THE IMPOSSIBLE MAGIC

by Alvi Chanti

PART ONE

BRIDGEPORT AND

CORRUPTED MAGICAL KINGDOM

Chapter One

THE ABSOLUTE CURSE

I had ridden my motorcycle about two hundred miles away from Bridgeport. The wide asphalt highway had long since turned into a simple gravel road. With potholes and dents, where remnants of yesterday’s rain gathered in murky puddles. Just like home! In Ukraine. Near Kharkov.

Civilization from Bridgeport apparently, hadn’t reached this place yet. And I doubted it ever would. The mines and worker settlements were on the other side of the city, closer to the mountain range in the North. Here, in the wilderness, there were only cornfields and feudal lords’ castles, whose subjects tilled the land in the old ways, on horses and oxen. Bridgeport Technical Corporation had no business here. It seemed the hatred that the magical part of the world harbored for it reached even these parts. Sure, they tried to ‘sell’ tractors to the local peasants, but they refused. No idea why. Maybe a religious factor. Though the religions here are admittedly strange. Very different from ours on old Earth, to put it mildly. How about the belief in Saint ‘Murdakar’? The great mute beggar with a tree growing out of his head. Naturally, also sacred. Its fruits supposedly endow mere mortals with divine power and immortality. Or the belief in a great blue spider, also a wish-granter. Understandably, for the tormented, half-starved inhabitants of the magical world, this is a prerequisite for the popularity of widespread religious myths. Or strange sects searching for the ‘Things of the Lost God’, which, when fully assembled, will bring about the Great End of the World and rebirth a new one. And no one could explain to me what ‘The Great End of the World’ means. Are there ‘lesser ends of the world’? In short, it’s mind-boggling.

I turned at a sign reading ‘Doruv’ onto an even more disgusting road. Pure dirt track, and along a thin strip of forest, I drove towards the lake. The cornfields approached right up to its edge. At a small dock with a couple of tethered wooden flat-bottomed boats, a boy of about ten or eleven was fishing. He was in a white, worn shirt and shorts, much like our breeches. Cornfields edged up right to it. I decided to ask for directions and at the same time make another attempt to get rid of the ‘coin’. Although it was probably a waste of time. I had already convinced myself at least a hundred times that it was impossible. Still, there’s no harm in trying. Maybe the lake has some magical power that could lift the curse? Such things happen here. In this magical world, unlike ours, you can count on miracles.

Pulling up right at the dock, I turned off the engine of my ‘Indian Chief’ – a motorcycle in the style of the thirties – so luxurious and shiny, completely out of place in the surrounding uncivilized provincial wilderness. The chrome details and red leather seat with golden fringe – all won at a Bridgeport shooting contest – were bound to make an unforgettable impression on the boy, I thought. Although, I’ve hated this motorcycle since yesterday. It’s brought nothing but trouble! What was I thinking, going to those competitions? Showing off! Damn, sniper! Mentally scolding myself, I asked the boy in a forced cheerful tone, “What are we catching?” The boy looked at me with interest. For a few seconds, he didn’t respond to my question. He didn’t even glance at the motorcycle. Strange behavior. Well, my jacket and hat aren’t exactly shining here either. Shani, my landlord and also a savior, sewed them personally for me, to my description and in the style of the thirties. But I’m not that a good-looking guy. An unusual behavior for a young provincial boy from the medieval countryside.

“Pikes,” replied the boy, boldly examining me, and then he remarked without any trace of tact, “You have blue eyes, mister.”

Ah, that! Yes, blue eyes are a rarity here. In this local world, it’s out of standards. Although they’re not blue, more like, grayish. But still, locals only have yellow, green, or brown eyes. The Drawlers, though, have grayish ones. But Drawlers aren’t humans.

“Listen,” I continued, ignoring his comment about my eyes. “Have you heard of Master Kulu-Kulu? A wizard. A specialist in ancient curses. I was told he lives around here somewhere.”

“I’ve heard of him,” the boy responded, sniffling and pointing in the opposite direction from where I had come. “You took a wrong turn, mister.”

“Want to take a ride?” I offered, with a little hope.

The boy grimaced, “Nah.”

Damn! What’s with kids these days? I rummaged in my pockets, found a quarter of a real, and pulled it out, showing him the shiny profile of Engineer First, the great King of Engineer Kingdom.

“Five,” the boy said phlegmatically, barely glancing at the coin.

I suddenly got suspicious about the origin of that boy.

“Are you from the city?” I asked. “Not from the countryside?”

“Yeah. Came to stay with my aunty for the holidays. How did you guess, mister?” I cursed again, to myself. Guessing? Damned commerce! What’s happening to us in this fantasy world? Every snotty kid trying to rob you, is given the chance.

“Have you heard of Zingaru of Hariya?”

“The port owner? The millionaire?”

“He’s, actually, a billionaire, but that’s not the point here. You’ll outdo him soon,” I grumbled, pulling out my wallet. Wandering another two hours looking for the wizard’s house did not appeal to me. Time was more precious than anything at the moment. My precious! Not the ring, time!

“Get on the motorcycle, I’ll be right back,” I told the boy, handing over the money.

The kid grinned. Probably, he liked my joke about the billions he’ll possess someday in the future. He quickly reeled in his fishing line and climbed onto the back seat, now examining and touching my ‘iron horse’ with some interest. Meanwhile, I walked to the very edge of the dock and swung fiercely.

The coin arched through the air, glinted in the sun, disappeared, and...

...And it was back in my pocket again. In the upper breast pocket, more precisely speaking. A heavy, pentagonal copper coin. Where did they even get it? I pulled it out again, clenched it in my fist, and threw it into the lake’s smooth surface, not as hard this time.

The result was the same. The next time, I found it in my jacket pocket. At first, I tried to figure out how it ‘returns’. Is there any sequence to it? But the first ‘disenchanter’ I found – a specialist in removing curses – quickly cooled my experimental fever: “If you take off your clothes, Master Max, and try to throw away the curse, it will most likely end up in your mouth, probably behind your cheek. But if the mage who cast the curse has a bad sense of humor, it could end up in your stomach or even your intestines. Better to let it return the conventional way.”

The disenchanter was no help at all. Such powerful curses can’t be lifted. There’s even a special section in magic books dedicated to them, ‘The Absolute Curses of Dan-Dan-Flors’. There are entire academic theses by local luminaries – professors of magic – explaining the impossibility of lifting absolute enchantments. I ran all over Bridgeport, spending almost all my savings trying to remove this stupid curse. In vain! And the worst part, these scoundrel disenchanter mages – they took money for consultations, fully aware they couldn’t help. Just like lawyers back home. Bastards, in short!

Master Kulu-Kulu was my last hope. His address was given to me by the last disenchanter in Bridgeport, who had extracted a whopping two hundred reals for a brief consultation. Though, the address sounded more like ‘to the village of Grandfather’, Grandfather Kulu-Kulu.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

The coin flew into the lake again. I closed my eyes, trying to catch it, to feel the moment when it returned.

Thump! A slight weight in my breast pocket.

“What’s happening with you, mister?”

I opened my eyes. The boy was standing next to me.

“Nothing,” I replied. “You can’t help me with this, unfortunately. Let’s go.” I silently climbed onto the seat and started the motorcycle.

The fishing boy saved me a lot of time. The master’s house was not where I had been looking for it. I had missed it by at least five miles.

As soon as I approached, I slowed down and released my young guide. He ran off joyfully. No wonder! He got a ride and earned five reals. Not every day you get such luck. And meet such a fool as well.

The master’s house was decent. Two-storied. Made of red brick with beautiful bushes, resembling our ivy, climbing up the wall to the very eaves of the tiled roof, red petals blossoming. Behind the iron gate of welded rebar was a neat and well-kept garden.

On the gate hung a bronze lion’s head, the size of a fist, and a bronze knocker on a chain, with a short handle that barely fit in my palm. Master Kulu-Kulu didn’t fancy the modern electric doorbells from the capital. I reached for the knocker.

Suddenly, the lion’s head came to life. It began to speak in a human voice, moving its copper muscles as if it were not metal but living flesh:

“Hey, hey! Drop the hammer, you fool! Do you think it’s funny? Hitting me on the head with this thing? How would you like it if someone smacked you like that? Would you enjoy it?”

I wasn’t surprised. A frankly boring prank of the local mages. Like those old telephone answering machine messages, some people record: 'Sorry, our answering machine is broken, so you’re speaking to the refrigerator, please leave a message after the beep!'

Magicians loved those types of jokes. Just a fantastic sense of humor. Though that one was a bit worn out here. Probably as old as Bridgeport itself.

“My name is Max Light. I’m here to see the master about a curse,” I said, ignoring the stream of curses and outrage from the lion’s head.

The head suddenly changed its voice tone to a pleasant female one.

“Please come in, Master Light.” This was now the voice of a secretary, stern and well-modulated.

A lady met me at the threshold. Elderly, wearing glasses, in a strict black outfit with a chest cutout. 'Most likely a witch. A real one,’ I thought, as I ascended the stairs to meet her.

“Do you have something in your pants, or do you just like me that much?” she asked sternly, tilting her head and simultaneously looking over her glasses.

I was embarrassed. I had completely forgotten about the revolver. She must be a witch! On top of that a high-level one! And not only in her professional sense.

I pulled out the weapon. Apologized.

“Sorry, I completely forgot about it. Been running around since yesterday.” She didn’t respond, pulled out a box from somewhere, and threw my weapon into it, holding it by the barrel with two fingers, as if touching something slimy and poisonous. Mages don’t like firearms. Consequently, neither do witches. This I knew.

“Please go to the waiting room, the master will see you shortly,” said the secretary and silently drifted away.

I entered the indicated room, where, apart from two leather chairs and a low table, there was hardly any other furniture.

The wait stretched on for about twenty minutes before I was finally admitted. They didn’t offer coffee. And there was none here. Coffee doesn’t grow in this world, nor does cocoa. There are some local alternatives, but I never got used to them. Some kind of swill, in my opinion. Reminds me of flower tea. And I never cared for it back ‘home’ – on Earth.

Master Kulu-Kulu was smoking a pipe. A long, black, heather pipe, polished to a matte shine. He was almost lying in a deep chair, more suited for a person than for a dwarf he undoubtedly was. A gnome, to use an Earthly mythological analogy. His eyes peered from beneath thick eyebrows, absolutely white, like his hair, as if he were an albino. A mini-version of Gandalf the Grey Tolkien’s Ring Trilogy.

No greeting, no introduction. Just a nod towards the opposite chair. I took the offered seat, also maintaining silence. Kulu-Kulu continued to puff on his pipe, thoughtfully examining me. Magicians like to create an air of mystery. But in that case, he needed it for something. Scanning me, probably. I patiently let him ‘feel’ me. Checking my aura, the old fart. Well, look all you want! Just don’t drill a hole...

Finally, the wizard deigned to speak,

“Seems you’re from far away.”

‘You have no idea how far, buddy,’ I thought to myself, but aloud I simply confirmed his guess: “Yes. From very far away.”

“How long have you been with us? Do you like it?”

“Five years. No,” I replied tersely, thinking about something else entirely. ‘When are we going to get down to business, old curmudgeon? I’m running out of time with every passing minute!’

“Why?” His white eyebrow rose in surprise.

“I don’t know.”

“Show me the problem,” he requested, abruptly changing the subject as if he had heard my thoughts. I decided not to mentally berate him any further. Maybe he was a telepath. Who knows? A serious old man. I took the coin out of my breast pocket and extended it towards him on my open palm.

Kulu-Kulu squinted his eyes, briefly examining the item in my hand, then nodded.

I put the coin back in my pocket with relief. Holding it against my skin was unpleasant, like holding something unclean – a cockroach or a fly.

“This is the ‘Dan-Dan-Flors’ Curse’. An absolute curse from their arsenal.” I nodded, waiting for him to continue. I've heard this at least a dozen times since yesterday.

“I can’t do anything about it. In two, at most five days, you’ll die,” he continued calmly, as if he wasn’t pronouncing a death sentence, but rather a baker behind the counter telling customers, regretfully, that there were no more raisin buns left for the day. No tea for you. Sorry, alas.

I sighed and stood up. There was no point in listening any further. Damn! To lose so much time! And two hundred reals on top of that.

“Where are you going?” Kulu-Kulu’s question stopped me in my tracks.

“You said yourself there’s nothing you can do. Why waste more time?”

“Just because I can’t do anything doesn’t mean others can’t. Or even you, yourself. You came here for a consultation, right?”

I nodded and sat back down in the chair. The stress of impending death had robbed me of patience, a quality usually inherent in me as a former sharpshooter.

“To be honest, under different circumstances, I would take this as a sort of disrespect, Master Light,” continued Kulu-Kulu, puffing on his pipe. “But you are excused by the fact that you are in mortal danger and do not want to waste time. Which is understandable and commendable. Many whom I’ve seen with such a curse immediately lose heart and give in. Perhaps you are not burdened with the ingrained belief of the local inhabitants that the curses of Dan-Dan-Flors are irremovable. Maybe there’s some chance in that for you.

“How will I die?” I asked. “A dozen disentchanters of your level, in the capital, couldn’t give me a clear answer to this question. And why is it so absolute? Hasn’t anyone in hundreds, or even thousands of years, developed an antidote to this curse?”

“Let’s take this one step at a time,” Kulu-Kulu replied, somewhat grumpily, either annoyed by my barrage of demanding questions or by my equating his status to that of the capital’s magicians. Perhaps he considered himself far superior.

“The manner of your death will be chosen by the spirit upon which the curse is cast. I don’t know what it is yet. It’s impossible to determine right away. In two or three days, we will see. But it’s too early now. The answer to the second question: the curse is absolute because a human sacrifice was made during its casting. It’s the highest price, and accordingly, there’s no bargaining for you. A life for a life. Possibly even an innocent being. Then the situation becomes even more complicated. The third question: no. Magic has its laws. You can break them, but it requires immense magical power. Currently, only three beings in the world known to me are capable of such a feat, and you have no access to them. But! But, there are ways to outsmart it. And this has been done more than once or twice in history.”

I involuntarily leaned forward:

“How?”

For the first time, after so much turmoil, this was a ray of hope.

“Don’t rush,” Kulu-Kulu drew again on the aromatic smoke of local tobacco, or perhaps cannabis-type equivalent on this planet. I couldn’t tell if it was some local drug. “Tell me how it all happened from the beginning. I need to know the details; very few can cast curses of this level. Perhaps I know your ‘killer’.”

I didn’t like that last bit. Killer! As if I was already dead! But there was nothing to do but remember the events of the night before last...