Twilight Times Books logo

 

 

A Nightful of Mages
cover design 2012 Ardy M. Scott.

 

 

A Nightful of Mages

 

Geoff Geauterre

 

 

 

Introduction

 

Sometimes the unexpected turns your life upside down. And on the fifteenth of May, almost at the precise moment it turned nine o'clock in the evening, a cosmic eruption did just that. Luckily for all of us, in one of the largest telescope facilities in the world, finely tuned instruments recorded it. I say it was lucky because the technician on duty was busy watching porn on the internet, and the head scientist on call was doing something he oughtn't with his new girlfriend.

Thus, on this night, one life out of roughly every hundred thousand changed. It was wondrous, and it was horrible, because it affected those who most possessed certain talents that normally lay hidden. In this case those talents were brought out in a rush.

At first, many later admitted, there was a trace of panic. Some worked hard to rid themselves of this unwanted gift. When they found it couldn't be done, there was no choice. Those affected had to adapt. In a perfect world, it would have been understood that another class of people had emerged, literally overnight. However, the world was imperfect and as in common history, radical change invites condemnation. Yet, in this case, those who were now in possession of strange powers weren't necessarily the ones who had to run from a mob.

That was on the one hand. On the other there was a different effect born of this event, in which the theoretical ideas that came from the minds of scientists bore a weird fruit. Among them was the notion that dimensions other than ours actually did exist. Unseen things did happen, and this time, it didn't take a great deal of imagination to figure out the obvious. These other worlds could cross over to ours, and the boogeyman could show up for dinner.

Thus, in the growing storm, something else slipped by . . . and someone really should have taken note of it, because it was the birth of a child delivered at the very instant the Event occurred. You'd think someone would have recognized the beginning of a legend.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

"Listen," Billy croaked, trying to be overheard, "don't take it so hard. Sometimes people go over the bend, and you just can't help it."

"You're talking," shouted the head of the household, also spitting out a bit of plant that had been flung into his face, "about my wife."

In the whirling maelstrom enveloping the apartment, civil servant, husband and daughter looked round at the subject of their discussion, and it was obvious something was decidedly wrong with the woman.

"If you give it a little more time," Billy coughed, trying to make light of the wind kicking up around them, or the screeching madwoman who ran about clutching a vacuum cleaner as if it were a pike, "I'm sure it will sort itself out eventually."

"But, she's been acting this way for three days now."

Billy blew his red nose into a worn handkerchief, feeling sick and tired. Suddenly the woman of the house stopped trying to suck her father into the machine and swiveled round, eyes filled with a manic gleam. "We need a bigger vacuum cleaner!"

Mr. Halls shuddered. "Yes, dear."

His wife gripped the tube and looked at it in disgust. "But this is all we have!"

"Yes, dear."

"I'm going to have to do some shopping later."

"Anything you want, dear."

She smiled craftily, eyes sliding to her daughter hiding behind her husband's leg. "Emma, would you like to go shopping with mommy?"

At that, Emma's grandfather looked concerned. Then Mrs. Halls snapped around, and as before, she tried stabbing her father, the machine sucking at the air, and the chandelier he hung from swayed and threatened to break free of the ceiling.

She snarled. "Come in here this instant, you miserable bastard! I've got a special bag in here for you, and it's marked garbage!"

The wind died down for a moment, and Emma sniffled. "Daddy, what's wrong with mommy?"

Daddy forced a smile. "Well, sweety, your grandfather visiting this way surprised her, is all."

"But when will mommy be normal again?"

"Well," he glanced questioningly to Billy, "we don't know right now."

"Grandpa loves mommy, daddy. Why won't she love him back?"

He shook his head. "They've always been a bit testy with one another, sweety."

Billy honked and tried clearing his sinuses but it seemed hopeless. "Look, I'm sorry, Mr. Halls. I really am. It's just that in this circumstance, there's no danger here. My services aren't really warranted . . . ." At another screaming outburst, their attention was drawn back to Mrs. Halls. "Ah, what I mean to say is, aside of a few swirls of wind, he doesn't want to hurt anyone."

Mr. Halls cleared his throat. "What would you suggest?"

"Perhaps, counseling?"

Husband and daughter nodded sadly. Counseling. Yes, the situation seemed to call for it.

Billy swallowed. "Now, you realize, of course, that the moment I'm gone the old man disappears."

Halls sighed heavily, and then brightened. "Listen, would it be too much trouble to get her committed now, rather than later?"

"Ah," Billy hesitated. "Listen, I'd wait a little longer. The psych section is rather strict when it comes to others making decisions like that on their own. Besides, it really is too soon to tell. She could come out of it . . . ."

The look on both daughter and father's faces suggested they didn't think it likely. An end table crashed, as Mrs. Halls leapt over it to corral the deceased ephemeral parent, who now seemed to be cornered, until a psychic burst of wind whipped him safely away, and his pursuer howled with rage.

Billy tried one more time. "Please, ma'am, none of this is helping. You're dealing with a ghost here. You can't hurt him. You can't really suck him into that vacuum cleaner, and even if you could, it wouldn't hold him. Plus, all this wind would go away – if you just calmed yourself and thought it through."

Ignoring him, she changed tactics, and this time tried to stab the phantasm instead of sucking him into oblivion. As a result, said phantasm unzipped himself and took a piddle. Emma laughed and Mr. Halls tried to shush her.

"Die," screamed the woman of the house. "Die!"

Billy nodded unhappily, packed his tools, closed his valise and made for the door. He gave his card to Mr. Halls. "If it gets much worse, call the number on the back, and someone will come and give an assessment."

Mr. Halls looked hopeful. "They'll pick her up?"

"They'll examine the situation first."

"Please, before you leave, think you can calm her down a bit? Everyone on the block can hear her. It's embarrassing."

With a shake of his head, Billy rummaged in the valise and came up with a small container of pills. He opened it to pour some out, found there were only a few left, and handed it over. "Here, give her one of these twice a day. Space 'em apart by six hours or so."

"Thank you."

"Yes," Emma added politely. "Thank you."

Billy patted the child on the head and headed towards the door.

Mrs. Halls caught sight of him leaving and swiveled around with a shout. "Hey! You were supposed to exorcise the thing! Now he's back stronger than ever!"

Billy felt a migraine coming on. "I know this must be trying for you, Mrs. Halls, but it really is up to him. If he doesn't want to go, I cannot ethically force him to go."

"You're the Ghost Catcher, for God's sakes!"

"He's not a criminal Mrs. Halls. He hasn't hurt anyone. It really is up to him."

"I want my money back!"

The mantra burbled up automatically. "The charges come out of your taxes. You called for assistance, and as a civil servant, I came. That's my job. Unfortunately, this is not what we categorize as a threat situation. He's not dangerous. He's just . . ." Grandpa gave him a wink. ". . . trying to help out."

She stared at him. "Devil! That's what you're in league with! The very devil himself!"

The soreness in Billy's throat almost robbed him of speech. "Okay. First, you're talking religious mythology here. That's not my field. Second, your father had a chance to come back to be with his dear family, and of course, you're upset about that. Still, he's not an evil spirit. Accept it. He's offering himself out of the goodness of his heart–"

Billy ducked as the vacuum cleaner went flying for his head, and the breeze suddenly whipped into a gale.

"You better leave now," Mr. Halls shouted. "When she gets like this, there's no telling what might happen!"

"Mommy!" Emma cried. "Behave, or grandpa will leave!"

That seemed to be the wrong thing to say, as Mrs. Halls dashed to the fireplace, grabbed up a poker . . . and at that point Billy had had quite enough. He didn't have to look into her eyes to see how the gears were malfunctioning. Should she stab her father? No, she couldn't stab her father. Should she stab the civil servant? Her gaze switched round. Yes, there was a possibility. On the other hand . . . should she stab her husband for not protecting her from her crazed father?

Billy licked his lips. "Ah, Mr. Halls, listen, on the other hand I think it might be prudent to make that call myself. Have you a phone?"

One of the new cell phones with an LED screen was whipped out, and Mrs. Halls broke into a sob full of wrath, frustration and helplessness. "And that's another thing," she cried. "You're a bookkeeper, just like him!"

"No, lady, I'm a civil servant."

"She means me," Mr. Halls sadly corrected.

"Oh, sorry."

"He talks to you! He talks to Emma! Why won't he talk to me?"

"Mommy," said Emma, holding her dolly protectively, "I can tell you why he won't talk to you. He told me, but he also said I was not to tell you, so I can't. But you make him laugh all the time."

"But I don't hear it! I don't hear a thing!"

"Now, honey," Mr. Halls gestured worriedly, "we can't help that."

"Yes," added Billy, listening to the agency's operator saying it would be one moment more. "Ever since the Event, if deceased loved ones want to communicate, they can find ways to do it, but in rare cases, there's a trait in the bloodline that allows more."

Mrs. Halls pulled at her hair, and then made an all out attempt to destroy the object of her hatred . . . and her father held his sides as if bursting into roars of silent laughter. Billy didn't waste any more time and keyed in some emergency bypass numbers. The frowning operator who appeared then demanded to know what was the emergency.

When he explained, she gave a quick nod. "Five minutes, tops."

"Thank you."

"Never call this number unless you have a real emergency."

"I just did."

"Just reminding you," she said primly.

He handed the phone back. "They'll be here as soon as they can."

"Thank you."

Mrs. Halls screeched as Billy made for the door. "Hey, come back here, you! He'll be gone the moment you leave!"

"Don't worry," he spoke softly. "I'm pretty sure he'll let you know he's still around . . . ."

In the living room, Grandpa, now hanging upside down from a tall chifforobe, blew his precious little Emma a kiss, and as the door behind Billy closed, with a wave of his hand he faded away.

* * *

Felix Abercrombie was, in a word, impressed. Or rather, he had been impressed, until his famous visitor began dictating terms. Being the Director of the West Coast Paranormal Agency, of course, allowed him to meet a number of important people over the years, but never a full Bishop before, and never one who seemed so full of herself.

Still, he tried to remain pleasant. "Believe me, madam, I know how you must feel about this business, but it is, after all, just an odd consequence of the phenomena."

Bishop Jocelyn Harrows sniffed. "It is an affront to all good Christians."

Abercrombie opened his mouth, but she wasn't finished.

"It is also an affront to every faith on the planet."

"Ah, well . . . ."

"These are dire times, Mr. Abercrombie. Times that demand a rigorous attention to faith. Never forget that. Faith can answer every prayer."

Abercrombie coughed delicately. "Of course. I meant no slight."

"I should hope not."

"It's only that there was no evil intent here. The fact that no religiously endowed person was ever given this gift was . . . ah, largely due to numbers, and also . . . ." He hesitated a moment. "The fact that you needed real latent ability for it to develop, so . . . ."

Her eyes sharpened. "What are you trying to say?"

"Out of seven and a half billion, one in every hundred thousand is, you must admit, a pretty small number, that's all."

"That's true," Sir Rupert added with a forced smile. The British attaché was trying to show due deference to the person he escorted, but Abercrombie looked past the other's expression and perceived unease. "There was no evil intent whatsoever. Now, can we proceed with what we came to do?"

She ignored him. "Those who have been blessed with insight, with an understanding to the calling of God, were never meant to be stained by this ignominious filth."

Abercrombie fought it, but he could feel his expression hardening. "Perhaps God didn't feel it necessary to burden the faithful. Perhaps, for the rarest few, all one truly needs is grace."

Sir Rupert closed his eyes.

"Good," she declared. "I'm glad you agree with me. Those given this thing are cursed, and those not, are thrice blessed."

"Ah . . . ."

"Therefore, all that comes of it is suspect, and it's worth should be weighed with caution."

"Well," said Abercrombie, "some advantages did come of it. Industry fell into the hands of those more environmentally concerned, and we passed strict laws of responsible oversight. I certainly wouldn't condemn any of those actions."

She whipped an eye over to Sir Rupert, as if to convey some shared thought. "So, you think everything that has happened has some positive benefit, do you? What about the many who are condemned out of hand? What about the innocent, the wretched, the poor?"

Abercrombie looked off to a side. "Yes, well, those touched by this effect crossed all boundaries. I have on record, a family with one parent who had a gift, while another hadn't. Then their children, a boy and girl, possessed talent in the day and nothing at night. Of course, that might change in the coming years. Talent has a way of . . . ahem, gaining strength over time."

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Just making a point that the kids are doing fine, and so are their parents."

She snorted. "Nonsense. You don't have a clue as to the real damage done."

It was a blistering hot day, and Abercrombie felt a bead of sweat pop out on his forehead. The building had no air conditioning, and those stuck inside suffered. A fan stationed on an antique file cabinet behind him struggled to move the sluggish air around, but it was hopeless.

"Ah, well, I have been in contact with the State Department, and apparently they're for the idea. However, it must be understood that ultimately the decision rests with Mr. Harrowby. In this matter, he is a free agent."

Sir Rupert understood. "Of course. We wouldn't expect otherwise."

The Bishop grimaced. "It is expected he will respond with some alacrity."

Abercrombie blinked. "Ah, yes, but as I said–"

"Are you aware just how important this matter is?"

"Certainly."

It was then Sir Rupert sensed the moment had come to intervene. "What I believe the Bishop means, is that given the weight of this mission's importance, she hopes, as do we all that your agent will act in everyone's best interest."

"I am sure," said Abercrombie, "that given the right sort of enticement, there shouldn't be that much difficulty."

Her eyes narrowed. "It's a wonder you still have anything you can call your own after that Mideast debacle."

"Yes," Abercrombie agreed softly, "we are fortunate."

"You can't afford to buy anything from us. It's amazing to me that you can even get a shipment of sandals from Asia."

"We are working on strengthening our buying power."

Sir Rupert spoke up. "I don't see where this is going, Bishop."

"It's clarifying who we are dealing with, Sir Rupert."

"Well," said Abercrombie, "a lot has happened since then. We gained knowledge, insight, and an awareness of what's actually important . . . along with a more casual attitude regarding dress."

She snorted. "You've lost your sense of destiny. You've lost your sense of worth. You've lost your sense of pride."

Sir Rupert started. "Bishop, please. We're guests here."

She shrugged his concerns aside. "But more than that, Mr. Abercrombie–and I think it far more than that–you've lost your moral center."

Abercrombie stiffened, his voice turning cold. "Madam, our moral center is guided by the needs of the many, as opposed to the needs of the few. We're replanting our forests. There's no unemployment. Most of our prisons are emptied. Our country is establishing a sense of order based on the rationale of logic, not greed or ignorance or bias."

"It's blasphemy! You've legalized narcotics!"

"It was cheaper than committing suicide."

"What?"

"We rid ourselves of crime cartels. We rid ourselves of home grown and imported terrorists."

"And of your most gifted? Your industrialists? Your great men of law?"

"Madam, I believe your knowledge of us is limited. When we discovered we had mind readers, they were hired by county, state and federal agencies. Of course, the politicians tried to stop it, but by that time, it was already too late. We put most of them in jail."

"And your President!?"

Abercrombie's eyes turned to flint. "Were it up to me, I'd have had that bastard shot."

"You're telling me all this was to the good?"

"What I'm saying is that by the time people understood how we were cleaning house, there was very little objection from the level-headed majority. To their minds, Congress, the Oval Office, the Pentagon, the Judiciary, and even the Wall Street fat cats needed correction."

"Insanity of the highest order."

"Perhaps, but in the first year, power was taken out of the hands of the corrupt. In that year, we came to have a true picture of why we were twenty trillion dollars in debt."

Silence.

"You cannot begin to imagine what free trade agreements cost us. In a never-ending spiral of competition against subsidized businesses, we were helping greed-ridden multinationals take advantage of everyone and especially the poor. Now that, you must admit, needed some sort of correction."

In a huff, she reared up. Her two assistants at the door stood almost at attention. "Enough of this nonsense. It is hoped you will send your ghost catcher as soon as possible."

"I'll see what I can do."

When they left, Abercrombie frowned at Sir Rupert. "It might do her a lot of good if she shed some of that fat between the ears. Make her look less like a pig, too."

"Felix," mourned Sir Rupert, "I'm sorry, but I had to stay in character. She has influence over quite a number of people, and right now the situation is such that Whitehall feels it prudent to coddle them."

"How bad is it, really?"

"The House of Commons wants to kill off the House of Lords. The Prime Minister, given half a chance, would do in the monarchy, and then put the Queen in the Tower. Of course, if you breathe a word of this, I will deny it to the last drop of blood in my body."

"What else?"

"The Queen's mad. We discovered that over a year ago, but there is nothing in our laws that say we can't have a mad monarch. George the III proved that."

"Is that why you've barred reporters from Parliament?"

"If the general populace actually knew what was happening, panic would spread faster than wildfire."

"I see. And this business with your ghosts. When I heard, I couldn't believe it, and I'm still finding it hard to believe now."

"It's true. Something has happened, and we must get a handle on it."

"The other Directors think you're in a war zone."

Sir Rupert hesitated a moment, and then was forced to admit to it. "In a way we are at war. At war with spirits who now possess extraordinary abilities."

"Well, for Billy, that shouldn't be too hard to tackle."

"They're also robbing and killing people."

"Now that I didn't hear about."

"We've been very careful about what to release into the news."

"Hmm. Do you know why they're doing it?"

"Our strategy people are confounded. The analyses we keep arriving at don't make sense."

"So you need our Ghost Catcher."

"Felix, we need him in the worse way. Two nights ago, the central bank of England was robbed of twenty million in currency, and no one knows how much in jewels, gold and diamonds."

"How is that possible?"

"We don't know how it was done, but the vault was ripped apart like tissue paper."

"Mmm . . . more stuff we didn't hear about."

 

bar

 

Author Bio

Having won his degree in history through persistence, with experience in several public colleges, one religious preparatory, and numerous temporary stops in places–designed to churn out monumentally gullible and stupid people–Geoff Geauterre emerged from the forces of a monotheistic obnoxiousness, as a triumphant, sane and wonderfully erudite satirist.

Given this sense of wherewithal, and identifying himself as an intellectual transient, he traveled from the tip of the Florida Keys to the northernmost shore of Quebec, across the belt of Canada, into the heart and isles of Alaska, and down the Marine Highway.

He has been to the Mediterranean, walked the streets of France, and Athens, got lost in Bath, sat down in a sweltering mid-summer heat wave in Trafalgar Square, and–as if this were an omen–was dive-bombed by pigeons that oddly enough never seemed to miss.

From the streets of Fairbanks, when the Chena River overflowed, he slogged. In the forests of the Yukon, he fought hopeless battles against hordes of black flies and always lost. He ran for his life from bears who thought the salmon he was poaching was theirs, and he was in no hurry to argue about it.

Food poisoning in strange parts of the world, isolation in abandoned airports, shunned in train stations that led nowhere, tossed along an aqueduct, starved, parched and barely able to hang out and dry, everything he learned never wavered in its teaching from this single constant: That if you can laugh at yourself, no matter the circumstance, you've got what it takes to carry on.

In that effect then, the flavors of every story he has ever told, are couched into heartwarming, wonderful tales that touched upon his own life in a thousand and one ways. So, every time he's changed names, dates, time and places, because he doesn't care to have odd characters beating him over the head with their umbrellas . . . then the sly, funny, dangerous and outrageous actors are safely paraded before us to satiate and thrill.

Yet, do not be alarmed. For the tales that are told upon our stage are only as true as you would believe . . .

TTB Titles: A Nightful of Mages
A Play of Shadows - suspense

Eyes of Light sf/f series
Behold the Eyes of Light - Book I
Far Come the Eyes of Light - Book II
Within the Eyes of Light - Book III
Beyond the Eyes of Light - Book IV

The Fourth Guardian - sf/f novel
The Soapmaster's Apprentice - sf/f novel

Author web site

 

###

 

A Nightful of Mages Copyright © 2012. Geoff Geauterre. All rights reserved by the author. Please do not copy without permission.

 

 

  Author News

 

  Reviews
 



 

bar

 

Back to the Featured books

Back to Twilight Times Books main page 

 

bar

 

  A special note to TTB readers. All contents of this web site are copyright by the writers, artists or web site designer. If you discover any artwork or writing published here elsewhere on the internet, or in print magazines, please let us know immediately. The staff of Twilight Times Books feels very strongly about protecting the copyrighted work of our authors and artists.

 

 

Web site copyright © 1999, 2000 - 2012. Lida Quillen. All rights reserved.

Cover design 2012 Ardy M. Scott. All rights reserved.

This page last updated 07-07-12.

Twilight Times Books logo design by Joni.

 

windy