The Spell of Opening

“You are more subtle than most,” the door whispered suddenly, breaking the concentrated silence. “Not very strong, but clever and patient. Nevertheless, are you certain you have removed all the traps and spells keeping out all who would enter through me?”

Samael pulled back his outstretched hand from the latch he had almost grasped. He stared in wonderment at the door, then took its words to heed and looked again with his wizard’s sight at the charms he thought he had unraveled and pushed apart.

Ah, there. He had missed it. Behind the door on one corner, crossing on the diagonal from top frame to side frame: a short filament of cobweb. It could barely be seen, and there was hardly any magic in the strand, but there was just enough so that if the door had opened and severed the filament, it would have let loose a dissolution spell that would have shredded him into dust motes the moment he crossed the threshold.

The layer upon layer of spells of warding and concealment and opposition and binding and abolition and extinguishment he had painstakingly teased and cast to the sides reasserted themselves, falling about the door like a heavy, deadly, shimmering curtain. The door was impenetrable once again. Samael’s shoulders slumped, pressed down by disappointment and failure and the fatigue of long effort.

All vigor seemed to drain from him then, though he drew enough from the dregs within him to maintain the lingering spell he had placed in the space around him and the door. The spell had changed the flow of time within that space; he had cast it at the beginning of his venture to give himself more time to contemplate the necromantic design of the barrier about the door and attempt to undo it, or to find some means of sidling through. He had spent many, long, frustrating hours reading the patterns underlying the spells, and had finally tried to part the veils, only to fail miserably in the end.

After a long, weary silence, he gave his attention to the door. He said, “Why did you warn me? And how is it that you can speak?”

The door whispered, answering the second question, “All things learn to speak, in time, in their fashion, though few can understand their speech, and vanishingly few take the bother to listen. Brooks babble, trees sigh their words into the wind, even unchangeable rocks thrum slowly, saying perhaps one unhurried syllable in an age. And I am old, very old, and I have changed being more than once. I have been articulate – though mostly silent – long before this city was founded.”

“And the warning?”

“Ah, well,” the door whispered – and it seemed to Samael that it shrugged inwardly. “It’s not as if you will be able to pass through. You have not the power. But it is not necessarily part of my being or purpose to kill young men who have barely tasted of life. I would prefer not to have the remains of another wizard lying dead at my feet, if I can avoid it.”

Samael sighed. “You are right that I do not have much sorcery in me. I am but the town wizard of Pine Crossing, a small town indeed, leagues away from this great city. Much of my labor is in the healing of injuries and illness; the finding of lost things, the mending of broken ones; the casting of spells of increase during the sowing season; the warding of pestilence and ill fortune. I have only a little training in the deeper arts, and no spirit at all for the quest that I must undertake.”

“What quest is that? Why do you attempt passage into the otherworld now?”

Samael stood silent for a moment. Then answered: “In recent years, children throughout this land – boys and girls of two or three years – have been taken from their beds at night, not to be heard from again. A few at first, then more and more as time went on. Among my wizardly order, there have been murmurs that the Lord of the Interstitial Realm, growing in power of late, is behind these unspeakable acts; that he is reaching into our world to snatch bodily those who are most innocent. Three fortnights ago, this calamity befell my town, which I am sworn to protect. The blacksmith’s son was taken from him before dawn, even as he and his wife slept.

“I do not know why a Lord of such power would even deign to remove such a poor, insignificant child from his father’s and mother’s house. It is said that he has some plan or scheme that we cannot as yet fathom. He is moved, no doubt, by a purpose that eludes me.”

“Or by caprice. He is not a good man.”

Samael hesitated. “As you say.”

“And you mean to go into the otherworld, then, to attempt rescue of the blacksmith’s son? Or of all the missing children?”

“I do not know about the other children. Certainly, I would try if I could. But my oath is to the blacksmith and his wife: to find and return with their son, if at all I can.”

“You are a good man, and brave. But extremely foolish.”

Samael smiled. “So I have been told, all my life.” He regarded the door with a curious eye. “You said you have changed being before. How so?”

“Well, before I was a door, I was a slab of wood for a very long time, in a warehouse full of wood. I was heavy and hard, and when I was brought into the otherworld, I was made even harder by years of slow burning in the Lord’s kilns. At the same time, my being was ensorcelled with certain of his magics to fulfill my purpose. Then I was carved and planed into a door and set on this wall long, long ago, and more spells were woven about me to keep all from passing through, save the Lord himself or his appointed emissaries.

“And before that, I was part of a tree, of course, in the heart of an ancient blackwood, already hard as iron, even before the kiln fires. I only dimly remember it now, for of course the other parts of me were sawed away when I was cut down, and they took with them the bulk of the memories of that being. But I do recall that in that life, in that being, I breathed the air in and out in slow drags and exhalations, I felt the sun and rain on my leaves, the rich earth with my roots; I knew the slow passing of the seasons, I listened to the whispers of the forest and the chattering of the short-lived creatures who lived and died about me. I did all such things that a tree does and took pride in my small part in the unfolding of creation.”

Samael considered it. “And do you now take pride in your part as a door to the otherworld?”

Again it seemed as if the door shrugged. “It is a much diminished existence. I am a very small thing now, where once I towered over the forest. I stand here, mostly unused. Perhaps twice or thrice in the last few hundred years have the Lord’s minions passed through me during the night in secret, setting forth into this city following his bidding. The passage I protect leading into the otherworld is very far away from the heart of his realm, and not heavily trafficked.”

Samael nodded. “So I surmised, from what I gleaned from obscure texts buried deep in the books of wizardly lore in my order’s library in this city. We do not even post guard or watch over you, for you are barely remembered as a side door to the Interstitial Realm. It is why I thought I had more of a chance to get through here than the other gateways, cunningly concealed and fiercely guarded as they are.”

“Ahhh, but nondescript though I may be, I am no less hidden or impassable than those other, more formidable entryways, deep though they may lie in caverns in unreachable mountains, or defended though they may be by the Lord’s most powerful servants. None have passed through me against my will in all the centuries of my existence. You asked me about pride. What pride I have left I take from performing my task well.”

“I believe you. It took me a week’s walking throughout the city to even find you.” Samael added, “I meant no offense.”

“I took none. I was merely explaining,” the door whispered.

Samael sighed, then gathered himself. “Oh, well, I suppose I must try again.” The door did not reply.

Samael studied the swaying, shifting spells before him, observing seams or clefts that he might pick at, openings he might use to pry the barrier apart. The spells were more convoluted and bewildering than they had appeared when he first beheld them, when he thought they had given way in his first attempt. He wondered now if that was part of the trap: to seem less insidious to the eyes of the unwary or unskilled, and thus lure them in to their doom with other spells more well-hidden and deadly.

His eyes and mind began to strain with the effort of discernment and divination. He stared at a knotted spell strand towards which his intuition drew him. He thought that it might be key. If he could untie it, it might loosen the three other spells it wove through and bound together. And then perhaps if he…

He was forced back a step, his arm before his eyes, half-blinded. The strand had suddenly flashed into incandescence just was he was looking straight at it. In his sudden distress, the lingering spell he was keeping almost broke. It took some while before he was able to blink and wipe away the tears, before the dark spots before his eyes faded away.

The door whispered, “You are fortunate. If you had perused the spell beside it, it would not have gone up in a spark; it would have sent lightning into your heart and stopped it.”

Samael clenched his teeth in anger and growing despair. He breathed deeply several times to compose himself. “There must be a way.”

“If there is, it is beyond you. I do not wish you to be harmed; I harbor no ill will towards you. Perhaps you should start on your return journey back to your town.”

Samael shook his head. “I cannot. I swore to the blacksmith and his weeping wife. I cannot return and take back with me only my failure.”

“You cannot save the child. If death is the only alternative to dishonor, then that you will find here – if you continue.”

Samael stared at the door. It seemed such a small, innocuous thing, barely taller than a man and not much wider that his shoulders. Its wooden face was scored and pitted by the weathering of the years, its black, metal latch and hinges marked with scratches and patches of rust. He said, imploring, “Can you not help me? Is there no way you will let me through?”

The door whispered, “I?”

“Yes. You know my task. You have said that the Lord is not a good man. Let me through and let me take my chances in the otherworld. Let me try to find the child.”

“I am charged to keep you out.”

“You are a door. You have said you take pride in your being. As a tree you were content to fulfill a tree’s purpose. But a door’s being and purpose is not, in the end, to remain a barrier; it is to let someone through. The void, the way through within your frame is the true meaning of your existence, not the wooden door nor the spells that are woven to fill the void and block the way. Otherwise, you are nothing else but a continuation of this wall that you are set in – not a door.”

He continued, “You also said that none could pass through you but for your will. Let it be your will to let me in.”

The door remained silent for a moment. Then it said, “All right.” And to Samael’s surprise, the barrier spells fluttered to the ground all at once like dropped scarves.

Samael’s eyes were wide. He feared some further perfidy or subterfuge, but look as he might, he could see no enchantment remaining about the door. They lay dormant, harmless on the threshold. He reached for the latch; he turned it. The door opened. Samael peered inside and saw a long, dark hallway lit by flickering torches leading deep inside and downward.

Carefully, warily, he took a step over the threshold. Nothing happened. He took two more steps, then turned around and closed the door, shutting away the daylight outside.

The spells on the threshold leaped up and re-formed themselves about the door.

The door whispered in the dark, “I wish you well, young wizard. I do not hold much hope for you or for the attainment of your aims. Nevertheless, you must do what you must, as your being demands. As we all do.”

Samael asked, “Was it always that simple? All I had to do was ask?”

“Oh, not at all. One or two others before you have tried that. But there is something about you that compels me. Oh, not a power in the way of wizardry and sorcery. As I have said, you have some of that, but not much. No, it is something else.” At Samael’s questioning look, it observed, “You do not know what it is. And yet it is right before you, scribed in all your words and deeds. Perhaps it is just as well that you are unaware of it, lest the gift be sullied. It may yet help you along your way, though I admit I find it difficult to see how. This is a most villainous place.”

Samael was thoughtful a moment, then said simply, “I thank you, friend.”

The door whispered. “Go, and if by chance you leave this realm alive, come back to me and let me know of it. I would be glad of that.”

Samael nodded, and turned away from the door. Slowly, he made his way deeper into the hallway, casting about with his wizard’s eye for any hazards underfoot or dangers lurking in the dark corners.

* * *

To the housewives and servants and laborers who walked along the busy, dusty market street in the northwest corner of the great city while clutching their full sacks and baskets, it seemed that what they saw was a slight young man in a coarse, hooded country cloak standing for a few moments before a door set in a stucco wall between two striped awnings – if they minded him at all. The bearded hawkers barking their wares under the awnings certainly didn’t cast more than a glance at him. Perhaps one or two saw him open the door and walk through it to the alleyway behind the wall – but it is more likely that no one even noticed him as he passed through.

(February 2013)