I came from salt water and will return there one day, dreaming of past lives as the oceans move in their mysterious ways. Other lives, other worlds away, Thomas the former Great Magix of Magixes of Cramadran opened his eyes and stared out of his Vancouver bedroom window.
The same nightmare of a place he no longer was and never will be. Ever again.
Thomas bolted up as a shrill scream and several growls rent the air.
In his mind's eye, he saw the young lad from two doors down, Dayne. The neighbor’s dogs, they’d gotten loose.
Thomas grabbed his five-foot hardened shaft and tore down the street as fast as his elderly legs could propel him. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn't be outside.
The two black Dobermans were barking viciously at Dayne shrieking, terrified, blood streamed from his torn pant leg.
One dog lunged towards Thomas as he ran up to them yelling a war cry from his former days. Striking the canine three times before it knew what hit it. Thomas hammered the end of his shaft into the beast’s skull. A crack resounded as it hit the ground. The other, with jaws slavering, lurched towards Thomas. He let out a shriek that would have graced most lions of Africa with humility.
Thomas bellowed again with the rage of a bull elephant in heat. The canine beat a hasty retreat. Thomas slumped to one knee gasping for air. Man, I gotta remember I’m nearly two hundred years old, not a young nobleman anymore.
Dayne grabbed at his bleeding leg. “That was amazing! How did you do that crazy stick twirling thing?”
“Military training from younger days,” Thomas gasped. “It takes a lot out of me these days.”
“That is from no army training. You're like a wizard or a warrior.”
“Correct, young Dayne of the Smiths.”
“How do you know my name?”
“There is much I know about you. I am a former wizard. You must not let anyone else know this.”
Dayne agreed.
The old man smiled, reading his mind. “I can fix your leg at my house, not here in public.”
“Now let me see your leg, you can’t go home like this.” He said once inside.
He clapped his hands three times, sparks flew. Thomas held them to either side of Dayne's leg. Sparkles transferred between his palms as blood ceased flowing, skin healed over. “You must never tell anyone I used Reiki on you.”
“That isn’t Reiki.”
“Call it magic. But you must never tell anyone. If you did, I would have to leave this town. It has happened to me before.”
Dayne nodded in agreement.
“Now. Watch.”
Dayne stared shocked as the ripped threads wove themselves into each other and all too soon the pant leg was intact.
“Wow! How?”
“I need to rest and recuperate.” Thomas staggered to his couch, falling asleep immediately.
Dayne blinked, picked himself up. His leg normal, he stared at the man and opened the front door, “Thank you, mister.”
Later, Dayne lay in bed staring into the ceiling thinking. He’s either not of this world or a magician. Wow! I’ve a great wizard living next door to me. Just like the Potters. Cool. So freaking cool.
Dayne returned the next day to visit the old man. “You, really a wizard?”
Thomas nodded. “Once, not now I was sent here from a spell cast by another wizard. I lived in a large castle on the seashore. My sworn enemy was Hanus the merciless, he sent me here with a spell knowing magic in this world is very weak, I’ve no way of finding my home-world or generating the kind of energy I need to open a dimensional portal in order to return.”
“You are kidding me, aren’t you?”
He looked sadly down. “I wish. I’ve been here for nearly two hundred years and probably will get nearly three hundred more before I pass away. Hanus knew my aging would be slow on this world and obviously wanted to prolong my torture. There’s no way of returning, and even if I did, everyone I knew would be long deceased.”
His pendulum clock chimed. “I’ve gotta go. Would you like to come over tomorrow? Have dinner, meet my parents? We’re going to have a Harry Potter movie night.”
“A movie about a pot of hairs? I even know that this world doesn't grow in clay. Potted or not.”
“No, I think you’ll like it. It’s about a world where magicians exist along with humans.”
Thomas scratched his chin. “I have no one or nothing in this world. Somehow, I believe you are indeed a sincere young Dayne of the Smiths.”
“Okay. It is Dayne Smith. We shorten everything here. I can help you fit in better.”
“A young escort into the workings of your planet. Agreed.”
“Man, you are a strange dude. With that grey hair you’d make a good Santa Claus in the mall. My dad works there and says they are looking for someone as the last guy just quit.”
“A saint of good will and helping others?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “I have been here too long alone. I agree, I shall do your bidding.”
Thomas sat on the plush red chair two weeks later as a line of kids waited to tell Santa their desires and wishes. Behind the fake beard Thomas smiled at Dayne.
“That's my best friend Heather, in the lineup. She lives alone with mother battling cancer.” Thomas stared at the woman in her mid-forties leaning on a cane. Her red hair hung loose over her shoulders, reminding him of his former love, Elouise.
Heather sat crying on his lap, her single wish, a healthy mother. He stared at her mom, their eyes locked. He saw her pupils widen, as did his. “I shall try to grant you your wish. I want to see your mother alone.”
“My time today is done.”
The two got up and went behind the paper decoration ice castle. “You cannot help me. I haven’t told my daughter that I am dying of terminal cancer.”
“I know, I see its claws digging through you.” Her eyes so reminded him of his long deceased love.
“This will be my last Christmas.”
Thomas watched the two children playing, hints of future possibilities entered his mind; these two will become betrothed. To meet a soulmate at that age, such a wonderful gift. I shouldn't do this. But if I don't they will not be together and I shall always regret it.
“Will you trust me? If this is to work you must believe in what I am about to do.”
Anne looked deep into his eyes. “There is someone saintlier and lovelier than Santa inside you. I don’t know why, but I trust you.”
“Good. Now stand still.”
Thomas clapped his hands together. A blue glow issued forth.
“What?”
“Do not ask. I call it a deep form of Reiki. This will hurt briefly.” He thrust his hands on either side of her body. Anne cried in pain. Thomas ran his hands over her stomach. “Gotcha.”
"Mom?" Heather yelled.
“I’m okay, darling.” Anne gasped back.
Very quickly Thomas pulled a hideous serpentine beast with slavering jaws from her. Spitting it twisted in his grasp trying to return to its meal. Thomas sneered. “Destroyer of life and goodness I commit thee to the depths of hell.”
He grabbed it by the throat twisting hard. A crack resonated as the creature went limp. Thomas flung it to the ground where it exploded into blue mist.
“MOM! You, okay?” Heather and Dayne ran to them unable to stay away from the flashes of light and shrieking. Anne stood straight, her cane falling from her hand. “It’s gone, I feel so very good.”
Hugging her daughter she turned to Thomas struggling to stay on his feet. The ordeal is too much.
Anne put her arm around him holding him as he slumped into near unconsciousness. “We must get him home.”
“Mom, how is this possible? You can’t even lift me?”
“I don’t know darling; somehow he’s cured me? But we must get Mr. Claus home.”
They drove silently, sparks dancing in her eyes. “Are you single? I don’t even know your name.”
“Thomas. And yes.”
They laid Thomas down on his couch. “You two go outside and play. I think I will stay and look after my savior.” She stroked his forehead. The touch ringing familiarity and dreams of Christmas future.
A forgotten unneeded cane lay on the floor of the shopping mall. Victim to the magic of Christmas past.
“Thank you, I don't know how you did that.” Anne leaned over and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead, “this is for a Christmas present.”
Bio:
Frank Talaber lives in Chilliwack, BC. He currently has twelve novels released. As well as the novels, he can boast over ninety-seven published short stories, articles, over sixty blogs and twenty live interviews.
People who have read Frank’s books describe him as a natural storyteller who writes like his soul is on fire and his pencil is his voice crying out. They go further to say that they find his books grabbingly intense and hilarious at times, screaming everyday life from such a realistic viewpoint you’re drawn into his world, unable to stop; almost cursing that they can’t set the book down, page after page.