The Shadowland

It isn’t a question of whether or not Magick exists. No matter what answer a person gives to that question, as long as it’s an honest answer, it will be the correct one. If a person truly and honestly does not believe in Magick, not even a little teeny tiny bit, then it will not exist. It can, of course; it just chooses not to. And therein lies the true wonder of Magick – its ability to move in and out of the realms of existence at will. Or perhaps that’s just stubbornness. It’s not like it’s convenient for Magick to simply up and disappear for people all the time, but it does it anyway, because it can. Because how would you feel if people were always saying you weren’t real?

Magick always makes it look simple, disappearing altogether in the blink of an eye, but it takes a lot of work, really. It gets rid of all the obvious things, of course. All of the Magick Folk (like dragons and faeries and centaurs) disappear, and all of the Magick Flora (like wolfsbane and adder’s tongue and mandrakes) turns into just the regular kind. But there’s so much more to Magick than just the obvious, and all of that disappears as well. Like the lone dandelion growing in the gap of the sidewalk in a busy city; or the sound of ocean waves trapped inside a seashell; or the sheer exhilaration of jumping in a fresh puddle with both feet. There is Magick in the every day, in the every moment, if only one chooses to notice it. And all of it, every single bit Magick in every single moment in all of Time, forever, vanishes the instant a person stops believing it is there. That is why adults are always so sure that Magick isn’t real, and why children always know that adults are wrong.

You were such a firm believer as a child. You lived with it more than others, you think, which is why you always believed more than your peers. While they were playing video games or watching TV, you were reading books and exploring the forest in which you lived, both of which make one much more susceptible to noticing Magick. It helped, too, that all of the books you read were about – or at least involved – Magick. Books like Harry Potter and The Lord of the Rings and The Great Tree of Avalon. These books told you what to look for as you ran through the forest, and you found all of it. Everything the world said was pretend but your books said was real, you found.

You spoke with faeries, who lived inside tree hollows or lady slippers or ferns, and who liked to host parties under the mushrooms that sprang up whenever it rained. You learned all the intricacies of the night sky at the hooves of centaurs, who had refused to teach you when you asked, but, so long as you were silent, they would not shoo you away, and they spoke aloud many things you think they would not have voiced were you not there. You learned how to tell the animals of the forest that you meant them no harm, and then, so long as you didn't get too close, they let you watch them to your heart's content and wouldn't run away. You learned how to communicate with the forest itself, with Nature, and when you placed your palms to the ground you could feel the heartbeat of the earth. Yes, you found all of this, and more. And that is why, when all your peers stopped believing in Magick, when it ceased to exist for them, you still believed, and it still existed for you. Sometimes it felt like you were the only person in the whole entire world who still believed in it, the only one keeping it from disappearing altogether. You were the Sacred Protector, and it was a role you did not take lightly.

By the time you were seven, you had discovered and experienced for yourself all of the Magicks of the world, save one. At first, you didn’t mind; there was plenty of time yet for you to find it, and you were in no hurry. There was so much other Magick everywhere that it was simply impossible to be disappointed about the lack of one specific thing. And when  you were younger, you didn’t even want that one bit of Magick. Not yet, anyway. You wanted to find it at some point, but no point that was as yet even a speck on the horizon of your future. But then you grew older, and soon that point did become a speck on the horizon, and then that speck got nearer and larger every day, until, by age fourteen, that speck was no longer a speck but a huge and looming Shadow that had eaten all of the light that used to fill your world so completely, and all you ever wanted was to know that last, secret Magick, and you set out to find it.

The first one was nice. He was sweet and caring and loving and nice. He held your hand and kissed you gently and always treated you as a Knight would treat a Princess. He was a knight, gallant and pure. And you tried to make him your knight. He wanted to be your knight, and my god did you try. You tried to feel all of the things one was supposed to feel, and for a time you even convinced yourself you did. Convinced yourself that you had, on your very first attempt, found the Last Magick. But you didn’t feel what you told yourself you felt, what you told him you felt, and he knew it. Everyone knew it. Everyone but you, so thoroughly had you convinced yourself. But he knew he was not your knight, and he bid you farewell to find his true princess, and the Shadows around you became a little blacker.

The next one was timid. He was quiet and withdrawn, but with you he tried to step into the role of Hero. You told him about the Shadows, and he vowed he would rescue you and carry you into the light. And you told yourself that he was the one who could. That he was the one who would. And as the Shadows deepened still further around you, you told yourself that the blackness was light, that light had always looked like that. Once again you told yourself you felt things you didn’t feel, had found things you hadn't found, and once again you believed yourself. This time, he believed you, too. As the days and months slipped by, your convictions grew steadily stronger as you felt steadily less, and still the Shadows deepened. Finally, they became so black that you could not see, and in your blinded terror you threw him aside and ran, ran as though your life depended on it.

You ran until you tripped and fell in the blackness, and, as you groped around on hands and knees, you came upon the third. He helped you up and brushed the tears from your still sightless eyes, held you close and told you everything would be alright. And into him you submitted, though you could not even see him to whom you clung. You cried and clutched at the fabric of what must have been his shirt beneath your fingers and begged him to help you escape the Shadows, and he promised you that you would never have to be afraid again. He sang you a lullaby then, and you drifted to sleep, cradled in his arms.

The Shadows are gone. Everything is Light and everything is Magick. Everything is the Last Magick. Almost. It’s like when there is something in the corner of your eye, but the moment you turn your head it’s gone, only to return to the corner of your eye a moment later, and soon you’re spinning in circles, faster and faster and faster and faster, trying to move quickly enough to see that which lurks just beyond your field of vision. And in your dreams you are spinning because it’s that Last Magick that is lurking, and you’re so close you could reach out and hold it if it would just stay still. But it won’t, and so you are spinning. You can hear his voice, at once distant and so close his lips could be touching your ear. He is singing, and it is beautiful. His song is filling you, seeping into your heart and your limbs, and with its strength you are spinning faster than you could on your own. Fast enough. The Last Magick is right in front of you now, though still only a blur. But once you catch it and hold it still, you will finally be able to really see it. You are spinning so fast your hand seems to be moving in slow motion as it reaches out. Your fingers start to close around the Last Magick. This is it, this is the mo–

Darkness. The blackest blackness you have ever seen, and it is everywhere. You scream and fall to the ground, more afraid and more alone than you have ever been. But it’s already gone, the Shadow. It was gone before you even hit the ground, already as distant in your memory as a dream upon waking, and all that is left is Light and Magick and singing. The Last Magick is back to lurking in the corner of your eye, but you do not chase it. Instead, you sit on the ground and try to remember. Remember what there was before everything was Light and Magick. But the music is in your head, swirling about like a hawk on the prowl, swooping down and consuming like mice any thoughts that tried to enter.

You slam your hands over your ears, cutting off the source. Without the steady stream of song to feed it, the music in your head withers and dies like a fire without air. You scrunch up your eyes to shut out the Light, and slowly you remember. Slowly the Shadows return.

When you open your eyes again, the Light is gone, but now you know how to see in the dark. He is still singing and has not noticed that you are no longer asleep. You can see the lullaby as he sings. It is a great serpent made of Shadows, rising from its nest within him. Its infinite body pushes endlessly past his lips and writhes through the air until it reaches you, wrapping you in its coils. It is squeezing you so hard you cannot breathe, you do not know how you breathed while you were asleep. You start to struggle, working to escape the thick, twisting Shadow-muscle of the snake. You have surprise on your side, and you manage to free an arm before the snake or the singing boy realize that you are even awake. With your free arm, you do the only thing you can think of: you punch the boy in the face, hard.

It works. He stops singing, and the Shadow-snake disappears. But now he knows you are awake, and he catches your ankle as you try to run. His fist is a vice, and you cannot pull your ankle free. He starts to sing again, and the head of the snake slithers through his open lips and wraps around your wrist. But the head is weak and small, not the massive coils of muscle that squeezed you while you slept; the snake needs time to feast upon and grow from the unsuspecting, and it is not strong enough to contain you. You break its grip on your wrist, and move to pry the boy’s hand from your ankle. Now that you know how to see in the dark, it is not an impossible task. You can see each of his fingers wrapped around your ankle. You grab the middle one and yank it back until you hear it break.

He screams. It is a blood-curdling, gut-wrenching scream, and it cuts you to your core. The scream pleads with you not to leave. It asks you why you’re doing this to him, why you’re hurting him like this. It begs you, please, to just give him another chance. To just let him show you one more time, because wasn’t it beautiful? And then he is singing as he screams, and the dream-visions fill the darkness. And it is beautiful. It is beautiful and you want to stay, you want to live in this beauty forever. But it is not real, and you grab another finger. It breaks and the singing voice is screaming too, dual voices crying out in unimaginable agony. You grab a third finger and add a third shriek to the cacophony. Only his pinky and his thumb remain on your ankle, but their grip alone is strong enough to keep you from kicking free. The three screams are each pleading with you, each wailing about what they have to offer if you stay, and about what harms are sure to befall you if you leave. One voice is alternating promising you everything you’ve ever wanted, and trying to sing so that it might show you your desires fulfilled; one voice is screaming that the boy will die without you; one is asking you why, why, why after everything they had done for you? The dream-visions keep flickering in and out with the darkness as the first voice starts and stops its song, like a television channel struggling to get reception.

You realize you are crying and screaming as well, and you have no idea when you started. You try to pry off another finger, but the air has become so thick with agony it’s like moving through wet concrete. It takes an eternity or maybe it’s only a moment for your hands to reach his on your ankle. You grab his pinky with your left hand and his thumb with your right, and, with all the strength you have left to fight this, you pull until they too break. A thousand screams rend the air and the flickering of the dream-visions is like a strobe light and you think the world might be ending and then

It stops.

And there is nothing.

Nothing but Shadows, and you. And you know that no one can carry you out of these Shadows. You must find your own way out, or walk in them forever. And you think that that’s okay, because there is something comforting about the Shadows now. After all, even they are a type of Magick. A type you had not known existed, and what other types were there still to find? You walk in the Shadows, because you do not know the way out yet. You will have to discover that in time, you think. Once you have walked in them a while.

You see a dandelion. Not a regular dandelion, of course, but it is still a dandelion, even if it exists in shades of black. You stop to look at this Shadow-flower. It seems to be growing in some sort of crevice. A perfectly smooth crack in the world. No, wait. Not in the world. A sidewalk, perhaps. It’s difficult to tell in the Shadows, but you’re almost positive now – you’re standing on a sidewalk. And the dandelion is growing out of the gap in the sidewalk. You wonder how it came to grow here out of all places, struggling to find soil through the cement, and then growing with a complete lack of sunlight. 

You stoop down to examine the flower closer. It looks is just like a regular dandelion in every way, save for its colors. A hundred tiny petals and a few jagged leaves. Its stem even oozes sticky grey liquid over your fingers when you pluck it from the ground. You raise it to your nose and inhale, and you smell the summer sun in its petals. As the fragrance fills you, so too does color fill the dandelion. It begins with a tiny speck of golden light in the very center of the flower that spreads steadily out, until each of the hundred petals is as brightly gold as the sun. The stem and leaves slowly lose their grey for green, and even the sticky sap on your fingers turns milky white instead. Beyond just regaining color, though, the head of the dandelion seems to be actually glowing, giving you a slight amount of Light in this dark place. And, whether it is actually glowing or if it is just the fact that it alone has color, it still rekindles a fire within you, and that is all the light you need to survive in this world of Shadows. You tuck the dandelion behind your ear, a soft reminder in case you ever start to lose your way again, and you take a step forward.

A step illuminates just beyond the one you have taken. It looks like golden faerie dust in the shape of a shoe-print. It even has the same tread pattern as your sneakers. You take another step forward, gently placing your foot over the faerie dust. A second shoe-print lights up just ahead of you, then a third beyond it. You take another couple of steps, and a dozen shoe-prints now appear ahead of you, leading the way. You remove the dandelion from behind your ear and ask it if this is its doing. Its golden glow pulses in reply, and you tuck it back behind your ear, then set out to follow the path Magick has given you. Maybe it will lead you out of the Shadows, or maybe it will lead you nowhere. But it is better, at least, than staying still.