The Magician: An Epic Dark Fantasy Novel: Book One of the Rogue Portal Series

THE MAGICIAN

The Rogue Portal Series: Book One

Courtney Herz

Copyright 2015, Courtney Herz. No portion of this work may be reprinted or copied without express written consent of the author.

ONE

⌛

Connor lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to make out anything beyond a faint outline of the woodwork. The mingled smell of cedar and pine comforted him in the darkness. A single car hummed by his house, and after a brief, dashing glint of light from its headlights threatened to break the stillness, it disappeared, and he was, as he always had been, alone. The only light that entered the room was the dim glow of a streetlamp outside his window, and while its presence did much for his mood, it did little to improve the physical conditions. Despite the streetlamp's sincere attempts the room remained dark. Lonely. Cold.

              Home had always been a quiet and desolate place. Connor's mother had withdrawn from him. From life. From reality. His early memories sat framed in his mind, remnants of a time in which his mother had at least attempted to mask the war within. They sat in stark contrast to the portrait of deranged detachment he'd grown accustomed to since midway through primary school. The portrait had become even more grotesque since his sophomore year in high school. Since his mother's single willing moment in which she'd granted him the only conversation they would ever have concerning his father's death. It had been a brief conversation, and concluded in no uncertain terms.

              "He was a coward, Connor. Took the easy way out. That's the truth, and you'll just have to find a way to deal with it," she'd said, pausing for a moment before adding, "You're better off without him."

              After that she'd shut down.

              His theories regarding his mother's anger had evolved over the years. Perhaps she thought it would protect him. Maybe she was incapable of distinguishing anger from mourning. The theories worked for awhile, but at long last they ran out, lost their placebo effect, and he could no longer deny the genuine nature of her hatred for his father. In the most technical of terms his father's actions had amounted to abandonment. But Connor wasn't willing to believe he'd been motivated by cowardice.

              His search for information had led him to everything from his neighbors to newspapers, all without his mother's knowledge - and certainly without her approval. He pored over library records. Found articles in which reporters spoke in brutal, authoritative detail about the incident. He could see it all. His mother returning home from the hospital, him in her arms. A rare condition he'd contracted without much explanation, gone, overnight, without reason. Julia searching the house to tell his father the good news. That their son would live. Would thrive.

              But, the articles said, his father, overwhelmed by his son's diagnosis, had decided that enough was enough. Had tied a rope to the upper banister. Put it around his neck. Hung himself from the railing, where Julia had found him.

              There wasn't a particular revelation that served as the catalyst for his retreat into the uncomfortable mental corner he'd resided in since his quest for the truth began. No single piece of evidence he could point to that proved he was right. That his dad didn't chicken out on life. That the motivation behind his suicide was far more complex than depression, or sadness, or an inability to cope. Couldn't produce a competing theory that had any basis in fact. Just a feeling. But that feeling spoke to him louder than anything or anyone else, and he trusted it.

              The memories played against the darkness like a projection of an old horror flick that just happened to be true. Just happened to be his life. By now he'd become an expert at finding ways to distract himself. Ways to keep his father's death off his mind. To silence, if for a moment, the demands for truth that rang through his soul like a battle cry. But in the quiet, distractionless void of the early morning hours, the moon and smell of pine-tainted cedar his only companions, he could think of nothing else.

              Clenching his jaw, he picked up the blanket nestled around him and threw it back, greeting the cold of the morning with a shudder, and made his way across the floor of his sparse bedroom. If ever he had time to search the attic, it was now. Ever since he could remember the attic had stood a forbidden realm, guarded by his mother and her hate-fueled wrath. But tomorrow he would head off to college, and his mother had agreed to grant him a visit. To take some things with him if he "felt the need to remember the man that abandoned you", in her words. While her tone grated on him, he'd thought it unwise to start an argument, fearing that she would rescind her offer. So he'd inwardly grimaced, shook an invisible fist toward her, and swallowed his pride.

              His hand met the coarse granulation of unfinished wood as he steadied himself in the dark hallway, an abrasive reminder of everything beautiful that time and bitterness had long since abandoned. In pictures from his earlier years - those that come into existence because the taker is aware that the infant subject of the photograph won't remember any of surrounding events - the walls of the home had boasted vivid, beautiful colors. Word had it that his mother, Julia, had taken great pride in her role as homemaker. But after his father's suicide, everything fell apart, the slow and steady decay of a once-grand cathedral, an unholy descent. The perfection of their life - of life within the walls of the home they'd built together - had succumbed to a consistent and painstaking erosion that began with Julia.

              A sudden jolt of pain derailed his train of thought, and he clasped his free hand over his mouth to trap a cry of pain that threatened to escape his lips. Sharp pain seared from his toe through his ankle and gave up the fight in a dull ache beneath his kneecap. He always forgot about the doorstop.

              It was a pointless home improvement. Julia had installed it because the door had developed a habit of swinging open. Not just coming ajar, or settling in a way that resulted in a crack, but opening as far as it could go. The situation unnerved him, as well, because once the door latch was in place, nobody could open it without intentionally unlatching it. And it was
always
latched. Connor had long thought that his mother's installation of the doorstop had been motivated by fear rather than aggravation, but she'd never admit such a thing, and he didn't need her to.

              He reached for the door latch and froze. Once again the door had opened, and stood wide, inviting him to explore. With timid steps, he entered the attic stairwell, reaching up and groping in the darkness at nothing until, at long last, the beaded string of the light touched his hand like a ghost. He grabbed it, and tugged. Two clicks. A dim buzzing. Muted light flooded the stairway, and he shut the door behind him.

              He ascended the staircase, his heart pounding harder with every step. Breathing transformed from a natural act into a small battle with an evasive foe - oxygen. He wasn't afraid of the attic. Wasn't afraid of anything - at least nothing he knew of on a conscious level. But he
was
apprehensive about what he might find in the Forbidden Attic. Nervous about what his dad might have left behind - or hadn't. Had his mother thrown everything of importance away? Would he be left with naught but a lint-filled dress sock or discarded tissue to choose from?

              Looking down at his watch he took note of the time. The glowing numerals declared it to be four in the morning. In another hour his mother would be awake, and although she'd given him permission to be in the attic he harbored a sneaking suspicion that were she to accompany him on his journey through its contents he would be forced to undertake it to the tune of a berating, angry lecture about every piece he touched - and perhaps the things he thought about touching. Julie had purged his father from the house - every piece of him, every photo - and buried him in the attic. As though the ground was too close to her feet, and the attic was above her thoughts.

              Regardless of her feelings or her reasons for having them, he wanted to go through these things on his own terms. Alone. And so, with sleep playing a runaway and his restless mind nagging him out of bed, he'd found four in the morning to be the perfect time to search. For what? He didn't know. Something to take with him. Something to keep. A tangible memory. Or perhaps a piece of evidence that confirmed his father had ever existed at all.

              He arrived at the top step and cast an initial glance across the attic space. The light from the bulb downstairs, which had taken to sleeping on the job some months ago, fell short of reaching the top step, let alone the expansive attic. He made a mental note to change it before he left.

              The rectangular room boasted an angular, geometric ceiling of Dutch design, its half-trapezoidal shape mimicked by the window on the far wall. The window did little good at this hour, but he found it easy to imagine a sunny afternoon in the attic, its contents drenched in light, the only place of warmth left in the house.

             
This is almost livable
, he thought, and smiled at the irony; in her attempt to eliminate his father, to shut him out, to destroy him, she had inadvertently built him a shrine. She couldn't see it, of course. Her hatred wouldn't let her. And he wasn't about to make her aware of it.

              Running a hand through his hair, Connor granted his eyes a few more moments to adjust to the darkness. Shapes of boxes became visible. A bookcase over on the right. A guitar in the corner. And something in front of the window he couldn't quite make out.

              He began searching, one by one, through boxes. Getting down on his knees, he looked through the first one. Pictures. High school memorabilia belonging to his parents. Photographs of his parents happy. His mother almost unrecognizable without the boiling anger that now resided beneath the surface. No hatred. Just joy and life. A surge of resentment over the fact that he'd never known that woman threatened to overcome him, and he swallowed it, keeping it at bay.

              Slowly he made his way through the rubble. Boxes of old clothing, jackets and boots, two lamps that someone had unceremoniously tossed to one side, boxes filled with his father's books. Pieces of a life. Shards of shattered memories that threatened to break the skin, to cut the heart of the person who came too close. He moved on. Ran his hand over an object he couldn't make out using only his sight. And swallowed the wave of nausea that washed over him.

              Rope.

              Looped and discarded. Wedged between two boxes in an attempt to remove it from sight - from memory. A secret too painful to reveal, but too personal to do away with. He forced trembling hands to explore its length. Reached a frayed end. Caught himself as a portion of the attic descended into darkness. Closed his eyes, took a deep breath of stifled, musty air, and moved on.

              He made his way over to the window, still perplexed by the odd shape he'd seen from the stairwell. The dim moonlight illuminated its features just enough to give its identity away - a large hourglass with ornate carvings. It sat, propped against the edge of the box, threatening to crush the contents below it. The sand had long since run out, piled at the bottom like a child's futile attempts at sand castle construction. A bitter metaphor that summarized the attic's contents - indeed, its purpose - in a single, heartbreaking image.

              Connor ran his hand across the top of the hourglass and watched as a century of dust formed a figure at the edge. He let it linger there for a moment, then brushed it to the floor. Dust bunny sacrifice.

              A collection of antiques sat, unassuming, beneath the hourglass. A couple of vases. Some old books. Maybe a gravy boat? He couldn't tell given the pitiful light. Try as it might, the moon was just not bright enough to aid him in any meaningful way. He sighed. Maybe he should give up. Go back to bed. Resolve himself to the fact that he'd never have anything of his father's - not the truth, not even a trinket, nothing to hold onto. Perhaps the father he never knew had wanted to be forgotten.

              And then, a dim but pointed beam of moonlight guided his gaze to an illuminated pocket watch at the bottom of the box. He reached in. Pulled it out. Its intricate, ornate design evoked images of ancient lands and long-forgotten magic. It felt like a lead building in his hand, but he found it easy to carry just the same. As he gazed at the exterior of the pocket watch it began to...glow? But no - no, the moonlight had given up the fight and allowed itself to be consumed by the misty morning sunrise. The shifting light had played tricks on his eyes.

              That was all.

              As the sunlight grew brighter Connor collected the pocket watch, conquered the maze of boxes with quick, careless steps, and retraced his steps to his bedroom. Stowing the trinket in his book bag, he climbed back into bed as though he'd never left it. If she found him awake, his mother would wonder why he'd been up. Would start to ask questions. Inquire about what he'd taken. Would steal from him the only secret thing he and his father had ever shared - his trip to the attic, and his selection of a token.

              No, he would pretend to have lost interest. If she bothered to remind him of her promise to let him look in the attic, he'd say it wasn't a big deal. That he had his wonderful mother, and what more did he need, after all? Watch her smile. And feel no guilt in his deceit.

              Just as he closed his eyes he heard the belabored groan of his door's hinges as his mother walked in.