The Bluff

The wind picks up and I wrap the cold about myself. The sky is a Rorschach blot of clouds: I make the ward from that as well. Wind and darkness, silence and sound and through it all the voice calling me to this place. There is a youth standing on a bluff overlooking the sea. To the west a wall covered in flowers and vines. Behind me is the door I walked out of. Chipped-paint, the faded blue of a sky that never was and it wants only to creak and moan in the wind, calling out to the world for a new lock so that it can be a door again.

I close it gently, bind it firmly and walk toward the bluff. The young man stands, staring out at the storm, rigid against the wind and cold. He is staring down at the waves crashing into the beach and his body trembles with unrealized purpose.

“Hello.” I keep my tone soft, thread no power into nor under the words. I am a good enough magician that often I can seem like I’m not one at all.

He spins. He is young and quick with it, the knife in his right hand long and jagged with purpose. He holds it with learned skill, the tightness of the knuckles about the blade almost matching the tightness in his face. Shock gives way to fury, for anger is often just a suit of clothing fear puts on. “Back off! I can kill you before I kill myself!”

“I imagine you could, perhaps. But I’m not here because of you.”

He doesn’t understand; it’s hardly a surprise. The thrown knife almost is.

I wrap the wards about it gently, slow the blade, catch the tip of it between two fingers. The blade doesn’t want to cut me, and that’s need enough to fuel so small a magic. I hand it back before he can react.

He takes it, stumbles back. Moves out of his own narrative. “How –? What –?”

“It’s a trick. Many things are.”

He takes a few steps back, this time on purpose. “I made up my mind. You’re not going to stop me.”

“Juan. Many people kill themselves. I have power, yes, but not the power to make such choices for you. That’s not what power is for.”

“I never told you my name.”

“I’m the wandering magician of this era; figuring out people’s names is another trick.” I hold his gaze. “Some things are not tricks, however.”

He jerks back with a gasp at the truth under the words.

I smile, hoping to lessen it a little. I’m not Jay, but my kinder smiles aren’t too bad even if I am far better at smiles that aren’t kind at all. “You plan to leap from the bluff after cutting your wrists, yes?”

He nods.

“The knife you stole from your uncle doesn’t want to do that, has no wish to be part of this. It is a tool made for cutting and has no desire to be a weapon.” I hold out my right hand. “If you don’t mind?”

“You want the knife?” He stares at me. He’s far enough outside his own story to begin seeing me: to know the storm isn’t touching me, and that I’m not afraid of him at all. He hands it over, steps back quickly to the bluff.

“Thank you.” I hold out the knife, and it wishes to be home and so it’s a simple matter to bend space for it. Simple but tiring and I turn back toward the house after it vanishes. The broken door opens, the interior showing the hotel room I am staying at over twenty minutes from this place.

“You could stop me.” It’s not a question. Juan’s voice cracks.

“Once. Perhaps. But to prevent it again, or forever, would mean you would no longer be you, Juan. If you wish to live, the choice and reasons must be yours alone. Yours the meaning, and yours the will and understanding of your worth. Anything I could do would only damage that.”

And I walk into the hotel room and close the door, leaving him alone on the bluff. Jay is busy out having adventures with Charlie, which is something of a relief as this isn’t the sort of thing one explains at all. I make myself a drink – tea, with mint in it – and turn the TV on. Sometimes nothing is the hardest thing to do at all.