6. The Back of the Book

The moonlight was dim and opaque. It bathed everything in a milky wash of dull light. Shadows fell on the newly fallen snow. The wind blew, stirring up dead leaves, letting them skitter across the icy road. Once, this just might have been another day. The aftermath of a storm, the promise of a sunny day just hours away, but things weren’t like that anymore.

Now this was everyday life. If the sun still rose, and it was hard to believe that it did, it was nowhere to be seen. The world lived in eternal darkness with just the moon for company. There was unending winter, snow and ice reigned. It left the humans and animals on the Earth in a state of continuous confusion.

It hadn’t always been that way. Things had been normal once. There had been sun and seasons, light and color, now everything was gray.

Marigold remembered the day when everything changed. She remembered where she was, what she had been wearing, even what she had eaten for breakfast. It was so clear in her mind because she was the one who had caused all of it to happen.

She was a spellcaster, like her mother and grandmother before her. They had passed down their spells in an old book, tattered and coming out of its binding from years of use. Marigold was given the book on her eighteenth birthday, from that point on she studied each spell one-by-one. Squinting as she tried to read the scribbles of her grandmother, written in smudged ink, and the penciled in notes of her mother.

She carried on for over twenty years. She was perfecting her art; it was her life’s work. She steadily plodded through the book, testing each spell and making her own notations for whoever would possess the tome after her.

Marigold seemed destined for a successful life as a spellcaster when she did something her mother had always warned her against, she decided to look in the back of the book. The back, or more precisely, the last few pages contained spells for the advanced and aged spellcaster.

“Don’t you dare look at those until you’re at least seventy.” her mother would tell her, while tapping her finger aggressively on the cover of the book.

“It can’t hurt to just look at them.” Marigold had said, more than once.

“But it will. The power of those words is too much for a young spellcaster. Only when you’re old can you understand the true power in this book.”

Marigold had always agreed that she wouldn’t look. She didn’t doubt that the spells were meant for the most senior spellcaster, but she doubted that reading them had any effect on things. She reasoned that if they were so advanced, she probably wouldn’t understand them anyway.

Still, she heeded her mother’s warning until the eve of her fortieth birthday when she looked in the mirror and realized that she looked like a woman turning forty. The reflection annoyed her. She didn’t feel as old as that woman looking back at her. Inside she still felt like a girl, but she wasn’t a girl anymore.

“I’m not a young spellcaster.” Marigold told herself. “I’m old.” Her mother’s words suddenly filled her mind. In the mirror she caught a glimpse of the spellbook behind her on the bureau. “I think I’m old enough to have a look.”

She spun around and snatched the book up. She rushed into the kitchen and put it on the table, face side down. Marigold took a deep breath and then opened the book to the very last page. In large script lettering was the following:

To the spellcaster brave enough to read this, are you ready to change the world?

“Yes!” Marigold shouted.

Are you sure?

“Yes! Of course I am.” She would prove to everyone that she was only just beginning.

Warning: This spell is only for advanced spellcasters. Amateurs should close this page immediately.

Marigold rolled her eyes. She was advanced, she knew it. “I’m ready.” she muttered.

All right then. Stand on one leg and cluck like a chicken.

Marigold blinked. Had she read that right?

Do it.

Marigold complied, feeling like a fool.

Now the real magic begins.

She put her foot down and stopped clucking. Who had written this? Someone who obviously enjoyed making a fool of people.

Take your pendulum from your pocket.

Marigold used a green stone fastened to a chain as her spellcaster’s pendulum. She took it from her pocket and held it in front of her. The stone spun around, catching the light on its facets. She looked at the book.

Give the pendulum the following command: Make the world turn inside out. Take this miserable place and bring us a new one.

Marigold frowned. The pendulum was used to answer questions, not give commands to. It didn’t do things. It couldn’t do things. She started to put the pendulum in her pocket and then thought of what would happen tomorrow, her birthday. Forty years would pass with nothing to show for it. She lifted the pendulum once more, it swung to and fro.

“Make the world turn inside out. Take this miserable place and bring us a new one.”

The pendulum came to a sudden stop. Then it began turning counterclockwise.

“Stop.” Marigold commanded.

But the pendulum didn’t stop. It spun round and round, faster and faster, despite her repeated order not to. It was as though it was defying her. She looked at the book again, but there was nothing else written. What kind of final spell was this? It wasn’t a spell, it was nonsense. Maybe it had been added to the book as a joke. She opened a bureau drawer and threw the pendulum inside.

Marigold went to bed. When she opened her eyes she was forty years old. She was also in a world she didn’t recognize. The spell or whatever it was had worked. It had erased the world she once knew. In its place was a nightscape that no one could seem to flee from.

There was nothing she could do. There was no next page. The book had ended. And there was no reversing the spell either. Marigold now understood that she had not been ready to see the spells in the back of the book. Her mother had been right all along, but it was too late.

5. The Long Wait

It had been snowing all night. He had left the day before. They needed him for a rescue mission. Two skiers were missing. He was never home for long, there was always something, some reason that the world needed him. She supposed she should feel proud. He was doing honorable work, but she could only feel selfish, he was needed here, with her.

The wind howled. She pulled her shawl around her shoulders and sat near the fire. His things were nearby, waiting for him to return. As she stared at the flames, she thought of the day they met. It had been snowing that day too, although not as bad as this. It had been love at first sight. That was when she had the old station wagon, it got a flat tire on the way home.

She remembered the first time she brought him to the cabin, how much he had loved it and the mountains surrounding. They had gone for a long run that day. That was when they bumped into the head of the rescue squad. They were looking for a new member. From that point on she had spent many days and nights like this, waiting.

She picked up a log and set it on the fire. She supposed she should feel grateful. He was one in a million in her eyes, and not everyone had that in their lives. There had been others before, but there was something about him, something different. She dreaded the thought of losing him. She brushed the thought from her mind, he would be fine, he was always fine. They had many more years together.

Several hours passed. At one point she turned on the radio. There was no news. That was a good sign. Music filled the cabin; they always played the oddest tunes in the middle of the night. She wondered if that was on purpose.

It was nearly daybreak when she heard a thud outside. She didn’t get up right away. It could be a false alarm; she didn’t want to get her hopes up. Another thud. She stood up and looked out the window. Flashlights danced around in the dark. A knock.

She flung open the door. It was the chief of the rescue squad. His beard was covered in snow. “We found them.”

“Thank goodness.” Her eyes searched into the dim light of dawn, looking for him.

“We couldn’t have done it without him.” the chief said.

Her heart started racing. “Is he-” She didn’t want to finish the sentence, if she did it would be true.

“Well-”

A bark cut through the air. She started laughing, a relieved tear ran down her face. He was all right. “Come here boy!” she shouted.

And there he was, her boy. A beautiful Siberian Husky, covered in a thin layer of snow. He ran through the open doorway and into the house.

“Thank you.” she told the chief. She shut the door. He was standing in the middle of the cabin shaking the wetness from his fur. She sighed. The wait was over. He was home.

4. Meet the Shadow Man

The air was warm. Music floated on the breeze. The sound was coming from the pavilion nestled in the trees. It was the middle of summer; tourists were out in full force. The pavilion was packed every night with vacationers coming to hear the big bands.

Tristan Black stood at the side of the stage watching the bandleader sing and dance. He took a final drag on his cigarette and tossed it on the ground. The band was good, they came with a recommendation, but that didn’t always mean anything. He was glad he had booked them.

Tristan was the manager of the pavilion, which was part of a large hotel. He had held the job for nearly ten years. It suited him. He liked music and people, and he especially liked working under the stars.

As he reached into his pocket for another cigarette the clouds above parted, sending moonlight down through the evergreens. Tristan’s limbs tingled. It was a familiar feeling, even a welcome one. He slipped away from the pavilion, listening to the bandleader hit a high note.

It took just a few seconds to be amongst the trees. Tristan looked over his shoulder, just in case someone had followed him. No one was there. He took a deep breath and let his body transform into a shadow. In the blink of an eye his image went from solid to opaque, blending into his surroundings.

Tristan was a shadow man, someone whose body could become dark and cloudy, like a shadow. The proper name was umbraer, being that the umbra was the darkest part of the shadow. But few people had ever called them that. People like him were usually known as shadow men, even if they were women, and had been for centuries. Spotting shadow men was something of a sport, for the ones who lived in the light, those who couldn’t make themselves into dusky darkness.

Being in shadow felt good, like being naked. Tristan wandered around the woods, letting the moonlight wash over him. He thought of his brother Gabriel who was fond of taking strolls after midnight around his neighborhood. Tristan didn’t know how his brother did it, living in a loud, crowded city. He much preferred the solitude of the country. He closed his eyes and listened to the music, a frisky Latin beat.

“Mr. Black?” a voice cut through the pleasant night air.

Tristan spun around. He was thankful he hadn’t lit his cigarette yet.

“Mr. Black?” Susan, the young woman who ran the coat check, emerged through the trees. Her eyes searched the woods.

Tristan held his breath. The moon was bright, it could reveal his form, a shadow where a shadow shouldn’t be.

Susan scratched her head. “Mr. Black?” she asked again. She seemed to know something, or someone was there.

Tristan remained still. He might be difficult to see, but he would still make a sound when he moved.

Susan’s red curls glistened in the silvery light. Slowly she reached her hand out. “Are you there?” she whispered.

Tristan leaned back on his heels to prevent her fingertips from reaching him. As he did the light suddenly faded. He looked up to see a new batch of clouds rolling across the sky, covering the room. Night became night again.

Tristan moved quickly, darting behind a tree to return himself to what the rest of the world considered normal. “Susan?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He fumbled in his pocket for a lighter.

Susan stared at him, wide eyed. “Mr. Phelps is looking for you.”

“All right.” He lit the end of his cigarette, attempting to adopt the pose of someone in a movie. Meanwhile, his insides were shaking.

“What are you doing out here?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Just smoking.” His voice sounded false.

“Really?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “I see.” The clouds parted again, bathing her in milky light.“ You should be careful out here.

"Oh?”

She gave him a knowing look. “I hear there are shadow men in these woods.”

“Those are just folk tales.” he said, practically coughing out the words.

She smirked.“ Perhaps they are.” She turned and headed back to the pavilion.

Tristan followed her at a distance, careful to stay out of the shadows.