LOST

Wiz was hungry, but not for anything edible. Food had not quelled his hunger in quite some time. Still, time passed so slowly on its own and eating the occasional meal helped it to pass just a little bit quicker. But he needed money for that.

He stood in the darkness of an alley in Uptown Charlotte, Goose at his side, staring out into the street. Blurs of color went by but he did not notice. For a moment, his mind was distracted by something far less tangible than shiny machines. He took a deep breath as he blinked his eyes into focus on what he came here for. He looked down at his callused, empty hands and in a bright flash, they were no longer empty.

In the past, Wiz had been successful selling items at flea markets, antique stores, second hand stores and even an occasional small pawn shop. Lack of identification limits his ability to sell to bigger stores. Some of the items he had been able to sell for a decent amount of cash included a Native American flute, a bearskin rug, and his favorite, an ivory tobacco pipe carved into a Viking longboat. He had heard from a friend that Ace Pawn had a thing for swords. He wasn’t sure how big Ace Pawn was, but swords were pricey items and perhaps today would be his lucky day.

The wind was whistling, but he couldn’t feel its ferocity until he and Goose stepped from within the alley. A gust of wind swept underneath his wide-brimmed hat and blew it off his head, forcing him to chase it a hundred feet down the sidewalk. He tucked the sheathed sword underneath his arm and had to brush his scraggly, greasy hair out of his face before he could put his hat back on. He looked around and the street was empty, as was the sidewalk. He was relieved that he didn’t have to worry about anyone thinking he was a crazy man with a sword.

He walked into the shop, being careful not to let the sword hit the glass of the door. The shopkeeper’s bell jingled as he closed the door behind him. Inside, it smelled of dusty plastic and stale cigarette smoke.

“Hey! You can’t bring that dog in here,” the pawnshop owner declared, pointing at the door from just beyond the entryway into the back room.

“He’s very well-behaved. I take him with me everywhere. He’s practically my guide dog.” Goose was black with brown on his chest, legs, snout and around his eyes. He looked like a leaner and smaller version of a Rottweiler. But, in fact, he was a Smalandsstovare, which originated in Scandinavia. He was loyal, strong and very smart. “I can put a harness on him and wear dark sunglasses if it makes you feel better,” Wiz said, smirking as he tried to catch the shop owner off guard.

“No. I don’t suppose that’ll be necessary. What’ya got?” the pawnshop owner asked as he brushed aside a dark green curtain and stepped into the front of the shop from the back. His face was plump, but clean-shaven; his hair neatly trimmed.

“Well, I’ve got this sword,” Wiz replied as he approached the register, pulling his sword from its sheath and placing it on the counter. It was a traditional Viking sword—Damascus folded steel blade with a woven leather hilt decorated with bronze rivets.

“You got ID?” the owner queried.

“Hmm, ID. No, I don’t. Is that a problem?” Wiz could conjure just about anything, but the item he wanted had to either be not owned by anyone or made from material not owned by anyone. He could occasionally conjure money. Usually a dollar bill in the pocket of some discarded jeans or loose change, but never anything very substantial. Conjured items could come from anywhere in the world and so, Wiz sometimes even got foreign currency. ID cards are made mostly of plastic but he was not sure what else and, therefore, could not conjure himself any modern identification. Fifty years ago it wasn’t a problem. Twenty years ago, even. Times change, however, and technology with it. Conjuring precious metals gems, even though there are plenty to be found in the ground that aren’t owned by anyone, went against the Laws of Immortal Magic set at the Conclave Triskaideka of 1354 in Prague.

“Yes. Lack of identification poses somewhat of a problem. This is not a cheap sword,” the owner said, hunching over to look at the details more closely. “Where did you get this? Did you steal it? It looks like a movie prop. Thirteenth Warrior… or Pathfinder, perhaps.”

“No. It’s a family heirloom. But I need cash.”

“Are you on drugs?” the owner inquired with a bit of cynicism and suspicion, eyeing Wiz’s faded blue jeans, raggedy Army field jacket and unkempt hair.

“No. Look… if you don’t want to buy it… or… can’t buy it because I don’t have ID, just give it back to me and I’ll find someone who can. No big deal.”

“Do you mind if I go back and look this up? I just want to see what something like this is worth.”

“No, go ahead.”

The owner turned around and quickly took the sword to the back, nearly getting the tip of the sword caught in the fabric of the green curtain. Wiz could see a sliver of the somewhat heavyset man between the curtain and the doorframe, looking at a computer screen. He could see the man bring something up to his ear and look back at Wiz. It was a cell phone. By the look of the man’s shifty eyes, Wiz assumed he was calling the police. Wiz strained and could just barely make out what he was saying.

“I’ve never seen anything like this outside of a… I am an expert,” the shopkeeper insisted. “Trust me. This guy is no collector.”

Wiz turned and walked quickly toward the door. Goose followed closely behind. The owner put the sword on the counter and ran out to the front to try to keep Wiz from leaving.

“You forgot your sword!” When the owner turned back to get the sword, it was gone—completely disappeared.

A few minutes later, Wiz was walking briskly down the street looking for a store to duck into, where he could become a mere shadow, when he heard the short burst of a police siren—BLOOP! A Charlotte Police cruiser pulled up beside him. He would have to do his best to play the idiot when answering any questions from the arresting officer. The last thing he needed was to get locked up in a mental hospital.

The police officer stepped out of his vehicle and approached Wiz. “You know, your dog needs to be on a leash.”

“I’m sorry. It’s in my pocket. I’ll put it on him right now,“ Wiz said, reaching into his pockets.

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

Wiz took his hand out of his pocket, the loop of the leash hooked around his thumb. The rest of it unraveled all the way to the ground. “Is there a problem?”

“Where’s the sword?”

“What sword?” Wiz replied with the most confused face he could muster.

“Are you telling me you didn’t just run out of Ace Pawn with a stolen sword you were trying to sell?” the officer asked.

“No… I mean, yes, that’s what I’m telling you.”

“Let me see your ID,” the officer ordered.

“I don’t have any ID,” Wiz said calmly.

“I just threw away a perfectly good BLT because my buddy gives me a call and tells me he’s got someone trying to sell a hot sword. Are you trying to piss me off?”

“No, officer.”

“Turn around and put your hands on the hood right there,” the officer commanded.

“Hlaup! Finna Regan,” Wiz quietly said to Goose and the dog took off, with the speed of a horse, down the street.

“What the hell?” exclaimed the officer. “What did you just say to him? You know I’m going to have to have Animal Control go after your dog. That was not smart,” he said as he spun Wiz around and planted his face into the warm metal of the hood of the squad car. “Not smart at all. Now you get to share my bad day. How about that? I got a joke for you—guy walks into a pawn shop. You have the right to remain silent. Have you heard this one before?”

In the back of the patrol car, his hands cuffed behind his back, Wiz knew he had suffered yet another setback in his journey to find his brother, Xamn. He refused to let failure take control of his thoughts and emotions. He would find a way out of this somehow. Surely, an immortal could figure out how to loose his bonds.

Sure, I can magic my way out of these handcuffs, he thought, but then what? I’d still have to get out of the car, which, without magic, can only be opened from the outside, and then either hide or outrun the officer. The magic it would take to avoid all of that would certainly draw some attention.

As he thought out another escape plan, he looked outside the window and saw a faerie flying alongside the car. With a black shirt, lime green pants, fuchsia and gold wings and a mop of bright orange hair, she looked like a two-inch tall Cyndi Lauper. As the car entered the sally port at the detention center, she gave him a wink and flew off to find somewhere to wait for Wiz to get settled.

The officer helped Wiz out of the car, fingerprinted him, took his picture and sat him down beside his desk. “Why don’t we start with your name?”

“John Doe.”

“John Doe. Seriously?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“All right, Mr. Doe, tell me what happened.”

“What happened when?”

“At the pawn shop.”

“Officer, I’m sorry but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look—he described you to a T. Your dog, too. So, you might as well spill it.”

“Sorry,” Wiz said, shrugging his shoulders.

“Well, he’ll be here first thing in the morning,” the officer said coolly as he stood up and took Wiz by the shoulder. “Maybe that’ll jog your memory.”

He took Wiz down the hall and placed him in a cell with one other offender, who was asleep. As the officer’s footsteps faded away, he let out a big sigh and sat down on his lumpy mattress, which was stained with an unidentifiable brownish-green substance and reeked of bile and body odor. He heard footsteps approaching again and, soon after, saw the officer bringing him a Styrofoam container and a pint of milk.

“You missed chow, but we had plenty leftover,” the officer said as he passed the dinner to Wiz. “There you go—meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Eat up.”

He opened the lid, and the smell of cardboard, with a hint of grease, invaded his nose, completely blocking out whatever aroma was coming from his mattress. He took the spork out of the plastic it was wrapped with and hesitantly took a bite of the potatoes. His mouth was overwhelmed with the taste of paper-flavored sand and the texture of all-purpose drywall compound. He leaned over his plate and let the indigestible slop fall out of his mouth. He opened the carton of milk and chugged it down, washing away what potatoes were left in his mouth.

“At the least the milk’s not spoiled,” he said, wiping his lips with his sleeve. He closed the food container, put it on the floor and placed the empty milk carton on top of it. As he sat up and looked around, he felt soft, tiny feet land on his shoulder.

“Hiya, Wizzy!” the faerie asked in a loud, high-pitched New York accent.

“It’s good to see you, Regan,” Wiz returned in a low voice.

“Why are you whispering?” the faerie asked quizzically, and still quite loud.

“Because I’m not alone in here, silly,” Wiz nodded over to his cellmate who was sleeping at the moment.

“Oops… sorry,” Regan said to the snoring man across from Wiz.

“I don’t think he can hear you, but you should probably whisper anyway. You never know who can see and hear you and who can’t.”

“You’re prob’ly right,” she whispered. “What’d you have to eat?” she asked, peering down at the discarded food.

“Ugh. Don’t ask. I can conjure pig intestines that tastes better than that drit.” Wiz closed the lid and tossed it on the floor.

“So, got any ideas as to how we’re gonna get you outta here?” Regan asked.

“I’m guessing I can become shadow and slip out of here pretty easily, but not until after lights out. I think it’s around nine o’clock. We’ve got a few hours most likely,” Wiz replied.

“What if they don’t have a door open? Someone’s going to notice a shadow opening a door, aren’t they?” Regan asked skeptically.

“I don’t have to open it all the way. All I need is a little bit of space. I just have this odd feeling that something very bad is going to happen if I don’t get out of here,” Wiz said somberly.

“What kind of something bad?”

“I’m not sure. I just got an itch in my stomach as soon as I got here and that’s never a good sign.”

Wiz’s cellmate began to stir and as he slowly sat up, rubbing his eyes, Regan made a keen observation, “I think he’s waking up.”

“Yes, now hush,” Wiz said as quietly as he could.

“Who the hell are you talking to, man?” the man asked sleepily.

“Umm… no one.”

“No one?” the inmate repeated, noticeably aware of something amiss. “Whatever. What’d you get busted for?”

“I’m not sure exactly.”

“Must’ve been a good night,” the man said as he walked over to the bars and looked to see if anyone were coming.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you were drunk, right?” he said looking back at Wiz.

“Oh… yeah… yeah, I guess I was.”

“Are you all right?” the man asked Wiz, now uncomfortably close.

“Yes. I’m quite all right. I’d rather just be left alone right now, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine, butthole. I was trying to be your friend. If you don’t want a friend,” he replied with disgust, “good for you.”

Wiz’s cellmate returned to his bunk and laid back down. Wiz was quite content not interacting with the man. He waited until after the detention officer made his last rounds before turning the lights off and then made sure his cellmate was asleep. He stood up and went to the cell door. He looked through the bars and down the block both ways. The officer was sitting at a desk at the end by the hallway door—a gate with plenty of room for shadow and faerie to pass through. He looked to be reading the newspaper, which was good news for Wiz. He could pass right behind him and he’ll never know.

“Regan… you go scout ahead and see if you can find a good path out of here.”

Wiz’s flame-haired, faerie friend nodded her head and flew out of the cell. Wiz looked once more down both ends of the block and then his physical body disappeared, leaving only a dark shape on the wall. The floor was concrete and with the wax finish, it was dark enough that Wiz’s shadow glided across it nearly invisible. He looked over the guard’s shoulder as he passed. The officer was finishing a Sudoku puzzle. Wiz quietly drifted through the gate and into the hallway. Regan peeked around the corner and waved for Wiz to follow her. When he caught up, she whispered into his ear, “The front door is straight that way.” She pointed past a large, tall wooden desk about twenty feet from where they were. The hallway opened up into the lobby just after the desk and then Wiz saw the front glass doors.

Wiz was just about to make his way towards the exit when he glanced to his right and saw a door with the words “Inmate Property“ painted in black, block lettering across the top. Wiz froze. It was a solid door, unlike the cell door and the hallway gate, but there was just enough space between the bottom of the door and the floor for Wiz to squeeze his shadow under. He came out the other side and the light was turned off. He flipped the switch on, hoping the desk sergeant wouldn’t see it.

There were at least a hundred lockers. Each one was about eight inches wide and a foot tall. “What the hell? Which one is mine?” he tried to be as quiet as he could while venting his frustration. He noticed a clipboard hanging on the wall. Second to last on the list was the name, Doe, John. “Number seventy-eight.” He walked down the row of lockers, looking at the metal plates at the top of each one with the numbers printed on them. His was the sixth one from the right on the very bottom. It had a padlock on it. “Damn it,” he said under his breath. He bent down and took the lock in his left hand and with his right, he put his fingers up to the keyhole. A flash of light and he was turning a key in the padlock, releasing the shackle. He opened the locker and grabbed what was inside.

As he stood up and turned back toward the door and readied himself to squeeze underneath it, he realized that his belongings would not fit under the door. He opened the door very gently, careful not to make a noise, as well as to make sure the hallway was clear. The sergeant was busy pouring himself a cup of coffee, so, Wiz opened the door enough to get through with his personal items and then shut the door behind him. He decided to get to the exit as fast as he could with his cloaked body crouched over what he took out of the locker. If the sergeant saw anything, it would only be a ghost. As Wiz sped past, the Sergeant just stood there, looking at the wall behind his desk, stirring his coffee. Wiz pushed the glass door a little too hard when he opened it and it squeaked as it shut, startling the sergeant. He turned around and saw nothing. Wiz had already made his way around the light from the streetlamp and was already on his way down the sidewalk.

The sergeant would not find out until the next morning that someone had escaped.

The plan was executed with near perfection. Wiz scurried along side a brick wall outside the detention center, looking for Regan. “Where are you?”

“Right here,” she said, swooping down from above. “You can change back now. There’s nobody around.”

Wiz’s flesh regained color before his clothes, but within a few seconds, he was back to normal. “What took you so long?” Regan inquired sharply.

“I had to get my messenger bag.”

“Your messenger bag? You couldn’t conjure another one?”

“It has my journal in it. If anyone reads this, we’re in trouble.”

“So, why keep a journal at all?”

“Because things should be documented. I can’t remember every single thing that happens. Not yet anyway. I’m sorry I kept you waiting, though.”

“It’s okay. You’re forgiven.”

“Did you happen to spot an all night diner? I still can’t get that awful taste out of my mouth. That’s punishment enough for anyone.”

“Yeah, there’s one about three blocks down. I saw a sign that said ‘Open twenty-four Hours’.”

“Good. I need some coffee and pie,” Wiz said as he followed his faerie friend down the street, the moon lighting their way. “What I wouldn’t give to be sitting in my house in Thórsholr.”

“Thórsholr isn’t there anymore, though.”

“I know. It’s Bergen now. Doesn’t mean I miss it any less. Come on. Let’s go eat.”