On the Edge of Oblivion

by Michael Jess Alexander

Part 1 appears in this issue.

conclusion

Harold felt his heartbeat in his throat. “Wh-what have you done, Reynard?”

“I’ve known for some time how covetous for my spell book and its wealth of mystical knowledge my erstwhile protégé had become. I realized he would eventually give into temptation and abscond with it, and” — Reynard paused for a moment and scrutinized Harold — “I could have guessed who would abet his betrayal. Although, I must admit that Jayme was a little bit of a surprise.”

“But why is it too late?”

The high priest grinned like a serial killer divulging long-held secrets. “They don’t have the genuine article. They have a copy, but it’s not just a copy. Whichever spell that fool hoped to perform will appear as a different spell, one that will not turn out so well for him and those with him.” He laughed. “And the signal spell I placed on the duplicate let me know that they made use of it about 20 minutes ago.”

Tristan

We’ll make an excellent couple, Tristan thought, watching Cynthia.

She poured some shavings on a white saucer.

Once I work up the courage to make my feelings known, anyway.

She sprinkled some white powder over the shavings.

She’ll have to say yes when I propose we become a couple. After how loyal I’ve been? How could she possibly say no?

“Wait!” Jayme yelled, breaking Tristan’s train of thought.

Cynthia brought a lighter from her pocket, flicked it, and brought the flame to the shavings. She then turned to Jayme with a scowl. “What?!”

A powerful gust coursed through the room, ruffling everyone’s hair and clothes, extinguishing the flame, and scattering the powder and shavings. Suddenly, as if pulled by a vacuum, the gust blew under the bed, sending the powder and shavings in this direction. Then the gust ceased.

“Cynthia, run!” Jayme yelled as she scrambled atop the bed next to Tristan.

Cynthia gawked at Jayme, bewildered.

“Run!” Lars shouted as he twisted to bring his legs onto the bed.

Following the example of Jayme and Lars, Tristan lifted his feet and brought his knees to his chest. He darted his eyes from Lars to Jayme to Cynthia. What is going on?

Marshalling herself, Cynthia began to take a step towards the door, but her feet came out from under her, and she fell on her back. As if on a steep playground slide, she flew screaming across the hardwood floor and under the bed. And just like the earlier gust, as soon as she disappeared under the bed, her scream terminated. Cut off, Tristan thought, as though someone had pressed “Pause.”

* * *

“Whew,” Tristan said, holding his head. “I feel dizzy.”

“It was Reynard,” Lars said soberly.

“What?” Tristan asked.

“The book was a trap,” Jayme said.

His brow drawn together, Tristan glanced to Jayme and then looked back to Lars.

“He hexed the book so that a certain spell will appear, regardless of whatever spell the reader thinks he’s performing,” Lars said.

“Someone died, right?” Tristan asked. Someone had, he realized, been pulled under the bed, but any characteristics belonging to this individual were elusive shadows in his mind.

“Damn it!” Lars pounded the mattress with his fist. “I should have realized he’d do something like this. I should have—”

“Lars,” Tristan interjected. “I can’t remember who died. Why can’t I remember who died? And why do I feel so out of it?” Through his dizziness, Tristan felt Lars’s hand fall on his shoulder.

“You’re feeling the effects of reality being altered,” Lars said. “None of us can recall who it was because our memories have been erased. That was the spell.”

“What?” Tristan whimpered. “I know that we do magic, but... how is that possible?”

“The spell,” Lars continued, “Kyteler’s Eradication Spell. It opened a void that pulls in its target and rips them out of existence.”

Tristan grimaced in confusion.

Lars added, “Whoever performed the spell isn’t dead. They never existed.”

“But” — Tristan said with a shake in his voice — “I can remember that someone was here. Performed the spell. Was pulled under the bed.”

Lars hung his head.

Tristan looked to Jayme.

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “Maybe since we saw it happen? I think? Or our closeness to the void?”

Lars snorted. “I learned of this spell from Reynard.” He took on a more solemn tone. “He said reality is like water in a wax bowl, that you can manipulate the confines — the bowl — and that reality — the water — will conform, but...”

“But what?” Tristan asked, wide-eyed.

“The confines have limits. If you manipulate them too much, you’ll tear the bowl... and lose the water.”

* * *

Judging by Tristan’s wearied anxiety and the diminished light, about an hour had passed since the spell had been performed. As the minutes accumulated, he gradually accepted the awkward closeness and occasional inadvertent touch. Never before a fan of Lars’ strong, old-fashioned deodorant, Tristan found himself appreciative of the scent for masking the stale odor of the room. Or perhaps, he realized, he appreciated the distraction it provided from dwelling on what awaited under the bed: an inscrutable, enormously powerful force that would continue to serve its only purpose until someone completed the counterspell.

Various ideas for getting out of their predicament had been suggested, but so far, the group had only relied on the one offered by Tristan, which was to wait until someone showed up to help. A caretaker, perhaps? Neither Lars nor Jayme seemed hopeful about this prospect. Jayme had pointed out that the holiday weekend made such a savior unlikely to arrive for days. And as Lars had mentioned, the dropping temperature also made it an unappealing course of inaction. One good fortune, Tristan realized, was that nightfall had not left them in total darkness, for a full moon provided enough ambient light to see in the room.

“I’ve got an idea,” Lars said. “Two of us perform the levitation spell on the third and carry the third through the doorway.”

“Hey!” Tristan perked up. “Why don’t we just levitate the book over here?”

Lars sighed. “Even if we could, it wouldn’t do any good. Remember, the book is hexed. It would only show the eradication spell.”

“Besides,” Jayme added, “we’d still have to lay hands on the book first.”

Tristan felt a tinge of shame. “I’ve never performed that spell,” he confessed.

Lars gave Tristan a look that reminded the younger man of his father. It was an expression from Tristan’s youth, the look his dad would give before telling him he had to do something unpleasant, like get a shot or tolerate an unloved visiting relative.

“Tristan,” Lars said, “with Jayme and me performing the spell together, we’ll be able to levitate you out the door.”

The duo of lightheadedness and palpitations struck. “No, no,” Tristan sputtered. “What if you drop me?”

Lars placed his hands on Tristan’s shoulders. “I, we,” he said calmly, deeply, “won’t let anything happen to you. We’ll be careful.”

“But—”

Cutting Tristan off, Lars moved his hands to the sides of Tristan’s shoulders and gripped more firmly. “I promise you will be okay. It’s our only way out of this.”

Harold

The row of houses was a gradation of wealth, and the neighborhood became less impressive the further Harold drove from the high priest’s residence.

You left me. I should be glad you’re getting what you deserve. As soon as the thought crystalized, he shook his head. No. Leaving me, abandoning Reynard, neither makes you deserving of whatever Reynard has done.

Harold searched his mind for potential leads. None in the coven would be any help; all were too loyal or subservient to the high priest. “Where did you go?” he asked aloud. He figured the three were at a friend or relative’s place where Reynard would not know to look. But which friend or relative? None that Harold had checked with had any idea of the three’s whereabouts.

Slowing before a stop sign, Harold noticed a vagrant with a bicycle at the beginning of the crosswalk. Harold pressed on the brake and watched the vagrant, a disheveled middle-aged man, walk his bike across the street.

You wouldn’t use the book where you’re holing up and risk revealing your magical abilities to the uninitiated, Harold thought.

Once the vagrant reached the other side, Harold continued down the street. As he drove, dilapidation became a more frequent state of the buildings he passed. He observed a house ripe for demolition and thought of the type of locations the coven would seek for rituals that would benefit from a lingering supernatural presence. With an “Aha!” he realized where Jayme and the others might be.

Tristan

Tristan lay on the open side of the bed while Lars kneeled near his head and Jayme, at his feet. A hardy push from either of them and he would be off the bed and into oblivion. He wanted to scream but fought the impulse, telling himself he could trust his friends. Lars wouldn’t allow any harm to come to his most loyal follower, he thought. And Jayme will please the man who introduced her to sorcery by taking care of his most loyal follower. “Are you really sure about this?” he asked.

“Tristan,” Jayme said, “we’ll be very careful. Lars and I will be completely focused on moving you to safety.”

Tristan exhaled and shuddered. “Okay, let’s do this.” He felt Lars’s hands rest on his shoulders and Jayme’s hands rest on his shins.

Together, they began the incantation. Closing his eyes, Tristan focused on his breathing. A moment later, he felt himself rise from the bed. It was not, he realized, as though he were being lifted by many invisible hands but was more like he were lying on a giant, rising gossamer bubble. He opened his eyes, tilted his head slightly to the left, and judged that he had risen about a foot in height. Lars and Jayme removed their hands, and with a sinking feeling, Tristan knew he was drifting away from the safety of the bed.

To avoid the thought of falling, he gazed at the moonlit ceiling. A moment later, he lifted his head to peer past his feet and spotted the doorway. It’s almost over.

Some costumed youths suddenly appeared in the doorway. They met Tristan’s eyes and screamed before scrambling away.

At the screaming, Tristan heard Lars say, “Huh?”

Tristan fell to the floor with a thud, electric white flashing behind his eyes.

“You... you dropped him!” Lars shouted. “It wasn’t me!”

Moving his hands and feet to get up, Tristan felt the pull on his body, and he slid sideways towards the bed as though the floor had tilted like a see-saw. As he slid, he thought, Please don’t hurt. Please don’t—

Jayme

The room was spinning, and Jayme’s stomach churned. She clenched her eyes shut and held her head.

A groan told her she was not alone on the bed. She looked to her left and saw Lars. An unruly cavalcade of questions marched through her mind: Where am I? Why do I feel like I just rode a rollercoaster while drunk? And most pertinent: Why am I on this bed with Lars? An immediate answer to the last question — an answer corroborated by her drug-like stupor — struck Jayme and spurred her to kick at the man with a vigor fed by panic and anger.

The first kick caught Lars off guard, and the second sent him off the bed.

Harold

Pulling to the side of the road, Harold furrowed his brow and gazed at the streetlight-lit dashboard.

“What was I going to do?” he asked in a halting voice. He tried to remember, but whatever it was evaded recollection. “I’m too young to be so forgetful,” he said, his half-joking tone belied by his worried eyes.

He executed a U-turn and drove in the direction of his apartment.

Reynard

His memory told Reynard that Jayme stole his book, but he doubted she did so on her own. Simple probability suggested that a now erased other was as culpable, or others were, if not more so. The high priest understood the likelihood that reality pointed a finger at Jayme because she was the only one left. Regardless, he savored pride in his cunning; Jayme was apparently trapped and, if others had assisted her in taking his book, they had suffered ultimate destruction.

Reynard pondered the possibility that Jayme had associates. It couldn’t have been more than a few, he realized, for reality would not have endured more than a few erasures in such close succession, yet — as Reynard’s ability to see, feel, and hear evinced — reality persisted. He recognized his penchant for revenge but did not think he would be so foolhardy as to risk all of existence to satisfy his appetite. No. Had there been others, they had not been more than a few.

Illuminating the front door with a flashlight, he approached the small house. Two days had passed since the signal spell indicated the book’s use and, relying on ingenuity and skill honed over years, Reynard had pinpointed the location of the book. In addition to the hex he had placed on it, he also had the forethought to imbue the tome with a purple aura visible only to him. This aura currently radiated through the exterior of the house, letting him know his property resided in the right side of the dwelling. Even without the benefit of his singular magical skill, the high priest felt certain he could have determined the location by the house’s notoriety and magical potency.

Reynard pushed the front door open. To avoid exposure to the pull of the spell, he carefully perused the interior. Seeing and feeling that this space was clear, he stepped into the darkened house. Looking to the glowing book, he saw that it was framed by a doorway and lay on a small table. He walked to the threshold and, again, cautiously peeked inside.

There she was, asleep on a bed.

With a quick scan of the room, Reynard saw that the bed and the small table that held his book were the only furniture. He observed the corners of the room, directing his flashlight’s beam at the two on the opposite side. Failing to detect a greater darkness, he set his eyes to the space under the bed. He illuminated this space and noted the unnatural pitch blackness that the beam could not penetrate. He clicked off the flashlight.

“Jayme,” he whispered in singsong. “Wake up, Jayme.”

The heretic began to stir. She pushed herself up on the bed and gazed sleepily in his direction.

“Come here, Jayme. It’s okay,” he said, smiling in the dark.

A shriek sounded behind him. He twisted to see the source. A man with parted brown hair, wearing black eyeglasses and a scowl, held a large knife, which he thrust towards Reynard’s stomach.

With a yelp, Reynard staggered backwards to avoid the knife, but the maniac was too quick, and the blade passed harmlessly through the high priest. A force pulled his feet out from under him, and he landed on his chest. He clutched the doorframe as the force tugged on his body.

With a twisted, toothy grin, the man with the knife watched as Reynard’s grip slipped.

Jayme

The identity of the man who woke Jayme, obscured by the dark and Jayme’s just-awakened stupor, eluded her.

The man shrieked and fell to the floor. He clung to the doorframe, and Jayme thought she recognized Reynard. He lost his grip and flew screaming across the floor and under the bed.

Jayme’s stupor cascaded into delirium. She watched in a haze as spectral phalanges materialized over the tome and gripped it. The ethereal digits and book faded into nothing.

She pressed her forehead into the bed and clenched her eyes shut to contend with the sudden rebellion of her mind and body. She was alone in the dark, on a bed in an unknown room, and she did not know why. Taking the only action afforded to her, she screamed and screamed and screamed.

She screamed till her throat was raw and her head throbbed, and eventually her screams dwindled to whimpers and then silence. No one had reacted to Jayme’s cries, and she realized that she was alone.

Cautiously, she sat up, looking and listening for a captor who would prevent her escape. Confronted by silence, Jayme draped her feet off the bed and moved forward until her shoes met hardwood. She stood and quietly made her way through the darkened house. Reaching the front door, she opened it and walked into the moonlit night.

When Jayme saw a vehicle in front of and a graveyard surrounding the house she changed her hurried steps to a run.

About twenty minutes later, as Jayme was walking alongside a street in the direction she hoped led towards her apartment, a crimson sedan pulled up next to her. Struck by the instinct to bolt, she halted when the passenger side window rolled down and an elderly woman asked, “Is everything okay, dear?”

Jayme saw a concerned-looking, elderly man behind the driver’s seat. Stepping to the window, she asked, “Can you please take me home?”