Inspirational Theurgist
N.V. Haskell
William spread a clean newspaper neatly over the grimy subway floor, sat down, and leaned against the yellowed wall. He scratched his chin beneath his gray-and-white beard as one train glided to a stop, the paper’s curling edges lifting in the wind. A mass of bodies careened toward the stairs as he quietly pressed himself away from their hurried shoes and analyzed each wave of energy with keen interest.
One man tossed a few coins at the elderly man, who pulled his long, tattered coat around his chin. A woman paused, and William shifted his foot, his toe peeking between the sole and the upper part of his worn shoe. She retrieved a five-dollar bill from her bag, but William didn’t have a cup set out to receive such offerings, so she placed it atop his hands before rushing away.
William caught a hint of an energetic tug, but it was stale and quickly lost in the hustle of the commuters. He sighed and watched the crowd change as one train departed and another took its place.
People walked by filled with purpose and goals, their eyes locked on their phones or staring numbly ahead. Their voices struck him like blunted arrows, easily deflected with practiced defense. The years he’d spent searching for an anomalous soul had made him patient, and he no longer resented the time he waited.
His transition was looming, as evidenced by last night’s shimmers that had wafted down his arms. His fingers had trembled and gone translucent; he’d lost his grip on the mug, which landed with a thud on the bar. Thankfully, his fingers quickly solidified again. It was the third time in as many months.
There.
He caught a hint of bright yellow in an otherwise black-and-gray palette and struggled to his feet as the pull called to him. His hips and knees protested, groaning under the sudden unauthorized demand. Leaning against the wall to steady himself, he spied the boy. Black curls, acne, with recently sprouted sparse hair braving his upper lip. The boy adjusted his backpack while throwing his shoulder against the crowd.
Painter.
William huffed, tucking the five dollars into his pocket before loping after him. The crowd parted thoughtlessly around the old man, neither cursing nor grumbling as they also tightened around the boy and slowed his pace. It was a subtle shift of energy that none but the truly aware could feel. And the boy was unaware of much, other than his hormones and newly complex emotions.
The energy connected William to the boy, and for a moment, the old man could sense the world as if through a new lens.
He felt the boy—Zack—grip his pack tighter and struggle like a salmon swimming against the current toward the train. With a collective sigh, the pack of bodies scattered from his path one second before the subway doors slid shut. The train darted away without him.
William was close enough to both feel and hear Zack curse.
The old man placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder, which strengthened the energy passing between them. The energy was subtle at first, the giving of it happening at a molecular level and growing larger. William felt the magic fill Zack’s arm before wriggling simultaneously into his neck and down into his torso.
Zack spun defensively, slapping the old man’s arm away. The physical connection was broken, but the energy still flowed.
“A gift,” William whispered, lifting his thick white brows, a smile on his thin, haggard face.
The arrival of another train kicked dirt into the air as it shuddered to a stop. Zack closed his eyes, and William slipped away into the crowd.
Still linked through the shared energy, William watched Zack claim a seat on the subway, briefly scanning the other passenger’s faces. A moment later, the train jerked forward, and a surge of creativity sparked through the energy bridge like fire. Zack pulled a sketch pad from beneath five cans of spray paint in his backpack. As he began to cover the paper with new ideas, William withdrew the connection—and smiled.
Of all the comrades that e’er I had
They’re sorry for my going away
And all the sweethearts that e’er I had
They’d wish me one more day to stay
The words drifted through the thick tavern air as drunken men and women sang in fractured unison. William wondered if they were still called taverns. It certainly felt like a tavern. But that could just be the alcohol and questionable decisions being made that gave it that air. He blended in with the crowd, his beard neatly trimmed, his clothing comfortably middle-class.
People saw what they expected to see, and unless he magicked otherwise, he changed accordingly. He warmed his hands in the pockets of his leather coat and reclined against the wall as he listened. The energy pull waxed stronger, like a thread tugged taut. It had potential.
Hidden behind five overly confident and mostly off-tune men, a woman sang shyly near the bar. Mary’s voice lilted toward him with a rosy hue. He felt her desire to be heard contrasted with self-limiting fear.
Musician.
The inebriated people swayed apart easily as he strolled across the room. He brushed gently against Mary’s arm in passing and felt her shiver. The sudden connection forced her voice to rise in volume, and when the moment ended, she did not readjust her voice.
Faces turned to her with new appreciation as she hit each note with a richness and raw emotion that overrode better tone or pitch. People lowered their voices to give space for hers. William saw a man in tears, his lip trembling as the golden energy of Mary’s voice resonated inside him.
By a time to rise and a time to fall
Come, fill to me the parting glass
Good night and joy be with you all
Connected as he was to Mary, William could easily imagine her later, sitting at her table and filling old music paper with new notes and clefs. Tomorrow she would restring and tune her father’s dusty old guitar, too long abandoned in a closet. With Mary’s passion reignited, she would not question the new uptick in inspiration. She would not remember the well-dressed man who brushed into her at the bar.
William reclined on a park bench beneath the warming spring sun as the newly returned robins sang amorous pleas. He sipped his coffee, paid for by the generosity of a passerby in the subway. The warmth oozing from the cup eased the nagging of his arthritic fingers. He sighed, enjoying this simple pleasure his younger self would not have understood. But it had been such a long life, and it was nearing its end. Two painters, a sculptor, a poet, an actor, and a handful of musicians. It was a good haul for one night’s work.
Unfortunately, none of them had been the one he sought. The artists he had touched were too full of other goals and familial obligations, things they could not put down with good conscience. Things that interfered with their ability to focus on creating.
He needed someone who had no such ties, but with the constant demands and impatience of this world, it had become like searching for a hint of ultramarine blue in a pre-1500s painting. Impossible. So, he simply gave each artist enough magic to inspire and rekindle their creative energies, to keep them going as he continued his search.
“Someday, you will have to choose wisely, too.” That was what David, his mentor, had said before he transitioned. Back then, William had not understood what could happen. He thought that David’s peaceful transition to an onyx-black raven that roosted in the Rockies was a lovely standard.
It hadn’t been until his brother-in-service, Giotto, had failed to secure an adequate successor that William understood how dire the situation could be. Giotto’s arrogant protégé had abandoned him before finalizing her commitment. She had taken most of his energy and inspiration and become famous, with no thought or intention of ever helping others.
When Giotto’s last moment came, it was William who held his hand as he vanished into a long exposition of fusion jazz that filled a New York club for the better part of a night. When the music faded, several patrons had saved Giotto among four digital recordings that were never listened to again.
William shivered; it was the worst kind of ending after a life spent inspiring others. Worse, he knew how much Giotto hated jazz.
How well William chose his successor would determine his own last form. He didn’t want to be a breath of wind that wafted through an orchestral pit. Nor did he want to be the worn sole of a ballerina’s shoe. William wanted something more substantial, something that would linger and last. But after witnessing Giotto’s end, it was hard to hope for an end like David’s, and William found himself afraid to commit to anyone.
He closed his eyes and tilted his head back as the sun pierced the thin skin of his eyelids and turned his interior world shades of muted gold and amber. William thought of the boy from yesterday—Zack. He reminded William of himself when he had been a youth. But the artist was too young. He hadn’t lived enough yet. And Mary, the soulful soprano, had recently taken on the role of defense attorney. She had too many distractions with a big trial coming up.
“Excuse me.”
A woman’s voice jerked him out of his musings. His coffee sputtered through its lid and onto his hand.
“I’m so sorry. I wasn’t trying to startle you.” She was a familiar, fortyish-year-old woman with strands of silver highlighting her brown hair at her temples. She was well-dressed in a simple business suit, but the designer bag on her shoulder was fraying and worn at its edges. Her brown eyes were warm with concern.
He transferred his cup to the other hand while wiping the coffee onto his tattered coat. “It’s alright, miss.”
She fretted, pulling a wadded napkin from her purse before shoving it at him.
William eyed her thoughtfully as a subtle, energetic tug drew his attention. There was an emptiness about her, a void that had been filled with more than she allowed herself to have now. William remembered a similar hollowness back when he was struggling to create. But that had been a long time ago.
“Did you need something?” he asked.
She thrust a five-dollar bill at him with hands he remembered glimpsing the day before. “I was going to leave it on your lap but didn’t want to startle you. I suppose I did, anyway.”
William glanced down; his leather jacket had transformed into a tattered woolen coat. The toes of his right foot chilled as a breeze wafted through the split sole of his shoe. She must have recognized him from the subway yesterday.
“Can I get you another cup of coffee?” she asked. She clutched her purse awkwardly, and he suspected the five had been the last of her bills.
He waved her away. “No, thank you. I appreciate the offer, though.”
William glanced around, noticing the other park benches were full of couples or families. He scooted to the edge of the bench, leaving enough space for her to sit a comfortable distance away. The sun was bright; more office types would be coming out to enjoy their lunch breaks on a day like today.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Tamara.” She cleared her throat as he slurped the spilled coffee from its lid.
“William.”
He waited for her to settle into a comfortable space without attempting the immediate small talk that might send her scurrying away. She wasn’t timid, he thought. She was drained. Her energy was barely reaching for him. “You must work around here.”
She nodded toward 47th Street.
“Lawyer?”
“Paralegal.”
He grunted before taking another sip of his drink.
“And you?” Tamara asked. “You must have done some work …” She trailed off as her cheeks flushed pink.
William gave her a small smile. “Artistic Inspirational Theurgist, wizard class,” he replied. No one had asked in a long time and, whether or not she went running, he enjoyed being able to say it.
Her posture stiffened, but she didn’t move to leave. “Artistic theurgist …? Oh. That’s nice. And, um, wizard class, you say?” She dug through her bag, eventually pulling out a sandwich in a zippered silicone bag. “That must have taken a lot of work.”
“Four hundred years, give or take.”
Her eyebrows raised as she glanced sideways at him, as if his answers were not wholly unexpected. “Well, you look awfully good for your age, William.” She took a bite of her sandwich.
William watched her with increasing interest. “Any hobbies? You seem like the sort who might be good at a lot of things.”
She covered her mouth, chuckling as she swallowed. “Nah. I used to be, you know, when I was younger.”
“Musician?”
She shook her head, smiling. “Can’t carry a tune to save my life. I’m the black sheep of my family. Everyone else plays instruments or sings.”
He rubbed his beard, trying to determine how to categorize her. “Painter?”
“Only walls, and I still make a mess.” Tamara sighed as she leaned back against the bench. “How about you, theologist? Any hobbies?”
“Theurgist. I used to be a writer, but that was a long time ago.”
A spark lit behind her eyes. “I did a little writing back in high school.”
“What made you stop?” William leaned toward her, attempting to reel in the energetic line that was spooling tentatively outward.
Her shoulders sagged slightly. “My folks died young, and I had to look after my younger brother and sister.” She shrugged. Her voice held no self-pity. “You know how it goes. Life is messy and busy, and it has a way of turning out different than you thought it would.” Her gaze shifted guiltily to his tattered coat and worn shoes. “I’m sorry. I should have filtered that before it left my mouth.”
He smiled. “No offense taken. I’m curious though—why don’t you write now?”
She half shrugged and did not reply.
“Would you if you could?” He tugged gently on an ink-black thread that spun from her chest, giving it a thimbleful of energy. With a gentle nudge, that creative line hummed to life.
“I’m too old for that now,” she replied, but there was still that light in her eyes.
It was William’s turn to chuckle. “It is never too late to start again, Tamara.”
Tucking her empty sandwich bag into her purse, she narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Been nice talking with you, William. Hope to see you again.”
He nodded, studying her as she hurried away.
Maybe he should revisit Zack. The boy had potential. William felt strongly that whoever his replacement would be should dive into the work with passion.
A middle-aged man scurried past while quietly reciting lines that William knew too well.
“Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.”
Actor.
It was easy to place a small stone in the man’s way that slowed him down, and equally easy to keep the man from tripping as William imparted a bit of magic into him. A little inspiration improved every performance.
A week later, he saw Tamara sitting outside a café on a Sunday morning. She was sipping black coffee while typing one-handed on her laptop. William watched as she set the coffee down and attacked the keyboard with the full focus and fury of both hands.
“William?”
He turned to see a petite woman with black hair pulled into a neat bun behind him. “Jane, I didn’t expect to see you again.”
“I thought I might have missed you,” she said, giving him a quick peck on the cheek. “I wondered if you had transitioned already.”
“Soon, I think,” he mumbled in a low voice. “Just some loose ends to take care of.”
She nodded, catching the implication. “Have you finally found your successor?”
“Remains to be seen. There are several with potential.” His eyes slid back to Tamara as she continued typing.
“Don’t dawdle, William. You are running out of time, and I know how indecisive you can be.” Jane said it with a smile, but her tone was serious. She patted his shoulder. “Just pick one, and let the cards fall where they may.”
There was a yell behind them from the café, followed by a crash of dishes. A woman screamed as her companion, a short, round man, attempted to cough and could not. His face morphed into shades of maroon as he clutched his throat.
Tamara darted from three tables away. She wrapped her arms under the man’s, hoisting him to his feet. Clasping her hands at the top of his abdomen, she made sharp thrusts upward. A chunk of barely chewed apple flew from his mouth.
The man leaned onto the table as Tamara released him. The man’s companion embraced her, crying. They tried to repay her, offering to buy her another meal, but she declined. Gathering her computer and jacket, she hastened away with flushed cheeks.
“Huh.” Jane cocked her head like a curious dog. “Writer?”
William nodded.
“Of course.” She clucked her tongue. “Likes the action but not the attention. Just like someone else I know.”
“I was thinking about someone else, actually. There is a young man who—”
“A young man? Are you joking?” Her look stung his pride.
“He has a lot of potential,” William said.
“All young people are full of potential, William. You need someone who enjoys the process. Someone who wants to help others. Someone who has lived a little.” Jane tapped her shoe on the concrete.
“But Zack seems like a good kid.”
“A kid.” She glared at him. “Should I remind you about what happened to the last good kid? Should we talk about Giotto?”
He scowled and bit his lip. His vision suddenly darkened, as if his eyelids had closed and refused to open. He swayed gently on his feet.
“William?” Jane’s voice rose in concern.
Her worried face greeted him when he opened his eyes again. She shook her head slowly.
“You shimmered for a moment.” She swallowed nervously. “Like sunlight moving through morning lake mist.”
He sighed, wondering if that might not be such a bad ending.
They parted, and William felt the quiet pain of knowing they would not meet again in this realm.
William spent the better part of the next two days following Zack through crowded subway tunnels, down dark alleyways, and, eventually, to a small gallery in Soho. After the boy was removed by security, he graffitied a large, colorful phallus on the side of the building.
William tried to intervene, telling Zack about the life of an Artistic Inspirational Theurgist, but when the boy’s eyes glazed, he switched to saying wizard. He bought the young man’s time with food from a street vendor, but when the last of the jalapeño-and-shrimp tortillas disappeared down the boy’s throat, he hurried away without a backward glance.
When William pursued, Zack threatened to hurt him. William resigned himself begrudgingly to the thought that Jane had been right.
He spent the next week watching Mary’s trial, which was almost over. But on the weekend, she met someone while singing another Irish tune. He played the fiddle and sang in a bass that complimented her soprano. William had to admit they made wonderful music together.
The shimmerings were happening more frequently, sometimes three to four times a day, and William worried that each one would be his last.
He was afraid of transitioning alone.
Sitting and leaning against the subway wall, he closed his eyes. The noise did not stifle his thoughts. He hoped he wouldn’t get stuck down here as a worn-out harmonica tune, or worse, a reedy treble note of an abused accordion. Depending on the words, graffitied poetry might not be so bad. Until someone scrubbed it off.
“How are you doing, William?” Tamara wore a pleasant smile and offered him a small cup of still-steaming coffee. “Thought you might want this.”
William lumbered to his feet and nodded his appreciation before taking a long swallow.
“I’ve been looking for you for a couple of days, actually,” she said.
“You have?” He frowned at the strong energetic tug that drew him toward her. She was different. The void he had detected when they first met was gone.
Writer.
He smiled.
“I wanted to thank you,” she said, standing her ground as people jostled against her.
A tingle worked its way up William’s spine, and the hair on his neck bristled with an electric surge. “I’ll walk with you.”
They headed up the stairs and made their way out into the morning light. William shimmered for a moment but returned before Tamara noticed. He walked beside her, his knees aching at the brisk pace she set.
“Our little talk that day in the park really inspired me. I’ve sold a poem and written a couple of short stories,” Tamara said.
“Already? That was fast.” He tried not to let her see him struggling to keep up.
She glanced at him and slowed her pace. “It doesn’t matter if I’m late for work today.” Her smile widened. “Today is my last day.”
William paused. The crowd around them thickened and stopped. “What?”
“I quit my job.”
“What are you doing now?”
She laughed delightedly. “I don’t really know. Take a couple of months off. Figure out what I want to do.”
He examined the multicolored energy line coming from her. “What do you want to do?”
“Help people. I just don’t know how, yet.”
The crowd moved again, but they stood staring at each other. William swallowed.
“I think you would make an excellent Artistic Inspirational Theurgist, wizard class,” he said impulsively.
She shook her head and laughed. “What kind of job is that?”
He shoved his coffee cup into her hands. “Just watch.”
Pulling at the collar of his shabby coat, he tugged at the thinning line of magic within him. His clothing glistened, morphing into a tuxedo with a black overcoat. His beard sparkled and vanished, along with twenty years of wrinkles. A black oak cane materialized in his hand.
People paused and gasped at the transformation, offering a round of applause.
“See?”
She shook her head, handing his coffee back to him. “Not really. Being a street performer doesn’t appeal to me.”
They walked slower up the street toward her office.
“I just inspired two poets and an artist to create something today. An actor will think about my showmanship when he steps on Broadway tonight. A dancer will—”
“Uh-huh.” Her tone was skeptical.
William moved in front of her and blocked her path. “This is what I do. I inspire people—people like yourself who have lost their passion. People who think they are not good enough or who just need a nudge to focus on a canvas and paint for an hour. Or pick up a musical instrument. Or sing loudly at karaoke. Or even write something buried inside them.”
Her eyes narrowed, but he continued, undaunted.
“The stress of the world makes it difficult for people to find their own inspiration, so I give them some of mine. Where would societies be without its artists and visionaries?” He licked his lips, hoping she would understand. “Art gets us through the difficult times, and everyone is an artist, Tamara. My job is to find out what that means to them and how to coax its growth. Then hope that they feel called to pass that inspiration on to others.”
He felt a shimmer ripple through him; his magical display had taken too much from him. His vision clouded as a moment of panic took hold. He had waited too long.
Tamara’s warm hand rested on his arm. The energetic line inside her reached into him, winding around his frayed thread without hesitation and making William solid again.
She sighed, studying the lines of his face. She removed her hand a minute later. “Inspirational wizard, huh? Tell me more.”
He cleared his throat. “Theurgist.”
But he smiled as he spoke.
“Is it time?” she asked. Sadness deepened her voice as they sat beneath the full moon on their park bench.
William nodded slowly. His hand trembled. “I’m afraid, Tamara. What if I don’t …?” His voice trailed off in a whisper.
She squeezed his hand. “I got you. You don’t have to worry.” She wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He had grown thin over the last months. “If you turn into a string of music, I will record it and put it on repeat forever.”
William laughed, which seemed a strange thing to do in his last moments. But it felt good too.
“Even if it’s jazz?”
“Yes, William. Even then.” Her arms were warm around him. “I love jazz.”
He leaned against her and closed his eyes. With a long, soft sigh that rustled the leaves like wind, William let go of all that he’d been.
The caw from the bird that roosted in the branches above was muffled by the late-spring snowfall, but it still pulled him from his slumber.
William stood and stretched. He sniffed the air, appreciating the scent of pine and juniper and catching the more intriguing smells of other animals.
Other animals.
He stood tall on four legs and paws. His gray-and-black fur was thick and warm. A full tail swished the snow behind him.
“Morning, William.”
An onyx-black raven watched him with sharp eyes while shuffling from foot to foot and ruffling its wings.
“David, is that you?” William’s words came out as a soulful howl.
The bird cocked its head as a hawk landed on another branch. The surrounding bushes rustled and parted as a black bear waddled forward. A moment later, a white-tailed deer sauntered into the circle.
The raven landed softly before him. “I’m so glad you made it, William. We’ve been waiting for you.”
N.V. Haskell is a Writers of the Future winner, featured in Volume 38. Her works have appeared in the Deep Magic ezine and The Last Line. She writes speculative fiction and is only slightly obsessed with non-European history and mythology.
N.V. can be found in her favorite costumes at Comic Cons or Renaissance Fairs, reading multiple books at a time, running badly, traveling, or teaching yoga. She lives in the Cincinnati area surrounded by old souls, a rescue dog with a large personality, an indignant cat, and too many squirrels. After many years in healthcare, N.V. continues to be stubbornly optimistic, believing that there is goodness in this world if we dare to look for it.