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- Sleight of Hand -

Ego Comics Presents: Sleight of Hand Vol.1 No. 1 Vernal Equinox, 2004 Published by EGO COMICS INFOTAINMENT GROUP.Ego Comics is: Neil Harmeyer, Philosopher, Lover, Janitor, Ant. Ben “Neb” Girven, Wanderer, Dreamer, Tech Support, Grasshopper.Published quarterly. The Ego Comics logo, “Ego Comics Presents” and “Stomping Ground” are all ©2004 Ego Comics InfotainmentGroup, Inc. All rights reserved. All stories, sequential art, and silliness ©2004 their respective artists and authors. Any similaritybetween any of the names, characters, persons, and/or institutions in this periodical with those of any living or dead person orinstitution is probably intended and not entirely coincidental. Ego Comics will not be held responsible for your fears, trepidations,shortcomings, or misunderstandings that may arise before, during, or after the enjoyment of this publication. PLEASE DIRECTCOMPLAINTS, CONCERNS, AND QUESTIONS TO: sancholo@egocomics.com Printed by CafePress.com Store in a cool, dryplace. Be. Breathe. Believe. Become.

MAGIC is the Highest, most Absolute, and most Divine Knowledge of NaturalPhilosophy, advanced in its works and wonderful operations by a right

understanding of the inward and occult virtue of things; so that true Agents beingapplied to proper Patients, strange and admiral effects will thereby be produced.

Whence magicians are profound and diligent searchers into Nature: they,because of their skill, know how to anticipate an effort, the which to the vulgar

shall seem to be a miracle.– from the Goetia, the Lesser Key of Solomon the King

CONTENTS

Front Cover, by Ben GirvenPage 2 .................................................................................................... Magic?, by Frank CarreraPage 7 ...................................................................................................... Poem, by Rachelle DobbsPage 8 ......................................................................... The Rejuvenated Lojeski, by Brian A. DixonPage 14 ................................................................. The 18th Apprentice: Prologue, by J.M. HunterPage 18 ................................................................................. The Amulet Incident, by Jon JohnsonPage 21 .................................................................................................... Poem, by Rachelle DobbsPage 22 ...................................................................... Revef Nibac, by Neil Harmeyer & Ben GirvenPage 28 ................................................................................. The Darkling, by Brandon Ford DoddsPage 34 ...................................................... Killer on the Road, by Frank Carrera & Jefferson HousePage 36 .................................................................................................................... ContributorsPage 38 .................................................................................................................. Up Our SleevePage 40 .................................................................................................................... Vanity Press

Crows, by Neil

Welcome to the first, inaugural, issue of EGO COMICS PRESENTS, the new quarterly ‘zine forartists, writers, poets, sloppy-haired children, and unkempt megalomaniacal mad scientists everywhere!

In conjunction with Ego Comics, and “The Bullpen” comic book message board, EGO COMICS PRESENTShas been created as an extension of Ego Comics’ publishing goals, and exists to serve as a haven forwriters, artists, and creative-minded individuals to explore their skills, their craft, and, hopefully,establish a sense of community and camaraderie. Simply put, Ego Comics Presents is meant to be avehicle to help showcase the visions and views of artists who might otherwise go unpublished.

Each quarter, Ego Comics Presents will explore the boundless world; the archetypal, the mysterious,the mundane, the tragic and fanciful, the extra-terrestrial, the psychological, and beyond, throughdifferent themed exercises and artistic wanderings, as we look within, searching for ‘meaning throughmyth and metaphor.’

This quarter’s theme of artistic and literary exploration is that of MAGIC, and all it implies.

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Milky rain, drops of cream

Falling from a scarlet sky

On bone white faces

Floating out of the wine dark sea

Blood and Bone

Thudding in the darkness of midnight

Ancient rhythm

The bowl is passed round

A circle those waiting

For a sweeping of spirits eager to speak

Blood and Bone

Gri pping the earth with ferocity

Focused on prey

Now

Run

Fast and hard,

Sweet metallic scent fills the air

Blood and Bone

Yellowed streetlights buzzing like mad insects

The sharp tap-clicks of high heeled shoes

Sweaty palms holding sweaty money

Flash of light, feint black smoke,

The quick tap-clicks of a woman with her prize

Blood and Bone

Scent of powder

Soft hair and wide glasses, frames to hazel eyes

Tiny bundle

Looking out the window at midnight

Portal to the outside

Cradle the bundle close

Mother protector

Holding the line against the night

Because these Bones are as precious as diamonds

And Blood is thicker than water

Poem by RachelleDrawing by Neil

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“The Rejuvenated Lojeski”by Brian A. Dixon

I’d never particularly believed in magic. I was always the type of man to say thatmagic consists of sawing some coed in a leotard in half in front of an auditorium full ofticket buyers. It wasn’t always like that, though, for you or me or anybody. A stagemagician who called himself the Illuminating Lojeski made me see it like it is. Now, Ireckon every last grain of magic must’ve drained out of my being during the Great War.Seeing what I’ve seen, I suppose it’s true what they say: magic is for children.

Miraculously enough, I was patching a hole in the front window with one of Lojeski’sposters the one and only time I ever met the man. That morning, you see, a couple ofkids had been tossing a baseball back and forth while making their way down the sidewalkson Main Street. One of them had an aim that needed a lot of work. The ball camethrough the glass somewhere between LOUDONVILLE and DINER, hit the counter, anddamn near landed smack dab in the middle of Doc Koppelman’s corned beef hash. Both ofthose boys took off just as soon as they heard the glass breaking. All I saw was theback of their heads. I did figure out who that baseball belongs to but neither one, ofcourse, has ever come back to retrieve it.

They could come on back and get it, too. I know what you’re thinking but I’m notthe type to holler about this sort of thing. I’d be more than happy to give it right backto them. Boys will be boys. I lost plenty of balls myself when I was a kid. Hell, I oncelost the most important baseball of my life doing something stupid like that. It was thelast thing my daddy ever gave me, that baseball, before he went off to the war. I don’tknow why I kept on playing with that thing, tossing it around with my buddies like it wassome kind of toy, even after I’d learned that he was never coming home. I guess I neverrealized how much that baseball meant to me until I’d lost it in the duck pond acrossfrom Floyd’s Field. You don’t understand these things, what loss means, until you’vematured. I suppose that’s the way it ought to be. It’s the sort of thing that kids don’tthink about, however, and the occasional baseball will make its way through a plate-glasswindow.

So, here I was, temporarily patching up a baseball-sized hole in the diner’s frontwindow with one of the Illuminating Lojeski’s cardboard show posters, when I hear thedingaling of the front door’s bell and he comes swooping on in, cape, top hat, and all.

That’s what he called himself on the poster, anyway. “The Illuminating Lojeski:Keeper of the Ancient Secrets of the Orient, Master of the Forgotten Lore of Atlantis,Magician Extraordinaire!” I had been to see his one-night-only show the Sunday beforealong with just about everybody else in Loudonville, except I hadn’t found much of it tobe very illuminating. He’d spent an hour or so pulling coins from empty pitchers, yankingsilk scarves from breast pockets and empty hands, and had performed a finale thatinvolved revealing two doves from underneath a polka-dotted handkerchief. I don’tknow much about the ancient secrets of the Orient but I’ve seen my share of eggscracked into men’s hats and Lojeski’s powers of illusion were anything but extraordinary.

At a glance, anyone could see that the magician was just about as tired as his bagof tricks. The Illuminating Lojeski was not a young man. I couldn’t tell you exactly howlong he’d been pulling colored scarves from out of his sleeves but I had the feeling thathe was about as old as that gimmick was itself. He was as skinny as a rail, withered skinwrapped tight around his undoubtedly aching bones. Even with his cape on it looked as ifa strong gust of wind could have blown the old man over. Watching him hold those coinsup during his show I could see that he was fighting hard to keep his hands from shaking.I can only imagine what a life of showbiz on the road must take out of a man like that.Putting that last piece of masking tape along the edge of his poster, I looked up to seehim standing there, just inside the door. It was nearly eight o’clock at night, middle ofthe summer, and there wasn’t another soul in the diner discounting the two of us. Ialmost laughed out loud to see him, days after the show, standing there in his full getup;

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he had that black and purple cape swirling around him, the starched shirt and the lavenderbowtie, the white gloves, and sweaty wisps of white hair were curling out from under histattered top hat. You had to wonder if the man owned any other clothes. I say I almostlaughed but, an instant later, I caught a glimpse of the outright terror that was in histired eyes.

His gray eyes looked to be the size of saucers. He was staring at me, didn’t blinkonce, and made no effort to hide his shakes. The magician was literally shaking in hisshoes. I dropped the roll of tape I was holding and went to him immediately. I didn’teven have the chance to ask him what the matter was.

“Please,” he gasped. “You’ve got to hide me!” His voice was strained and hoarse,not the jolly crow of the barker that he’d used to call from the stage of the LoudonvilleHigh School during his show.

I’ve heard of townsfolk running unwanted performers and politicians out of townon a rail but I couldn’t, for the life of me, imagine why anyone in our town would be afterthe fading, harmless magician Lojeski, even if his show had been disappointingly uninspired.“Hide you? Why?”He just stood there, shaking his head back and forth as his arms quaked with fear,staring into my eyes with the gaze of an animal that’s being run down. “Please. They willhurt me, whether they mean to or not. They’re just behind. You must hide me!”

I had questions, plenty of them, but there are times when a man ought to stopasking questions and move. I couldn’t imagine who would be stalking an old man who hadonly a plastic wand and a bouquet of artificial flowers to defend himself but the fear inLojeski’s eyes was real and I wasn’t about to deny it.

I took Lojeski by his shoulder and whisked him away, down the line of stools andalong the counter, toward the door at the back. Rick Dodson, the plumber’s son, he andI had just finished redoing the diner’s bathroom. I opened the bathroom up and beforeI could say a word that magician had stepped up with his quivering legs and was standingthere on top of the toilet lid, clutching his magic wand and the edge of his cape, staringwide-eyed toward the diner’s darkening front windows. “Shut the door,” he hissed, bobbinghis head toward the gap between the bathroom door and the polished title floor.

So, feeling a lot like a stage assistant shutting the magician inside his cabinet ofwonders for a final disappearing act, I did like he said. I shut the bathroom door andthen, after a few quick glances over my shoulder, I made my way back to the counter.

No sooner had I taken up my usual position by the cash register, pulling out mywiping rag and trying my best to act as if tonight was a typically slow night, I saw thehalf-sized mob in pursuit fill the broken front window. A heartbeat later there camethe dingaling of the front door and they were upon me.

There had to have been at least a dozen of them and they were most definitelyacting as a mob. Bobby Koppelman – I think he was the oldest – was out in front. He hadhis balled-up fists held out, assuming a pose he’d probably picked up from watchingGillette Cavalcade of Sports, and the other kids fell in behind him. Again, I probablywould have laughed at the scene if I hadn’t looked into their eyes. Bobby looked almostlike he was about to cry. His baby blues were wincing and wet but there was more thansimple sadness in his gaze. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such hatred, such rage in the eyesof a ten-year-old boy.

They were all like that, armed as well as kids can be and surely intending to bedangerous. Woody Parker had his slingshot with him and I could see that his pocketswere bulging with rocks. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that boy stand still as long as he didthat night, waiting for Bobby and the mob to act. Ronnie Bond, who couldn’t have beenmore than six years old, was standing just to Bobby’s side. He kept tugging anxiously onthe older boy’s shirt sleeve, practically chomping at the bit. Judge Tillman’s youngestboy had obviously been forced to improvise; he was carrying a stick, barely more than atwig really, but he held it in front of him in a manner that was nothing short of menacing.Even the Hopper twins were there, their dirty blonde hair tied up into identical pigtails,their noses and rosy cheeks twisted into sour expressions that spoke of revenge. Seeing

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those little girls as part of the gang sent a shiver down my spine.I tried to think of something to say, some casual remark about their showing up

so late, but, I have to admit, my mind just froze. I was standing there gaping at them allwhen Bobby stepped forward, every bit the born leader. It was as if he had been destinedto someday lead a lynch mob. “Where’s the magician?” he said without the slightest bitof timidity. It wasn’t a request, it was a demand.

I pushed my wiping rag to one side and stood up as straight and tall as I couldbehind the counter. I suppose at that moment, faced with the combined force of adozen angry tykes, I was trying my best to act like an adult. “Now wait just a minute,” Isaid, then cleared my throat. “What’s going on here?”

“He knows,” Ronnie whispered accusatorily, tugging hard on Bobby’s sleeve.“Where’s the magician?” Bobby demanded once more.Grady Lewis and Skip Parker were both standing toward the back of the crowd,

each one carrying his Lil’ Slugger with him. The two of them started to pat the bats withtheir palms.It’s not that these kids were threatening me. As a matter of fact, these kids could havenothing but pleasant memories of their past visits with me at the diner. No, the threatwas most certainly saved for the man they wanted to find and I could only imagine whatsort of nightmarish situation Lojeski might find himself in if this pack of children wereto actually catch up with him. I fully understood the urgency that had been in his plea,the terror in his eyes.I thought of the magician as he must have been at that moment, cowering atop my newtoilet lid with his black cape pulled up tight to his chin.

“What are you all going on about, now?” I asked, maintaining my act. “Themagician?”

“Yeah,” Woody Parker cried out. Then, with an attention to detail that surprisedeven me, he turned toward my front window and pointed dramatically at the poster thatI’d just finished taping over the glass. “The magician.”

Whitey McGann, he was standing toward the very back of the group. The funnything is that his eyes weren’t angry, they were afraid, and they never once looked in mydirection. While the other children were staring me down, grinding their teeth in fervor,Whitey just shuffled his feet and kept glancing again and again toward the poster in thewindow. I knew right then and there whose horsehide I had sitting behind my counter.

I shook my head and offered a false chuckle. “You kids are down here at eighto’clock looking for a magician? Didn’t you get enough of a show the other night over atthe high school?”

None of them was amused. Not a single kid softened or relaxed or moved. Bythis point, the intensity of their focus was beginning to make me sweat. I felt, for a fewminutes, as if I were under the hot lights of a police interrogation. These were notsimply wound-up children, fueled by excitement and too much chocolate. These werechildren transformed by depths of anger rarely felt by children. Their innocence hadbeen replaced. I took a deep breath and looked back into Bobby Koppelman’s angry, weteyes and for the first time I asked myself what Lojeski could possibly have done to turnthese children this way.

“Why do you want the magician?” I asked, genuinely curious.Meredith Louise Brewer, Estella Brewer’s daughter, who I hadn’t yet noticed,

leaned out from behind one of the boys to glare at me and pout. “He took somethingthat wasn’t his,” she whined, then she posed with her hands on the hips of her pink dress.“He stole something from us. He has to give it back!”

“We’re going to make him give it back,” Woody added, and then he stretched hisslingshot for emphasis.

I shook my head. “He took something from you kids?”They all nodded in unison. The gang seemed to flex as one.“What could he have taken from you kids? Hm? What did he steal?”When I asked the question they all, for the first time, flinched. Angry eyes

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were turned toward the floor, hands were shoved into pockets. I couldn’t tell if it wasembarrassment or fright. Clearly, they had a secret. Grady and Skip looked nervouslyat one another and they each lowered their bats. Ronnie stopped tugging on Bobby’ssleeve. Not a single one of those furious children wanted to answer that question. As Ipressed them I watched them lose their edge. I watched them break apart and changefrom a mob into individual boys and girls, nervous and troubled.

“I haven’t seen the magician,” I said sternly, and before I knew it I was scoldingthem. “I haven’t seen the magician since Sunday. I don’t know what this is about but youstop all this foolishness now. Bobby, does your daddy know you’re down here with allyour friends, carrying sticks and stones?”

Bobby was still angry, I could see it when he looked up at me, but he just shookhis head. “Come on, now,” I called out, raising my voice a bit. “I want all of you to get onhome. Do you hear me? This is silly. Get on out of here and go find your folks.”

The youngest kids started moving almost at once. The Hopper twins went to thedoor and opened it up. Grady and Skip followed, dragging their bats behind them. Woody,Ronnie, and the Tillman boy stopped to stare at me for a moment, though, before theywent. Ronnie’s stare, in particular, sent daggers my way and I could see the angerflaring in his freckled cheeks. He was staring at me with that same accusation. Somehow,he saw right through me.

Bobby Koppelman, his fists as tense and as tight as ever, leaned toward me andgrowled once more before leading them all out of the diner and into the summer night.“You shouldn’t be yelling at us,” he said. “He’s the one that stole.”

And with that, the child mob was gone.I stood there leaning on the counter for what must have been a full five minutes

before I went to get the Illuminating Lojeski out of my bathroom. Part of me waswaiting to see that the children really did take off, head down Main Street either towardtheir homes or in further search of the magician, but part of me was a bit overwhelmed.Never, in my life, had I seen kids behaving like that before and I’ve never seen it since.Bobby’s last words had left me stunned and, to be honest, a little bit ashamed of the wayin which I’d warned them off.

When I went to the back of the diner and flung open that bathroom door, findingLojeski crouched on top of the toilet like some kind of fugitive, I was more than a littleagitated. “They’re gone,” I told him.

I didn’t help him down off the toilet lid, I just went back to my usual place behindthe counter. The old man followed and when he stood there across from me I asked him,“Did you hear them? Could you hear what they were saying?”

Lojeski, panting just a little with exhaustion now that the stark terror had fadedfrom him, adjusted the top hat resting on his head and nodded slowly. “Yes.”

“I’ve watched Bobby Koppelman grow since he was a babe,” I told him, looking outthe front windows at the shadows on Main Street. “He’s a good kid. I’ve known him tenyears and I’ve never seen him like that.”

Lojeski didn’t say anything in his defense. He watched me, cowered beneath hiscape, and I hoped he was feeling ashamed. I shook my head.

“What did you take from them?” I asked after a moment or two, and when itseemed to me that he was reluctant to answer I asked him again. “They had bats andsticks and slingshots. I just saved your skin. You’re going to tell me what it is that youtook from a group of children – little kids – that made them come down here like that.”

With a practiced flare, the same flare that he had used to reveal doves frombeneath a handkerchief, his weathered hand waved once before my face and then slippeddown into the folds of his black and purple cape. An instant later, without seeming tohave come from anywhere at all, a white box appeared between his fingers and he placedit down on the diner counter between us.

It was a cardboard box. That’s all. It couldn’t have been more than six inches oneach side. It looked to me to be the sort of thing that you buy nails or buckshot in downat the hardware store. The box had been crudely transformed, however, and it was

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obvious that it had been decorated by children. Someone had used red, blue, and yellowcrayons to draw sloppy, scattered stars on every side. They were haphazardly drawnshapes, scrawled by the awkward fingers of a five-year-old. A smattering of stickershad been stuck on the folded lid, stickers of flowers and rabbits and little spring chicks.It was a child’s plaything, worthless aside from the imaginative values some little girl orboy had placed within it.

I stared at the box for a moment, looking over the childish decorations, andthen I looked to Lojeski, flabbergasted. “This is it? You stole this box from thosechildren?”

The magician nodded. For a moment I was speechless.“Please, you don’t understand,” Lojeski offered. He reached out to lift the box

in his gloved hands and shook it from side to side for a moment. “Magic is a gift nottypically understood. Capturing it is rare, rarer than you can possibly imagine.”

Gently, as if the hunk of cardboard in his hands were a fragile artifact, he heldthe box out and offered it to me. “Here. Go ahead. Touch it.”

So, watching Lojeski warily, I reached down and lifted up that curious child’splaything. It was light as a feather and almost certainly empty when I first touched it.I turned it over, looking at the crayon-scrawled stars, feeling its edges. As I touched it,turning it from top to bottom, I felt that six-inch cube grow heavy in my hands. Ithappened slowly, subtly, and I almost couldn’t tell that it was happening. Within moments,however, I’m telling you that box was heavier than it had been when I had taken it fromthe magician and I was certain that something had been captured between its cardboardconfines.

A bit startled, I looked to Lojeski to see if he had done anything. I’m not quitesure what I expected to see, and I can’t quite tell you what the magician could have donewith wires or mirrors to suddenly change that box’s contents, but there was nothing uphis sleeve. He was standing across the counter, watching me with a sort of weary smileon his thin lips. I was just about to ask him what he had done when he bobbed his headand commanded, “Open it.”

I fumbled at the box’s cardboard lid with my fingers, scratching colored waxand stickers as I did. When I finally grasped the lid I flipped it open fast.

Inside the box was a baseball. For a moment I was convinced that it was all atrick, that the old magician was hoping some stage spectacle might amuse or distract meenough to let the whole matter slide. I glanced down behind the countertop to makesure that the baseball that I had picked up that morning, the pill that had come throughthe front window, was still resting there. It was. I turned my attention back to the ballwithin the box. “What is this?” I asked quietly.

Lojeski shrugged at me as if he honestly didn’t know.When I tipped the box and the ball fell out into my hands, understanding suddenly

overcame me. The feeling of that horsehide hitting my skin was like a spark of electricity,a spark that traveled through my arm and into my head and lit up every last corner of mymemory. I tightened my grasp around that baseball with all the strength that my fingerswould give me. It was an old ball, older than many of the children who had just been inthe diner combined. It was a baseball that was almost as old as I was. I recognized thename emblazoned on it. Every last scratch, every last mark on that ball became familiarto me. There was the black smudge of a thumbprint along the red stitches, just besidemy own thumb and nearly the same size. I immediately knew that it was the thumbprintof my daddy.

“No,” I whispered, feeling as if the wind had been taken out of me.“What is it?” Lojeski asked. He leaned in close to me, his face just in front of

mine. He was watching me, not the ball. “Tell me what it is.”“This baseball,” I explained breathlessly, “it’s been at the bottom of a pond for

thirty-five years, down by Floyd’s Field. This baseball was gone, gone forever.”“Not now,” Lojeski said with a smile. “Here it is.”Still holding that ball as if my life depended on keeping it within my clenched fist,

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relishing the feel of those worn stitches underneath my fingertips, I stared at him.Lojeski sighed and reached down to shut the lid on the little cardboard box. “You werethere at my show on Sunday evening, weren’t you? I saw you there. You weren’t impressed.No one there was. No one has been, not for years. Magic isn’t cards, coins, and pigeons.”

I swallowed hard and nodded at him.“I know that,” he continued, tipping his head. Suddenly he seemed exhausted

and his cold, gray eyes looked tired. “But I love what I do, I always have. It’s not thetricks themselves that I love, it’s the idea. Do you understand? It’s the idea of magic.That’s what cards, coins, and this wand of mine give us. Sometimes, the idea is all wehave to go on. I knew magic once, I really did. Not smoke and mirrors, real magic. Youmight laugh to hear that, even as you’re holding that baseball of yours, but it’s true. Iknew magic.”

“This?” I asked, holding up the baseball my daddy had given me just beforeleaving to die in the Great War.

“Just like that,” Lojeski said with a nod. “But that was a long time ago. I forgot,just as you and every other man and woman in that audience forgot.”

I shoved the box on the counter back toward the magician. “Then what’s this?”“Those children,” Lojeski said with a smile as he greedily snatched up the box

once more. “They made this. Together, they made this. And this is real. We tellourselves that we’re never going to grow old. At least, that’s what I told myself once. Ithought the stage, the tricks, would be enough. I’m an old man now, and when I travel toa town and find that the children there have such promise, such splendor, that they’vecaptured such a thing as I have lost…”

He trailed off then, shrugging. Then, with a dramatic shake of his arm, Lojeskicaused the box to vanish once more within the folds of his cape. I looked to the baseballin my hands, examining the black thumbprint that I knew to have been made by mydaddy’s own thumb, and Lojeski took that moment of distraction to turn away from me.He made his way toward the front door as I caressed my baseball.

“You stole that, from children!” I called out, stopping him in his tracks.He paused with his hand on the door and looked back at me with those cold, gray,

tired eyes. “They’ll go on,” he suggested and shrugged. “They have enough.”“No,” I said, letting a fist drop to the countertop. “No, they don’t.”Lojeski’s smiled faded then but he tipped his top hat, lifted his wand in a gesture

of futility, and disappeared through the diner’s front door. And I let him go.Magic doesn’t last. Lojeski said it himself. How long might that magic box of his

last? I don’t know but I’m sure it won’t be long enough. There’s never enough. I knownow that I should have dragged the Illuminating Lojeski out of that bathroom hidingplace and made him face those children that night. If he had seen the emotion in theireyes, if he had been able to witness the transformation that had taken place in them, hewould have known that the magic of youth he’d taken from them could never be replenished.His greed left those children as empty as he felt, and theirs is a void that can neveragain be filled. The illuminated Lojeski, of all men, should know they can never berejuvenated.

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May, 02, 2004Cardinal Davadi,

Having been ousted and no longer a welcomed member of the order, itfigures it would take a threat of this caliber to give me cause to write to you.If you and the rest of the priests can find a moment and restrain yourselvesfrom the folds in the robes of the young altar boys, a presence has stirred inthe Delaware state.

It would seem that he who history has christened “Iago” by thatElizabethan man-whore is active again. The Order should’ve known that The OldMan wouldn’t stay dormant for long. Weren’t the corruption of Othello and thedemise of the 17th Apprentice Desdemona enough cause to extinguish thiscorruptive little cur?

Your constant bickering of policies with the dwindling Mages hasallowed the former soldier; Othello’s second in command to plant roots in theinner cities dissident youth. One child has already fallen prey to Iago, he whovies for ever constant vengeance, since being cursed and trapped in the wiltedbody of a Moorish slave, The Old Man, as most now call him. It was the mageslong ago who often employed kings with enchanted scepters. It was they whomanipulated alchemical elements with their wands, and bound nature for theiruse with those wooden staffs. It is they, who now have to step forth and stopthe old man from using the inner city’s naive, young to retrieve his wand. He hasnever abandoned his goal of acquiring the 18th apprentice. Allow the mages ofold to wake. Cease bickering amongst yourselves, I implore you and do somethingabout this fallen apprentice. I have patrol cars out looking for the old man, nowthat he’s stepped over the line in terms of this worlds laws. My aim is to havehim temporarily trapped in the local police department jail, but you know aswell as I that won’t hold him for long. He doesn’t know about me yet. He doesn’tknow that he’s been watched for weeks now. But it’s only a matter of time.Send help, wake the magi and send them please.

Signed,Dominique CorrelliWilmington chief of police.

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“The Amulet Incident”

From the Stories of Jeret, volume three, book two, chapter ten

These are the tales of Jeret Elsmere, adventurer, mercenary, swordsman. Put to writtenword by Midreth Royhull, historian and scholar. (Translated to modern English by Jon Johnson

(Sir), c.2003)

It was during the First Age, when history was being recorded with reliability that theAmulet of Syf-Arrochdale initially appeared. Worn by the Tribal Chief Svennot in his ascent topower over the other sierra tribes of the then-world, tribes that lived unhindered by kings orcountries, the amulet became synonymous with the emergence of leadership and unconditionalmustering of followers. Chief Svennot ruled for such a short and bright period over the tribesthat it was truly the amulet alone that brought him to power. With the death of Svennot by the hand of Emporer Che-Guin of the Baltids, the amulet passedto a leader who had no need for such a bauble, even so enchanted. The amulet would then disappear from known history for a time, to return after the fall of theBaltid Empire. Historiographers of more repute than I have recounted the tales the amuletspawned, from the aid it gave the Matriarchy of Tantalonia to the union of Tantalonia and theKingdom of Eron.

Through to the end of the First Age, the amulet went unheard from. It has been surmisedthat it remained in the custody of the Tanta-Eron royal family until the beginning of the SecondAge, the coming of the Three Theocracies. This could be assumed to be true, as the Priest-LordLenan was believed to have been wearing it at the time he and his cultists created the Theocracies.

The expulsion of all things arcane from the Theocracies by the thirtieth Rise of Yalna ofthe Second Age, the amulet once again became lost, with no record of it appearing. Exempting afew rumors, hearth-told stories and fanciful hearsay from adventurers and magicians, the Amuletof Syf-Arrochdale had become little more than a myth.

Jeret Elsmere was in his twenty-fifth Rise when he was hired by the sage and scholarPhilem Oftnaught. Philem had determined the location of the Amulet of Syf-Arrochdale throughvarying means of deduction, investigation and probable divination and chose to utilize an adventurerto retrieve it for him. Details of the hire were not made available to me by Jeret; all he claimedwas that he “was to make choice gold with the deal.”

Jeret contracted the aid of two adventurous fellows, Corin and Optinuvia. Corin, Jeretclaimed, had never worked alongside him before, and was hired strictly for his expertise indisarming tricky devices. Optinuvia was a woman Jeret had known and operated with on numerousprior occasions. In the words of Jeret:

“That woman, she was a frightening creature. Large, at least a hand taller than I. Hugearms. We always said she could crush someone, should she want to. A good warrior to have byyour side. Hells, she was best placed in front of you during conflict!”

Not much is known of Corin. I was able to locate some arrest notices for him, for pettytheft and enticing a riot. I could find no surviving family for this record.

Optinuvia Armstrong hailed from a family of Northerners that had settled in the outlayingtown of Riverbend, near the city of Sweetnut. Her father was a shipwright and former warrior,her mother a Swordmaiden of the Fjords. Truly a sizeable family of fourteen, all together.Having met her surviving three brothers and sister, it amazes me she allowed herself to beinvolved with Jeret. To this day, the remaining family members have little good to say regardingJeret and the relationship he had with their sister.

The trio left the city of Sweetnut on the third day of the second month of Low Summer.This is the recount as told to me by Jeret for this tome.

“We walked for three days down the Kings Road, then rode in the cart of a local farmer,who was headed our way. A day later we stopped in the town of Higgin Bottom. We rode fromthere on horses.

“I think it was ten days past that when we arrived at the spot Oftnaught had mappedout for us. It was not a place any of us wanted to be. The bastard failed to mention it was a tombof one of the old Forest Lords! Deep in the Coldwood it was, close to the border of Tanteron.Bloody dangerous ground for the likes of me.

• 19 •

“So there we were, standing in front of a cairn covered with shrubs and no way inside tosee. That is, until what-was-his-name, Corin, found the edge of a door. The little fool had openedit up before I told him to and he got his self sprayed with some form of glue that attracted thosenasty forest flies. You understand? The big, black ones that bite and sting! Of course we hadto run into the tomb, shutting the door behind us. Hah! A good trick, it was. There was no wayto open it from the inside.

“Pressing on, I led the way. As the rest of the tomb was most likely trapped and the factCorin had attracted the rest of the flies away from myself and Optinuvia, I took the lead andasked that the others follow my footsteps precisely.

“It was not long before I had moved most of the way down the corridor to a junctionpoint, Optinuvia behind me, the foolish boy behind her. He died there, halfway down a tombhallway, pricked with poisoned needles dropped from the ceiling. If it were not for the factOptinuvia carried a shield and was able to sprint, she might have died there as well. Small comfort,knowing what was to come, eh Midreth?

“At the junture of the corridor, Optinuvia talked me into separating. I was to headright, she was to head left. I gave her a glow gem to light her way and I — a glow gem? What hascome to the world when an academic such as yourself is unaware of glow gems? They are solidifiedexcretions of glow beetles. When you crack them between your fingers, they glow brightly forquite a while. May I continue?

“I moved down my side of the tomb with as much caution as I could muster. I have nevertaken into any agreement that might end my life before I was ready, so caution became theinstrument of operation for that day.

“It was not all that long of a corridor before I stopped at the entrance of a room. Thisroom, oh the magnificence! The glitter of gold, jewels and priceless ornaments shined back at mefrom where I stood by the entrance. It was denied me, of course. Before I could even think oflooking for insidious devices, movement from within alerted me to danger. Three hulking shapeswere silently headed towards me and none of them looked to be anything but deadly. Tall, statue-like figures they were, all the color of mud and featureless beyond having the basic shape ofmen. They moved quickly, quickly enough for one of them to strike a blow at me, which I was ableto duck and avoid. As quick as they were, I was quicker. I backed off down the corridor yellingfor ‘Nuvia.

“Little did I know at the time that ‘Nuvia was fending off a giant flesh-eating wormafter she had found the Amulet of Syf-Arrochdale and placed it around her neck. She claimedthat when she took the amulet from the remains of the resident of the tomb, the worm attackedher from within the corpse, causing it to explode. Those flesh-eaters, they can lay dormant formany a Rise. A good trap for tomb-robbers, I have come to think.

“I ran headlong into her battle with the worm and sliced it in two with a good hit from mysabre and began looking for an exit. I explained the predicament we were in and ‘Nuvia readiedherself by the room entrance, cursing as she saw the creatures.

“It was not long before the creatures and ‘Nuvia were at it in full. Although she did herbest, she could not keep the creatures from pushing thier way into the room. I did my best to aidher, but strength in combat was what ‘Nuvia was better at. It was not long before she hadhacked one of the creatures to pieces. The one that had chosen to attack me was not adept athitting a target of my speed. It missed me four times but was able to back me against the wall,where it broke the wall with another missed attempt at me.

“The hole was not big, but I was able to make a jump at it and break my way through tothe faltering daylight of the forest. I leaned back in to call for Optinuvia and narrowly missed ablow from the creature again. It did not matter. She had seen my escape and was moving intoposition to utilize the hole as well. She fended off the one creature and bashed at the one by thehole with her shield. Her strength was something to behold in battle, I will tell you. Two hitsfrom her shield were enough to send the creature from the hole and give her enough time to leapthrough.

“Now mind you, ‘Nuvia was larger than me. Her shoulders broader, her arms wider around.She did not quite fit in the hole. She had gotten her shield and sword arm out, her head and most“She was lucky, all she lost were her boots. The creatures tried to get at her from the hole butdid not continue once we were off and running for our mounts.

“The ride back to Sweetnut was uneventful. I mentioned that her wearing the amuletmight not be the best of ideas, but let it go when she claimed the right to wear it. She did findit, after all. Who was I to complain to her after our many times together? It was not difficultto trust her, particularly in that she had never betrayed anyone. Ever.

• 20 •

“Seven days later we returned to Sweetnut. I contacted that spilth Philem Oftnaughtand both ‘Nuvia and I met him at his home.

“I have cursed some names before. Some more often than others. Few as many times asI have Philem Oftnaught. We had gone to his home to receive payment for retrieval of theamulet. I gave him my opinion of his procedures, what with him not telling us about the tomb. Iwished to be compensated for the risk factor. He brought us to his laboratory, where I began tothink things might be more than they seem. He asked to see the amulet, which ‘Nuvia thenbrought out from under her cloak and tossed upon a table.

“Oftnaught was furious! He could not see the reason either of us might be wearing theamulet, unless we desired the powers it possessed. Before either of us could react, Oftnaughttossed a green ball at ‘Nuvia, where it came from I have no idea, which erupted in a greenishyellow fire after hitting her straight in the gut. There was little I could do, but still reached forher, burning the fingers off my right glove, scorching the skin to my hand underneath. To myutter anger and dismay, Optinuvia was dead before she could scream, burned in some eldritchfire created by a man who claimed to be a scholar!

“I moved fast, diving over a table and overturning it, using it as cover from the cretinthat killed my friend. Bottles, containers and papers flew about as the table flipped, some beingcrunched underfoot as I landed.

“Oftnaught was calling to me, taunting me while I pulled a knife from my belt and preparedto throw it at the murderer. It was a special blade, one I acquired from an old associate someRises before. Enchanted, it was supposed to be, but I never knew it for certain. At least, notuntil I threw it and it ended Philem Oftnaught in the middle of his insulting diatribe.

“When I looked above the table I was behind and spotted Oftnaught sprawled atop anoverturned chair, I began to think that the blade I threw could have some small magic to it yet.I cautiously approached the form of Oftnaught, not trusting that he would be dead. I have seenmany things, friend Midreth, the dead that rise is not the least of them. I laughed aloud, to thisday I laugh aloud when I think of it, seeing my blade stuck in his head, right through the left eye.In my anger at the loss of my friend Optinuvia, I took more than a few minutes removing my bladefrom his head.

“In my search of Oftnaught and his house, his belongings and his books, I had come todiscover his true intent and his true riches. He was no sage or scholar, he was a magician with adesire to rule his fellow mages through the use of the amulet. In the end I took all his wealth, hismage-stuff and finally, the amulet. I left money for the family of Optinuvia and moved to thecity of Hawktower for a time.

Jeret never told me what happened with the amulet. He once claimed to have sold it.Once, after many goblets of wine, he mentioned that he had taken it to a sage by the name ofManyd. This sage was supposedly able to perceive if the amulet, or any other object, wasenchanted. While I could not get a final answer out of Jeret while induced with wine, he did tellme this when I broached the subject again when he was sober.

“Magic or not, the Amulet of Syf-Arrochdale is just a trinket. Who is to say if the magicwas not just in the belief people had in the wearer at the time? In time, it will be you historianswho rewrite the truth to make their own magic on the reader and the student. Who is to saywhat is more magic, the story or the belief within the story? Then again Midreth, who is to saythat I do not still own the amulet and keep it for the next age of wonders?”

• 21 •

Here it is

Take the old path

Grown wild without use

Through the trees of memory

Their emerald light will light your way

Past the stones of princi ples

Wear hard shoes here, for some are sharp

And cut deeply

Until you come to this

An old stone fount

Polished smooth by time and hands

Be not too greedy with these waters

For those who are live life without seeing it

Drink not too little either

For those who do not drink live a life as gray and dull as apathy

This is the fount of dreams

A distilled liqueur of hopes, ideals, and shoulds

So fill your hands with this liquid light

Drink deep

And as it fills your throat

As cool and insubstantial as smoke

Strive to be happy

Poem by RachelleDrawing by Frank Carrera

• 22 •

“REVEF NIBAC”By Neil Harmeyer

Illustrations by Ben Girven

“Hurry,” the steam from Bob’s mouth shouted as he trudged towards the strange,unassuming, little cabin in the center of the expansive, snow-covered field they were strugglingthrough. It was frightfully cold here (wherever here was), and neither Bob, nor Celeste, hadcome dressed in the appropriate winter garb.

It was but moments ago that they were enjoying a romantic picnic in Emperor Saj Ellikahn’sroyal hedge maze when their peaceful afternoon was inconveniently interrupted by the madramblings of an intergalactic ‘mental defect’ known as “the Tinker.” He was upset, erratic, strangerthan normal, and it wasn’t long before an argument ensued. Words were said, accusation turnedto altercation, and quite suddenly, without warning, Bob and Celeste found themselvesunexpectedly displaced, and abandoned, at the edge of a barren forest, and up to their thighs inclean, undisturbed wintry powder.

It was all so jarring, so unbelievable, the shifting transference and subsequent gut-wrenching roller coaster ride through the Nether and Ether, that Time, it seemed, had effectivelystopped, for an eternity, for a moment, for a single, solitary instant that spanned the emptinessof Forever.

Celeste, thanks to her “alien” (alien being a relative term) physiognomy, was able torecover pretty quickly, and shook off the effects of the temporal jaunt in short order.

Bob, however, didn’t fare as well, and he nearly got sick all over their re-entry point. Hisstomach, however, stubbornly refused to give up the contents of its last meal and he grudginglyhad to settle for suffering through a round of painfully repetitive ‘dry heaves’ instead. Oh, butfor the weak constitution of the human body…

Once the rushing white light had diffused enough to reveal their surroundings, Bob andCeleste cautiously looked around, through half-closed eyes, as their reeling senses took it all in.Realization waited for the speed of speech to finally catch up, as their minds were violently cold-booted to accept the impossibleness of it all: For one thing, it was cold here. Damn cold. Bob hadnever experienced cold like this before. Sure, there had been the occasional, minor, freaksnowstorm in his hometown back on earth that might have closed school for a couple hours, or thetime he had gone hunting on his grandfather’s farm up in Wisconsin and the hunting party had leftthe warm comfort of the farmhouse, before the sun had even got around to dragging itself out ofbed, only to be welcomed by temperatures of -20 degrees. No, this was a different cold: a lifeless,barren, unyielding, and lonely cold.

• 23 •

For another thing, Bob only had a fragmentary recollection of the events that had ledthem to this harsh, unforgiving environment, and the fog in his memory was really starting to vexhim.

One would think that with all the “strange stains and mysterious smells” he’d encounteredlately, not to mention having watched, equally fascinated and terror-stricken, as the very rulesof physics, science, and history (at least as he had understood it up until that particular moment)had been chucked, quite unapologetically, into the wastebasket that was quickly becoming hisfoundation of knowledge, that Bob’s natural and pre-programmed sense of terran anxiety andapprehension would have relaxed enough to allow for the queer and unusual on a pretty regularbasis anymore.

The smoke-gray forest completely circled the field they were running through and it didnot look like it had been green, or played host to Flora or Fauna, in millennia. The trees, the onlytestament that there had ever been any kind of life here at all, were hard-gnarled, like frozenskeletons, twisted, bent, and bereft of comfort anddevoid of seed.

The only thing these trees bore, suspendedand dangling from random branches for as far as theeye could see, were many twigs and sticks, fashionedinto what appeared to be crude representations ofsome kind of runes, tied together by twine, andsinew… or whatever material was used in theirconstruction. And when the harsh, frozen wind blew,these curious charms rattled in the trees, againstother branches, against each other, an eerie concertof superstitious clattering and unknown purpose.

How long would we have waited there, flat-footed, confused, and freezing, in the forest, afraidto stay put, and afraid to move out, secretly hopingsomeone, anyone, was going to jump out from behind a tree announcing to them, and 50 millionviewers, that they been unceremoniously “Punk’d,” if they hadn’t been forced to move, if theyhadn’t heard the monstrous roar and thunderous approach of the menacing ‘something’ advancingfrom somewhere within, or just beyond, the forest?

Bob’s thoughts returned to the ‘now,’ as he was getting close to the cabin. The cabin satat the uppermost point of a gently sloping field that, he realized, they had only ascended abouthalfway. (Only halfway!?) From here, Bob could see that about a third of the A-frame cabin hadbeen buried by snow, and peering through watery, stinging eyes, Bob thought he could make outwhat appeared to be the top of a mailbox…

“Bob!” a faint voice called out from somewhere behind him. Bob turned to look around, alot more slowly then was his numbed sense of urgency, and realized that Celeste had fallenbehind, and was struggling, slowly, through the deep snow. She did not look well. Unknown to Bob,the extreme cold was causing her blood to slow and her mind to shut down. She desperatelywanted to sleep, just curl up in a hole somewhere and hibernate.

Celeste wore a maroon sleeveless shirt, and her arms were crossed, colored an evendeeper shade of gray from the extreme bite of the cold on her skin, as she tried to keep herselfas warm as possible. Her face was down, buried in her chest, to keep out the elements, and herwet hair hung heavily in thick blue strands, framing her face. Bob couldn’t help think that, despiteher obvious distress, her “alien” appearance looked rather at home in these surroundings.

Bob was just as under-dressed as Celeste, wearing a pair of multi-pocketed canvas pants(“adventurer’s pants,” he called them) and one of his few remaining t-shirts, and his brown hairwas frosted with a light covering of fresh snow. At least they were both wearing decent boots.

“Oh, crap…. I’m coming, Celeste! I’m coming!” Bob started heading back down the way hehad come up, using the same ‘trail’ he had already broken through the snow… not that that it mademoving any easier.

“Don’t worry… don’t worry… we’re almost there, sweetie” Bob shouted.Was he trying to convince Celeste, or himself?

As Bob struggled back towards Celeste he noticed, in between bounding, awkward steps,wading – and stumbling - through the snow, that he felt very heavy, like his body was just someclumsy piece of unresponsive meat waiting to be hung and butchered at a later time. And nomatter how hard he willed it, Bob continued to move in slow motion, like he was the subject of an‘instant replay’ as an unseen commentator focused on some obvious fatal error he had made on a

• 24 •

key play, and Bob’s face, once burning from the cold air, was now numb, and felt separate, detached,from his body, like a leather mask, hiding his emotions, stifling his personality, ready to breakand crack…

Bob looked up, looked towards Celeste… his beautiful girl… My beautiful girl from beyondthe stars… My soul mate… My best friend… My unconditional love… and he watched, helpless, asshe stumbled, fell forward, face first, slowly, and collapsed, buried in the snow.

“CELESTE!” Bob shouted, frantic. Everything else melted away as he forgot about theheavy ‘instant replay’ of his movements, and the frozen hockey mask that had become his face.He forgot about his soaked boots and his wet hair that was freezing to his scalp, and the factthat this entire situation made absolutely no sense, that they shouldn’t be here in the first place.His only concern, his one thought, was Celeste, and he burned with a renewed, and desperate,energy as he made huge, less-clumsy, and more purposeful, strides to his fallen lover.

Celeste opened her eyes.She was in a small, darkened room, lying on a couch, and covered with a tattered, multi-

colored patchwork quilt that smelled of cold incense and old age. She noticed that her toes werenumb and that her pants, boots, and socks had all been removed. Her hair was still wet and verycold. She involuntarily shivered, and steam slowly wandered from her nose as she breathed.

Celeste, tired, wrapped the quilt more tightly around her for warmth, closed her eyes,briefly, and then, remembering, quickly sat up in a start. “Bob!?”

“I’m right here, ‘leste,” he said. “I’m trying to get this fire started. Luckily there were afew pieces of wood, the broken remains of another chair, I think, that had been left here, nextto the fireplace.”

“Are we in that cabin?”“Yeah. It appears to have been abandoned, though. I don’t think anyone’s lived here in a

very long time.”“How’d we get here? I don’t remember a thing…”“Well, you fell in the snow, and I went back for you. We needed to keep moving, and get

to this cabin, otherwise we were both going to freeze to death.”“So, what, you carried me?”“Mmm, well, you helped some, but, yeah, you were pretty out of it.”“Wow… Thanks.” Celeste said sheepishly. “I don’t know what happened to me back there…

my body just shut down for some reason…”“Hey, we’re a team, right? You don’t have to feel bad. I love you, and I would never leave

you behind… There, I think that about got it,” Bob proclaimed triumphantly as a small flamestarted to burn on the few meager logs that were in the fireplace. Bob stood up and returned hisTHUMP!™ brand lighter to his pocket. He cupped his hands and breathed in them for warmth ashe rubbed them together. “How’re you feeling?”

“Just cold, mostly, otherwise, I don’t feel much of anything,” returned Celeste as shelooked around the inside of the cabin for the first time. The crudely-built, yet intimately-cozycabin, such as it was, appeared to have been built from the same wood from the ‘forest of death’they had just come from, and, for the most part, consisted of a single “room,” with a questionableladder leading, presumably, to a berth in the rafters. The fireplace and hearth, black and sooty,revealing a long history of use, were made from large, ill-fitting stones, haphazardly stuck togetherby mortar and time. Dead leaves and dirt littered the wooden, and creaking, floorboards, andthere was a large, black, iron pot, overturned in the far corner. It, she assumed, had once beenused for cooking.

A large, faded, oval area rug covered most of the floor under the 8 ft. long orange couchand, other than that, there was very little in the way of furniture. Her pants had been drapedover a medium-sized wooden chair to dry. Two of the 5 slats that formed its back had beenbroken out of it. A small “kitchen” table was up against the wall, underneath a small, dirty window,and there was an antique writing desk with a broken vanity mirror set on it.

On the table sat the remains of various candles that were now nothing more than hard,neglected, melted trickles of wax frozen in time, their spell broken, spilling over metal pedestalsof varying height, and onto the table. There were two carefully prepared place settings, completewith “fancy dinner” silverware, and two undisturbed plates of food, and two dark, wilted, dead

• 25 •

roses in a clear vase of green, frozen water, the last Will and Testament to a final meal thatnever was.

A brass lantern was also on the table, and an empty, torn-open envelope was on the floor.Celeste noticed that the window had some dingy, threadbare curtains hung by a thin rod

over them, but these had probably been hung for decorative purposes, only, and not as anyserviceable means of modesty.

Both Bob’s and Celeste’s boots were near the fire, drying out. Their socks hung on a nailon the wall near the fireplace.

“You have any idea where we are?” she asked.“No clue. Why don’t you come down here and sit next to the fire with me to warm up?

Bring the blanket, I’ve got something I want to show you.”Celeste sat next to Bob and the two shared the blanket in front of the fire. The fire

popped, and Celeste watched, mesmerized, as the flames danced of their own passion and accord.It wasn’t very long, sitting near this fire, snuggling next to Bob, and despite their predicament,before she almost felt comfortable, although her toes were still pretty cold. She looked over atthe remaining, small pile, of wood. It would never last the night. “Um… what do we do when we runout of wood?” she asked.

“Well, I figure we could bust up that other chair, and the tables, and use them if wehave to.”

“And after that?”“I don’t know. I don’t really want to think about that just yet,” said Bob as he poked at

the fire for no reason.“Ok, so, what did you want to show me?”“Check this out: would you believe there’s a mailbox out front? (I guess it’s not that

surprising…) Anyway, after I brought you in I went out to go have a look at it.”“And?”“And, I found this.” Bob produced a tan, weather-damaged envelope from his back pocket.“What’s it say?” Celeste asked, trying to hide the excited curiosity in her voice.“It’s still sealed. I thought I’d wait until you were awake until we opened it. Look who it’s

addressed to.”Celeste took the old envelope. It was heavier than she expected and had been stamped

and sealed by an identifying mark of unknown origin in blue wax. She flipped the envelope over,and couldn’t believe what her eyes forced her mind to comprehend, in spite of its protests. Infading handwritten script was written:

Celeste,

This is only to be opened upon the news of my death.

- Bob

Celeste looked up at Bob, suddenly; a look of confusion (or was itrealization?), and fear crept across her face. This is crazy, she thought.This is not possible. This is insane.

“Pretty weird, huh? There’s more,” said Bob, softly.Bob took something small, circular, golden, clasped shut, and ticking

from his pocket. It was dangling from a short golden chain attached to hisbelt loop. “I received this in a package from Master Day right before my‘abduction’ from earth. On one side is Master Day’s solar sigil. See, here…”Bob pointed to the familiar emblem, the circle with the 5 evenly spaced,triangular points around its perimeter. “And on the other side is thishourglass-looking thing with the flourished inscription on it: tempus edaxrerum:”

“’Time, the devourer of all things.’ What of it?” asked Celeste,shifting her weight slightly. Bob had shown her the amulet before.

“As you know, I’ve never been able to get it open. What I didn’ttell you is that I was told that this timepiece is supposedly this super-important magical artifact amulet-thing that affect the very fabric ofthe universe and stuff, and that I’m supposed to protect it at all costs,and keep it safe.”

“Okaaay… And?”“And, I was told that the reason it’s so special and important is

because it’s the only one there is.”

• 26 •

“Yeah?”“Yeah, well, believe it or not, I found another one.”“Another one? Of these? Where is it?” Celeste asked suspiciously.Bob walked over to the writing desk and proceeded to open the top right drawer. He

reached in the drawer, moved a couple items out of the way, and carefully removed an identicalpocketwatch. This timepiece was opened, the clasp having been broken. However, it was not ticking.

“Right here,” said Bob as he closed the drawer with his other hand.

The fire maintained and extended its warmth until most of the bottom level of the cabinwas fairly cozy, and the cold had retreated to the far corners of the room. Not much had beensaid after the presentation of the second timepiece amulet. This entire sequence of events justseemed too coincidental and surreal. Bob had gone through a lot to hold onto his amulet: foughtan angry, foul-smelling minotaur to rescue it, been chased by the Dregs after recovering it, andwas accosted by a creepy old man for showing it… As a matter of fact, recalled Bob, it was whilewe were arguing with that old bastard, and he was trying to get me to give the amulet to him, thatwe found ourselves mysteriously transported here... What does it mean?

Bob looked at Celeste. By now, their gear had dried to an acceptable state and she wasfully-clothed again, recovered, the quilt draped around her shoulders, standing near the window,her eyes fixed on the tree line at the edge of the field. It didn’t seem so far away now that theywere secure within the cabin, but they were still just as “trapped” as they had been before. Atleast, for the moment, they had shelter… and they were warm.

Celeste stared outside, lost in her thoughts. Beyond the forest, an iridescent fog blurredthe smoke-gray horizon of the treetops, fading into the silver-blue sky, and anything outside often feet or so became a hazy, ghostly representation of itself. Between the eerie fog, and thereflection off the snow, the landscape was illuminated in a bluish gray, silvery light.

In her hands, still clasped, was the mysterious envelope, unopened. She looked extremelypensive.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” asked Bob, as he rose from the floor near the fire.“I’m not sure… I feel… disconnected… like this place shouldn’t be… No, that’s not it… like

we shouldn’t be… not here. Not yet.”“I don’t follow you. I think we were just, you know, transported to a different planet, or

something, right? It must have been something that old Tinker fellow did…” Bob realized howridiculous that sounded. “I don’t know… I’m done trying to apply logic to these situations anymore.”

“Bob, I mean, I have no balance here… my senses, my rhythm, my timing, everything thatI am, is “off.” I can’t get my bearings. Nothing seems right… Or maybe it seems too right… likefor the very first time everything’s centered – except me… because I’m not.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”“Neither do I… This feels unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.”“That’s weird, Celeste… I really don’t feel any different. Just very cold, and a little

pissed, really.”“Did you notice them, Bob? Celeste asked suddenly. “Did you see them hanging there, in

the branches of the trees?”“See what? In all the excitement, I didn’t think too much about sightseeing. Once we

got out into the field, I didn’t see anything except the cabin. My only thought was getting us tosafety and this cabin seemed to provide that.”

“How do you figure, Bob? How are we safe here, hiding in the open? We might not be ableto see them, but I guarantee you, they can see us. Hell, the smoke coming from the chimney isabout as obvious a message as we can send.”

“They who? You think there are people, alive, out there?”“’Alive,’ if we’re lucky.”“What’s that supposed to mean?”“Just that there are energies, and power…things… a lot scarier than brains, blood, and

bone, Bob… There’s something evil out there, and I think our sudden appearance here, whereverwe are, woke it up.”

“Ok, ok… hold on…” said Bob, frustrated, closing his eyes, and bringing his hand to hisface and rubbing his temples with his thumb and middle finger. “You said there were things in thetrees. Like what, nests, or toilet paper, or something?”

“I… I don’t know… but there were items, charms, maybe, dangling from the branches ofthe trees, forming a perimeter. I think they represent some sort of protecting spell, or something…that holds the “evil,” or whatever the hell it is out there, at bay. Keeps it out of this field…”

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“Spells? Protective charms? Don’t you think that’s a bit of a stretch?“Well, why else aren’t they here, yet?”“Again with the ‘they!’ I don’t know, Celeste… maybe THEY’re waiting until nightfall to

come and club us like baby seals in our sleep!”“That’s just it… I don’t think there is a ‘nightfall’ here, or a “day” for that matter.”“Um, hellooo! It’s light outside, right?”“Bob, I don’t think the light of Day has ever shown on this place. Not once. Not ever.”Bob considered the unlikelihood of that statement. No day? No night? Ok, sure, it was

possible, Bob imagined. Not everything could be measured by earth’s standards. (This was becomingmore and more prevalent all the time.) And Bob had to admit, when they were outside, theredidn’t seem to be any specific light source, just this all-encompassing illuminated “static” thatblurred out the details of this land the farther away you tried to look…

“Look, Bob, something happened here. Something unexpected…” as Celeste said that, hergaze went to the unfinished meal on the table. “…Something sad and tragic.”

Bob followed her gaze to the mysterious table of food. “That reminds me… I’m gettinghungry… You think we can eat this food? I mean, it’s just sitting here, frozen and all… and the warmerit gets in here, this food’s just gonna start to spoil, right? What? Oh, sure, now I get “the look.”

After it was properly heated, the meal, which consisted of a “green bean”-type vegetable,mashed potatoes, and some kind of poultry (chicken?), had been eaten in silence, on the floor, bythe fire. The food had been pretty dry, and so, Bob, feeling a little thirsty, went outside to grabsome snow to slake his thirst.

Bob was surprised to find that where there had once been huge drifts of snow piled upagainst the walls of the cabin (Hell, Bob had to spend almost twenty minutes digging out the snowin front of the door just to get in the cabin in the first place!) the snow was retreating away fromthe cabin, and had started to reveal some verdant shoots of grass, or some kind of vegetation.This area of green, although only near the cabin’s immediate edges, was confined to a circulararea that extended all the way around the cabin… It was almost as if with some activity havingbeen returned to this place, things were beginning to thaw out, just a bit. Even the cabin itself nolonger looked so… forlorn.

Wow, thought Bob… That’s wild.A sharp, flinty “caw!” shook Bob out of his reverie and he jumped as he noticed a plump

crow sitting on top of the mailbox, eying him expectantly.Bob quickly composed himself. “Aren’t you cold, bird?” Bob asked, and clapped his hands

together to get the blood going again. He smiled at the crow, happy that they no longer seemedquite as alone as before, and returned to the complacent comfort of the cabin.

The fire had died down, and the rest of the broken chair they were using for fuel hadbeen fed to the fire’s endless appetite. The flames, fairly conservative, were warm and generous,nonetheless.

Celeste, sitting next to the fireplace, stared absent-mindedly at the wooden walls ofthe cabin. She noticed that someone had carved, in the wood of the wall, the letters“REVEF NIBAC.”

“Look at that,” she said, a smirk on her face, “someone wrote “CABIN FEVER” backwards.“Hm… I thought I was the only one who did that,” said Bob, his fingers tracing the letters.

-to be continued soon at www.egocomics.com

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Contributors(in alphabetical order)

Frank Carrera is a brilliant, intelligent, EXTREMELYhandsome and slightly modest guy from Houston, Tx. Inhis spare time, he collects comics, toys, autographs andenjoys watching his novelas on Monday and Thursdaynights (Raw and Smackdown). His wife and four kids keep him busy on adaily basis and will someday realize he DOES know where he’s going,dispite the fact that he looks lost half the time. He updates his weBlog(www.blurty.com/~fcarrera) regularly.

Brian A. Dixon is a writer and educator teachingliterature at the University of Rhode Island. He liveson the shore of Narragansett, Rhode Island where heedits Revelation, an apocalyptic quarterly magazine

showcase of art and literature that presents creative conceptions ofthe end of the world. His short fiction has most recently seen print inthe pages of Weston Magazine and his drama has most recently beenseen on the stage of New York City’s Sargent Theater.

Rachelle Dobbs is a Nerdfreak (proudly) who has a verydull, average, normal life. In her spare time she enjoyssaving the world from Evil Minions, and slurping chocolatemilkshakes. But not at the same time, because thenthe milkshake goes EVERYwhere.

Brandon Ford Dodds works in live television productionsrunning video cameras as well as engineering. He lovesdrawing cartoons and studied Studio Art at Kent StateUniversity. Brandon plays drums and has produced cover

artwork for various bands and is currently working on his own creatorowned comic.

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Neil Harmeyer is the other half of the dynamic duothat comprises Ego Comics. His hobbies include collectingcomics, tormenting the cats, and long, romantic walksalong the beach. (Not that there’s a real beach in NM.)

He is currently looking forward to his upcoming June 2004 nuptials, andhopes his fiance, Megan, knows what she’s gotten herself into. (I loveyou, sweetie!)

The talentless hack, Jon Johnson, known to many as“Sir Jon” is nothing more than a drinking, writing, chaoticanomoly.He lives in Connecticut with one cat and watches over

his only son, Mason. He’s also looking for a job.

C. Benjamin “Neb” Girven VIII is one half of thecreative team known as Ego Comics. Artist, and techno-phile... He handles most of the computer and graphicelements, as well as most of the artistic chores. Recentlymarried, and expecting his first child in September, life for ‘the Neb’has been a bit of a rollercoaster lately. Wanting to leave some sort oflegacy for his upcoming child, he has been dedicated to making somethingof this ‘grand journey’ that he and Neil started so many years ago.

J.M. Hunter is the co-founder, and only remainingmember of Team Mullet Comics & Anthologies, which heswears before this here forty ounce, he’ll burden thewhole thing himself if he has to!He resides in Oceanside, California, where he’ll rep So. Cal till the dayhe dies! (Unless somewhere else offers him more money.) And he’s singleladies!”

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Up our Sleeve

We are very fortunate to have assembled a diverse group of talented individuals forour first issue, and though separated by geography, they have been brought together bycommon interests and correspondence exchanged within the nebulous binary realm of cyberspace,and it is a testament to their belief and abilities that they were all willing to take a chance, a leapof faith, and become an integral part of this new quarterly publication.

Truly, without them, this book would never have happened.

Each creator, in his, or her, own signature fashion have tapped their respective Muse,and responded to a deep resonance, a desire to create, a desire to become part of somethingmore than themselves, and have contributed their valuable time and energies, in exploration ofthis most ancient and archetypal esoteric value, MAGIC.

Like most intrinsic beliefs, however, the arcane has no cognitive, universal explanation,save the personal and intimate power and connection we allow it in our lives.

There are very few comparable subjects, save religion, Destiny, and Death, which bringto mind so many different emotions, opinions, and beliefs.

Magic, over the centuries, has meant so many different things to so many differentpeople that no one truth can be assigned, no one definition can be adhered, no one experience canbe known by anyone else as powerfully as it is known by you, as you see it.

Magic subscribes to no specific rhyme, no reason, keeps no council, and like Art, isboundless and highly interpretive, and if you are of the curious few reading this, you have becomeinvolved in something very special, something new and exciting, something uncorrupted orcompromised, something wild and organic, something undefined and interpretive… You have becomepart of our truth, part of the magic.

Magic is…Magic is language.

Magic is art.Magic is symbols.Magic is energy.Magic is power.

Magic is mystery.Magic is misdirection.

Magic is transformation.Magic is a reckoning.

Magic is ritual.Magic is belief.

Magic is superstition.Magic is secret.

Magic is profane.Magic is dangerous.

Magic is nonsense.Magic is meaningless.

Magic is everything.Magic is creation.Magic is love.

Magic is innocence.Magic is inherent.

Magic is.

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- ADVERTISEMENT -

® Big A is a registered trademark of Agartha Holding Co.© 2004 Agartha Holding Company

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NEXT ISSUE ON SALE 7-1-04!

SEND US LETTERS! We want feedback! If you like what you’ve seen, and read here,please, let us know! Hate it? Why? Have an idea for a future quarterly theme to be explored?Give us a clue! Want to score a date with Hunter? Send us a photo along with your interestsand measurements, and we’ll be sure and forward it along to him! Want to ask a question ofany of the contributors? Attach your query to a telepathic summons, smoke signal, orelectronic missive, and we’ll be sure and send it along to the appropriate contributor! Thisis meant to be fun! Please, feel free to speak up and say what’s on your mind! Send allletters to sancholo@egocomics.com. Let us know how we’re doing, and we might print yourletter in the next issue of Ego Comics Presents!

– Ego Crew

Vanity Press

Coming this May, Neil and the Neb are re-booting www.egocomics.com, blowing the dustoff the old girl, and unveiling the sexy, and sleek, version 3.0! (“Bigger! Better! Faster!More!”) You can look forward to fresh links to “STOMPING GROUND” and “EGO COMICSPRESENTS” along with regular weekly updates – even if we have NOTHING to talk about!!!Everything up until now has basically just been a placeholder, a bunch of colors, code, andcontent strung together with no real direction. Well, that’s about to change, baby! Checkus in the coming weeks and let us know how you like the changes!

Also, make sure you check out Frank Carrera’s comic book message board site “The Bullpen”http://pub54.ezboard.com/bthebullpen28879, it’s a smaller and more intimate experiencethan the LARGER cluttered comic book message boards, and without all the petty bitching!Tell ‘em Ego Comics sent ya! The regulars (some found in this very ‘zine!) there will be sureto make you feel right at home, and Frank’ll be sure and give you that “personal touch.”(Take that as you will.)

And last, but certainly not least, have a look-see at Brian A. Dixon’s fascinating, andprofessionally-maintained site www.fourthhorseman.com.Check out his exhaustive and comprehensive MillenniuM (Yes, the awesome television showof the late ‘90’s!) fan site, and make sure you pick up a copy of Brian’s end-of-the-world-themed ‘zine REVELATION (Now with three flavors to choose from!) before you leave.It’ll be the perfect reading material as you await the coming apocalypse from within thesafe confines of your well-stocked bomb shelter.