you don’t die from this. Fight for your life, my boy.”
Crastor wanted to respond but he dared not open his mouth. He thrashed his head back and forth, but Illyrio’s hands were large and strong, and soon Illyrio had pried his mouth open. Crastor tasted the bitter liquid and tried to spit it out as Illyrio was pouring it. He spat and fought until he was choking on it. When Illyrio had finished pouring the last of it, he immediately covered Crastor’s mouth. Crastor was still choking, and as he fought for air he could not help but swallow. He felt the liquid running down his throat. The last thing he saw was Illyrio’s face, looking at him sadly. Then everything went quiet and dark. Time passed. Something odd was happening. He was still aware. Not aware of anything in particular, just aware. Who was he? He did not know. What. Where. Time. Concepts fell away as soon as they’d begun to form. Then, a sensation arose. It was a sensation of lightness. It was like he had been holding onto something for a very long time, and now he could let it go.
~
Crastor was lying on the ground. Gradually, he became dimly aware of the sensations of his body. A heaviness on his chest. Prickling, pecking, something gnawing at him. He was struggling to breathe, as if his airways were congested. With difficulty, he opened his eyes.
Something was on his chest. A crow. It flapped and squawked petulantly as Crastor stirred. He tried to move, but he felt stuck. He wriggled languidly, and then he remembered the snake. Suddenly the memory of his last moments came rushing back to him. Panic surged through him. He tore himself from the ground and waved a clumsy arm toward the crow. It flew away, and then he tilted his head to the side and vomited. As the coughing and sputtering subsided, he looked at the vomit in the grass. There was something in it, something that was moving. He willed his eyes to focus on it. Bugs. Maggots. A wave of disgust surged through him, and he vomited again.
Gasping, he moved his head back to center and let out a moan. His head was throbbing. Where was he? Apparently he was in a forest. The trees towered above him like listless onlookers. Crastor thought of Illyrio and felt an impending sense of danger. He had to get out of here. He felt disoriented. Hoping to get a sense of his surroundings, he craned his neck so that his head was off the ground and he looked around. It was an ordinary forest, familiar even. He did not see Illyrio or any sign of anyone. He felt relieved. Then he caught sight of his hand.
He lifted his hand to his face to get a better look. The long, ragged fingernails were a greenish yellow. The skin was very thin and white, and around his joints it was torn wide, so that the bones of his fingers and wrist were exposed. In the crevices of torn skin, maggots wriggled. There was no mistaking what he saw. It was the hand of a corpse.
Crastor moaned again. He lay his head back down and looked at both hands. They were rotten, dead hands. His sleeves were greasy with grime. He peeled them back gently, as they were stuck to his skin. The sagging white skin of his forearms was more or less intact, but it seemed to cling precariously to his elbows, the bones of which were almost entirely exposed.
Crastor took several deep but congested breaths. Why was it so hard to breathe? He thought of maggots. He regretted the question.
Alright. He was a corpse. He understood that, though even in that moment he knew he did not really believe it. It was too much to take in at once. Apparently he had died. Sort of. He remembered the darkness that had remained after Illyrio’s face disappeared. Is that what death feels like? In that case, death was not so bad. As a matter of fact, it had been the most profound peace he had ever known.
He would have time for these questions later. Right now, he had to get out of here. He heaved himself into a sitting position. Awkwardly, he stood. He brushed off the earth that stuck to his back and the backs of his limbs. Earthworms wriggled in the dirt he’d shaken off. He tousled his hair, which felt thin and stringy.
He did not know exactly where he was, but he recognized this forest. It was not far from the purple house. The sun was setting. Based on the direction of the sun and the slope of the land, he felt he had a sense of which way to go. This way would lead him to the edge of the forest, near the house, but far enough that he could slip by unnoticed.
As he trudged through the forest, he felt more assured that he was going the right way. But where exactly was he going? Where could he go, looking like this? He checked his legs to find that they, too, were those of a corpse. His knees, like his elbows, were little more than exposed bone, with a few tenuous ligaments. He cursed the maggots that stuck to them as he brushed them off. Maybe this wasn’t permanent, he thought. After all, most of the potions Illyrio had ever tested on him had not been permanent. That idea cheered him.
As he came to the edge of the forest, he saw the purple house but veered away from it. He made his way to their well. It was far enough from the house that he felt fairly safe, and he was thirsty. Also perhaps it was vain, but he was desperately curious to see his face. He lowered the bucket by its rope and then pulled it back up. He closed his eyes and drank the cool water. Then, apprehensively, he steadied the bucket and looked at his reflection. Two little suns peered back at him. They were his eyes, unnatural glowing yellow spheres in a sunken and mangled white face. His left cheek was missing. The left side of his mouth ended in a snarl, and his teeth, jawbone and black gums were exposed. His nose was also missing, replaced with a crusty black cavity. His hair was faded and reduced to a few bedraggled strands.
He knocked the bucket onto the grass, as if by destroying the image of his own face he might make it go away. What a horrifying face! It was even worse than he’d expected. A part of him was glad that Cara had not lived to see this. It was too much to bear. And yet, it made things simple in a way. There was no question of what to do now. He saw only one option. He hoped the wood axe was where he’d left it.
~
The moon bathed the forest and the house in cold, steely light. Crastor had leaned piles of firewood all around the perimeter of the house. He did not feel in the least bit sad as he looked on his second childhood home, one last time. In fact, he was positively giddy. He circled the house with his torch and lit one log at a time. They did not catch right away. He was patient. He tended the fires and he waited. Once the walls themselves were burning steadily, he went inside.
Methodically, he did the same thing on the inside of the house, just at the corners. He had to move quickly now. The smoke was thickening, and though Crastor could not smell it, Illyrio would soon enough. Crastor used Illyrio’s scrolls as kindling. He stumbled onto the sack of belongings he’d prepared when he’d tried leaving Illyrio. Lucky now, that Illyrio saved everything. He stopped in the kitchen and grabbed their largest knife. He waited as the fires in the corners spread from his firewood to the walls. Then he left the torch behind and proceeded to Illyrio’s bedroom.
Miraculously, Illyrio was still asleep. Crastor crept up to the side of the bed and gazed one last time on the man who had largely raised him. He remembered various potions thrust into him, insults hurled at him, and the constant fear and distrust that Crastor had simply accepted as his lot in life. He pulled back the covers and plunged the knife into Illyrio’s heart. Or, where he thought the heart ought to be. The knife didn’t go down very far. It was obstructed by Illrio’s ribcage, and interrupted by Illyrio’s fist colliding with Crastor’s face.
Time stood still for a moment as Crastor recovered, still standing over Illyrio’s bed but temporarily blinded from his blow. At the same time, Illyrio was recovering from the shock of being woken by a knife in the chest. Even though Crastor was unrecognizable now, there could be no doubt as to who it was. “You!” Illyrio shouted.
Crastor recovered first. He climbed on top of Illyrio, grabbed the knife, which was still protruding from Illyrio’s chest, and he stabbed again. The move was clumsy, but his aim was better this time. Illyrio knocked him again, and pushed him off the bed and onto the floor. Illyrio stumbled out of bed, the knife still protruding from his chest. He headed toward a small table in the corner of the room laden with scrolls and bottles. Crastor sprang up after him. Illyrio pulled a large glass bottle from the table and brought it down onto Crastor’s head. The bottle shattered. Crastor was still standing. Illyrio backed away but Crastor lunged toward him. Swiftly, he pulled the knife out of Illyrio’s chest and stabbed again. And again. And again. Illyrio slumped down against the wall. Crastor stepped back, the bloody knife in his hand. He had barely noticed the smoke, but it was thick now. Illyrio’s eyes were vacant. It was time to go.
Crastor tore himself away from the scene and made it outside. The house was burning brightly now. Perhaps it was foolish to leave behind the precious herbs and alchemical tools. Some items in there would have sold for a small fortune on any plane. But Cara had been right. It was unnatural. To hell with it. As watched the house go up in flames, he felt a satisfaction that money could not buy.