I Could not find that which I sought at the
taverns or in the churches as did the others.
No, that was not possible. They shunned
me. They called me evil! They all laughed
at my claw-like hands and feet, my
misshapen back and missing eye. They
were unaware that my wings were fully
formed under the skin of my back. Even
when I got a wooden eye, painted to look
almost real, they laughed a me. Ugly, they
called me. "You look like Satan! What are
you? Are you some kind of a daemon? Get
away from us-- you are going to Hell!"
Then as always, I would turn and amble
away into the night, alone-- a tear in my one
good orb. What hurt was I could hear them
jeer at me even after the door had swung
shut. "Wood Eye! Wood Eye!" Oh, how
they hated me.
I come from a long line of sorcerers. Oh
yes, we go way back into the mists of time
when men were not always like they are
now. Once, there were men raised from
many sources-- the wolf, the boar, the bear
and the ape, but always carnivores. My
particular race came from far under the
Earth where the smell of burning brimstone
filled the dreams of our kind. Once long
ago, my great forbear, up on a surface raid,
mated with a particularly fair gypsy woman
out of pure lust. When he was through with
her, he left her be to deal with her special
offspring in any way she could. Well, she
toughed it out and survived, as she was
strong and gave her soul to the Darkness,
dancing under the full moon and growing
strong in the dark arts. Now, every few
generations, one such as me appears to walk
the darkness and carry on the line. That is
why we are sorcerers. We have our own
agenda. In any case, these fools refuse to
even entertain the thought of their mixed
ancestry. That's probably because their
preacher told them that they were special,
created by the hand of their God-- but I
know different.
Now, the time is right for me to do what my
kind has always done, so I begin my
wedding dance. I dig in the rich soil under
the cold moonlight where the wolf bane
grows in forsaken places. It is a bride I
seek, and I shall have her too! She will be a
perfect women who will aid and love me for
all time, happy to be my helpmate. She will
be my lover too, my other half! Oh, most
men desire many women, and I am no
different. Many I shall have to please me in
the darkness too as that is our way, but not
like you might think! I will dig now! I dig
with renewed vigor. I work like a sculptor
in the night who has the pure passion of a
thousand lovers and a master's hands. I dig.
I dig! By the moon, I dig up all the garden
to find my crop, all-the-while hoping that
my delights are not too ripe. As I uncover
my prizes, the smell is strong, but it bothers
me not, as I work as one possessed. This
night will be worth my effort! I dig up a
hundred long boxes, maybe more. I seek
my treasure. They all gleam like golden
bars in the night, and I rejoice! I open
every one, picking and choosing, taking
what I need, here a little, there a little like a
smart shopper in the local supermarket.
With fine honed razor in hand, I slice each
delectable part so perfect and wonderful
that it makes me lust with glee under the
great white eye in the sky. I load my
harvest into my small undertaker's cart and
slowly push it down the dirt path much like
a child musing over just-gathered flowers
for his mother on a spring day in the park. I
push my cart with the strident wheel past
the gaunt, silvery stone markers, each one
telling what was planted but never grew.
I move down the hill and egress through the
rusted, iron-gray gate that groans and
wheezes, swinging in the errant wind. My
only witness the moon, the stars and those
that giggle and grin in anticipation when
my cart's wheel bobbles at a chuck hole.
My cart filled with treasure and worms and
the musty smells of bodies after their hearts
cease to beat, holds my rapt attention. I
labor down the cobblestone street as the
accusing church bell clangs three times in
defilement, as the discordant noise shatters
the stillness of the night. The fog rises. Yet
no one sees me, for they are all under a
powerful spell of deepest slumber. The
swirling mists, however, do not cover the
lonely picked-over garden back up the hill
that rises like an island in a storm-tossed
sea. I glance back and see all those long
boxes and cast-aside body parts and piles of
dirt and turned over flowers exposed in the
restless night. I do not concern myself. The
town's people will presume that a ghoul has
been at work there, feeding on the bounty.
The fools below should have thought about
the consequences before they treated me so
badly in the saloons and churches. There is
no love there. Their souls are harder and
more corrupted than those moldering body
parts up there on that desolate hill, rejected
in the moonlight.
Sorcerer, they called me. They ridiculed
and chided me with their unseemly jokes
and knowing words. They were unkind and
called me mad too! I am many things to be
sure, but mad is not one of them. I know
exactly what I am doing. I will show them
who is mad. I know more than they, for
that is my compensation. I am one with the
fog. I am like slow music that waifs though
the night on the mist. I can see what the
mundane eye cannot. I rustle on, wheels
chinking on the cobbles. I flow past the
stores and the offices, as down the long hill
I go, singing a little sorcerer's song with the
wind keeping time. I rattle past the fire
house and the bakery, and then I arrive at
my home, old and stately standing before
me. My house never knew happiness, only
strife, hate and murder. I will change all
that now. Too, I shall teach the insensitive
fools of this dour little village a lesson, and
even death himself, will soon stand amazed
before I'm through. I clamber up the steps,
pulling my cart up after me, past the stately
columns of the porch and gently guide my
cart though the double doors and down the
dusty hallway into oblivion.
Soon, they will see that I have my bride,
and they will chide me no more! I put the
handle of my cart down and shut the great
doors behind me, blocking the fierce light
of the leering moon. Yes, I close these
doors on them, just as all those other doors
were shut before me in days gone by. I
once again take up the cart and pull it to the
far wall. There I touch the stud that opens
the secret panel that releases the gate to the
hall that leads into my secret study beyond
the prying eyes of the infidel. My time has
come. I say to the body parts, waiting in
my cart, "You shall be my wife and my
love. You shall give me my son and I shall
plant a new garden under the cold and
glistening stars while we shall dance the
lover's waltz in the fog under the stare of
the harvest moon." It is all so perfect.
As I enter my study the wall closes behind
me as if I never was. Why must all of this
be necessary? Will these doors ever stop
confessing their hate and discontent that
they too must close on me? Disgusted, I
fling everything off my desk as I sing a
song of lovers lost and found once more. I
lovingly place the still-perfect body parts on
my work table, arraigning and placing them,
as I mold and sew them together into the
perfect women there in the night, in my
secret laboratory. This then is where I
prove that I am not mad! There, I am done.
I have created a fantastic work of the
necromancer's art. Then with trembling
hands, I take out my ancient, leathern black
book that has passed though the hands of a
thousand wizards in ages gone by, who in
their turn, raised perhaps a million knights
fit for battle in service to their kings. I
place the multicolored powders upon her
chest and utter the magical words that call
forth the spirits of old that answer to the
touch of the necromancer. I know their
names! The words and names roll off my
tongue like fire into the night. I hear the
scream of the banshee with a torn heart, as
she relinquishes her hold on my fair one.
Just then, time stops, and I hear the howl of
a thousand dogs as the very air bends and
splits under the stress of the opening gates.
The walls bulge, pulse and waver in the
shimmering atmosphere, as the flames of
Hell lick at the beams. The candles gutter,
and then the flames glow a bright blue, and
the smell of ozone fills the air. Something
is coming! Red eyes glow in the DarkLite,
and I hear a laugh of triumph as off in the
distance upon the wind. Then I tremble
with swollen heart as my love arises to meet
me. Her long lashes flutter over crystal-
clear orbs as fine as topaz, as her lungs
draw in the life-giving air. She breaths it
in, as a ruddy glow returns to her fine, ivory
skin. Her silken breasts heave with passion,
and her thighs part ever so slightly. The
musty smell is gone and is replaced with the
aroma of a hot, living woman. I have
triumphed over death! Oh my, she smiles
and gazes at me with loving, violet eyes.
She is lovely in my sight, as I take her
offered hand in the morning light and we
embrace.
