The Arcana Mythology section spans several large shelves, and I follow Kirin as he runs his finger along the bottom of each row, searching for the book he wants. It’s taking all of my bodily resistance not to start grabbing random books off the shelf to take back to my suite—my to-be-read list is already out of control, and I’ve only been here a week.
“Eureka!” Kirin says, which is pretty much the cutest, dorkiest thing ever. “Son of the Fool: The Rise and Fall of the Magician in Modern Arcana Mythology.”
“Sounds like some real light reading,” I say with a laugh. “Is there an H.E.A.?”
Kirin’s brow furrows, his glasses sliding down his nose.
“Happily,” I say, pushing them back up, “ever after.”
He grabs my finger, offering an apologetic frown as if my question was serious. “This isn’t that kind of story, Stevie.”
“You think?”
“Tell you what. After we figure all this out, I’ll make you a reading list of my favorite books—the ones with an H.E.A. Sound good?”
“Sounds amazing.”
“In the meantime, we’ve got the Dark Magician.” He releases my finger and flips open the book, paging through to whatever section he wanted to share.
“Let me guess,” I say, peering over his shoulder. “Broody emo boy, lots of Daddy issues, too much free time on his hands?”
“Pretty much,” Kirin says. “Remember, we all honor the First Fool for his sacrifice, but he was still just a man—a tribal elder who left behind not only his tribe, but his family. A wife and three children, including his eldest son. Listen to this.” He runs his finger down the page, then reads, “The tribesmen held a feast in honor of their elder, whose great sacrifice would grant them power beyond their wildest imaginings. But this young boy, no more than sixteen years of age at the time, was in no mood to celebrate. What others saw as heroic, he saw as desperate and irresponsible, a selfish father who’d abandoned his entire family in pursuit of magick and glory. The boy had watched helplessly as the source emissaries carved and desecrated his father’s body, wringing every last bit of life force from it and assuring—in accordance with the predominant belief at the time—that the family would never be reunited in the afterlife.
“When the spirit of the First Fool made his son the First Magician, the boy developed a new appreciation for power, though not in the way his father had intended. Instead of serving witches and mages along their magickal paths, the Magician vowed to take his vengeance. He claimed that because his father had abandoned his responsibilities to his family in exchange for the gift of magick, then it stood to reason that the gift of magick was, in fact, the boy’s inheritance. The other arcana did not see it this way, and assassinated the boy before his plans for vengeance could be executed. For this reason, while practitioners honor the Fool on April 1st, we devote Winter Solstice to the Dark Magician, thanking him for his family’s great sacrifice and leaving elemental offerings to ensure his spirit doesn’t become restless—tobacco or herbs from the earth, wine to represent water, a candle for fire, incense for air.”
“And that’s supposed to keep him at bay?” I ask. “Doesn’t sound like a fair trade for his father’s life.”
“No, which is why his soul remains restless, reincarnating many times over.” Kirin glances at the page again. “Sometimes, he carries on his duties as the Magician was meant to, helping witches and mages become the masters of their own magick and manifestation. But according to some legends, every five thousand years or so, he rises in darkness, embarking on a quest for the sacred objects forged of his father’s flesh and blood—the pentacle of iron and bone, the chalice of blood and sorrow, the sword of breath and blade, and the wand of flame and fury.” Kirin skims down the page, muttering through the details, then says, “It is said that he who is in possession of these objects, along with the blood of the world and an arcane spell of indeterminate origins—wait, there’s a footnote.” He flips to the back of the chapter, shakes his head. “They don’t really know much about the spell. But you get the point, right? Whoever has all of that stuff gets to claim magick for himself. Control it, basically.”
I lean back against the bookshelves and cross my arms over my chest, my mind working through the stories, automatically looking for connections. There’s something we’re not seeing—something so close and obvious, I can practically feel it taking shape, like my hands are holding a lump of clay, desperately trying to make an ashtray.
“So in these old stories,” I say, “the Dark Magician bent his will toward acquiring the sacred elemental objects and reclaiming the true source of magick, which he believes is his unequivocal birthright.”
“Precisely.” Kirin closes the book and slides it back into place on the shelf. “What we’re still trying to figure out, though, is how these legends connect with your visions, and what the larger meaning is. Symbology? Metaphor? Some other context we’re just not seeing?”
“Kirin, seriously?” I pop my hands on my hips. “You know that saying, that the simplest explanation is usually the right one?”
“I’m familiar with the saying, sure, but statistically speaking, that’s not true. There are so many variables to every situation, and explanations can vary widely from—”
“Kirin!”
Kirin shuts his mouth.
“Here’s a thought,” I say. “A simple one. Apossibleexplanation, if you don’t mind hearing it.”
“I’m listening.”
“What if it’s not a legend? What if the stories of the Dark Magician are real?” I step closer and lower my voice. “The passage from the notebook the other day?”
Kirin nods, and I repeat it softly:
Between the space where black meets white
Betwixt the woods of dark and light
A mirror flat reveals the sky
But turn it ‘round to know the why
