The Sage’s Cairn

The sage had tremendous magic. Many a man had compared him to a god. Hundreds had begged boons of him, pleading and screaming if he declined. He had stopped offering, then stopped showing his power altogether. An old man with good advice had power enough – especially when he had seen the same ten years repeat themselves over and over again.

That power had also lost its appeal over time. What was the point of fighting the inevitable? He still fought it sometimes though, struggled against the prison he had placed himself in. Most cycles though, he no longer bothered. The world would end just the same. Unlike the others around him – he had tried to warn them but they had called him crazy and laughed – unlike the others around him, he knew time was short. Just ten years to build a life, only to have it wiped away. Not much time.

It had taken him a few cycles but that was okay. Age only caught up to him slowly and back then, he had still been spry and handsome. So was the man who, five cycles in a row, became his husband. His name was Johan and his smile shone like the sun. The sage had never told him the world was ending, just reveled in the few years they had. Even their occasional fights and arguments were treasured, precious memories he hoarded and kept tightly in his mind.

Johan always died on the same day, the 12^th of May. Two weeks before the world would end. The first time, the sage had broken down, screamed for him to wake up. Now he just sat on the edge of their bed, holding his hand, watching him sleep with his sweet innocent smile until his heart stopped. He never suffered. The two weeks saved him from that, and the sage was grateful.

He buried his love under the cherry tree. It’s petals drifted down onto the cairn he built over the broken sod, rock by rock. His heart bled but none of the pain showed in his hands as they moved, steady, about their task. At the end he poured his magic into the rocks, begging. Stay next time. For me.

It never worked. Every cycle he first approached Johan’s house – one day to be their house – from the back. The rocks were gone, stuck in the future but also the past. He plucked a branch off the blooming cherry and brought it with him, offering it to the man opening the back door, confused and a little scared of this stranger standing on his stoop. The life they lived together would change every time, but the sage like to keep the beginning. His little ritual. He smiled and offered the flowers with a bow.

***

He wept again. The pain of losing him was great, even if he knew it would only be a month before they saw each other. It was not the same though. His Johan was dead, dead five times over. He could return to the house, start it all over, but the man he met would not know him. One day he wouldn’t even care for this slowly aging man. The sage did not think he could bear that day.

Still he returned to the house, always from the back. He paused. The cairn had stayed this time, old and mossy and half buried under years of fallen petals. It knew he must move on. The door clicked open behind him as he left. He could imagine the confusion on Johan’s face but he did not look back lest his will crumble. His lover would find someone new. And as for himself…

He wandered. For fifty years he had a path, a life waiting for him. For another fifty before he had a goal, a driving need to stop the end. And now… nothing. He tilted his head up to the sky, letting the cool breeze blow across his skin. In his first life, before the cycles started, he had been a court mage. Pinned under the weight of responsibility and duty from the time he was six, first at the academy and later in the halls of his king. He had never travelled beyond the borders of his home, never even seen the ocean. The unknown called to him, and he went.

***

He had long noticed that small things changed each cycle. The baker was wearing a green dress instead of blue when the butcher’s son proposed. There were six ravens on the church tower when the major died instead of five. Big events always followed the same course, but the small, the daily, the inconsequential: that shifted like quicksilver. He made a game of picking out changes, like the picture books of his youth but on the scale of a town.

The sea though.

The sea was something else.

A storm would blow in out of nowhere, even though last time he had travelled their passage had been smooth and calm. Waves smashed into their hull, but then the next time they were becalmed and had to wait a week for a breeze. Each time was new, and he loved it. After years of knowing what came next, at least approximately, he finally had not the slightest clue.

The passage took between a month and seven weeks, always different each of the six times he did it. Originally he had planned a different route, a different ship, each cycle. But he had fallen in love with the Adrestia, its captain, and its crew. The captain was a burly old seaman with a beard big enough to hide an armada in. He loved dancing. Each evening the deck would be cleared and lanterns put out, the first mate would play his fiddle and Petey his harmonica, and the whole crew would dance. The captain always said dancing was the best way to clear out the cobwebs of the past and the sage was inclined to agree.

At the end of each passage, the captain would pull him aside. Some professions bred people with perhaps not a mage’s full stare into the other side, but at very least a glimpse, a twitch aside of the curtain of reality. Smiths working late into the witching hour, gravekeepers watching over the dead, midwives seeing to the new life, and of course old sailors who had seen the face of death and the face of the sea – often the same – one too many times. Their conversation shifted subtly each time, but roughly went:

“I’ve seen you before.” It wasn’t a question when the captain said it, but rather a statement of fact. The first passage, the mage had been confused. Now he just nodded. The captain continued, “And I reckon I’ll see you again eh?” Another nod. The captain was considering, drumming his fingers on the rail they both leaned against. “Well, I don’t know what you’re running from but I hope it don’t catch you. And I hope you find something worth having out there.” He gestured to the thin line of darkness marking the distant shore.

The sage nodded and quietly agreed, “Me too.”

***

Of course, the sage did not rightly know what he was looking for in this new land. That did not particularly bother him though. There were new things to see, new people, and that was enough. Strange that it had taken the end of his world to push him out of the little shell he had forced himself to make home in. Each time his foot first tapped the dock he smiled. The ground seemed to move under him, body still trying to compensate for the motion of the ship he had left.

After a minute the dizziness faded and he stepped forward, threading his way among the sailors moving boxes and crates and barrels from here to there. The docks ended in a wide cobbled street that ran around the rim of the harbor. Traffic was thick. With no destination in mind, his method of picking was just to let himself be taken along with the crush of people until something interesting caught his eye. He had stopped to speak with an interesting old woman, ducked into a tavern thanks to the smell of its wine, eaten at an outlandish restaurant… Each time he started a new venture into the unknown.

This time it was a flash of red that grabbed his attention. Had he not noticed it any of the other cycles, or had it been a different, duller color? He did not know. The uncertainty, the newness, dragged his smile wider on his face. This would be a perfect start to the new cycle. He ducked into the alley.

It was a dirty town for sure, at least compared to his home. There, minor mages had swept the streets daily with water, pushing all the refuse of thousands of lives into the gutters and out of the city. Here it stank. Especially in the alleys. A dead rat lay against one wall, partially eaten and putrescent. He pulled up his shirt to cover his nose as he passed, forcing his eyes away before he saw more than he wanted to. A man lay a bit further. Here he paused, checked the man was still breathing, moved on. It had been years since he learned that magic wouldn’t let you save everyone. Still his heart twinged.

Red flashed in his peripheries again and he let it draw his mind away. It was high, higher than a person. A bird perhaps? A cardinal would be too small though, and he did not know of a bird so bright other than that. He continued.

The alleys bled into each other. In the bright light of day they were deserted expect for the occasional sleeper, but he knew they must come alive at night. Curiosity had driven him to once learn thieves symbols. He read them off the walls as he passed. Honest Fence Here. Prostitutes – Good and Cheap. Nice Man Sick Son Don’t Rob. There were no street signs here, no door numbers. All there were was the codes, a record scratched into the walls.

He turned a corner and finally got a clear view of the red. A small dragon, cat sized. Something was clutched in its paws. An orange maybe? It dove towards a raggedy looking girl. He cried out warning. The dragon pulled up to land on her shoulder peacefully. Both looked at him in confusion. His cheeks burned. A pet. Not a threat at all. Strange, but then again house cats were wild hunters as well.

The girl was talking to the dragon now. Perhaps it was more intelligent than a cat, or maybe she had just lacked a friend for so long that the animal made a passable substitute. He stepped forward slowly, hands held in gesture of peace. They continued staring as he drew closer. Then he heard it, quiet. The dragon was speaking back.

“-used to be a soldier. Still looks strong. It’s a bad idea.”

The sage paused. Were they discussing mugging him? It was a terrible idea, though not for the reason they thought at least. Well. Not entirely. He was still a good swordsman as well.

Her voice was quiet as she murmured back, “We need the money. Do you have any other ideas?”

The dragon was quiet but the sage took the opportunity to slide into the conversation. “You could just ask politely.”

She stared at him. Her eyes were blue, but a harsher blue than Johan’s had been. If his were the clear blue skies of fall, hers were the stormy tumultuous ones of winter. He smiled. Finally she addressed him, with surprising force and firmness after her huddled whispers to the dragon. “Would it work?”

He shrugged and hooked his thumbs into his pockets. “You won’t know until you try. And what is there to lose? I would advise explaining what you need the money for, though.”

She wanted to run, he could tell that based on the tension jittering up and down her legs. She stayed though, and thought before answering. “My mother is sick. I need to buy her medicine.”

A lie? Quite possibly. “Take me to her.” The dragon growled. She glared at him. He narrowed his eyes as he met hers. They were scared, not angry. Perhaps it was the truth. Still. “Quit giving me that look child. I was a healer back in the army. I may be able to help.”

She hid her feelings phenomenally poorly. He could see the debate raging in her before finally she nodded. “Fine. But if you try anything…”

He just nodded, not prideful enough to point out what they both knew. She would not stand a chance in a fight against him.

It was not a house she led him to but a corner of alley. A woman sat huddled under a threadbare cloak. Her breath whistled as it passed out her mouth, and her shoulders trembled from the cold. As they approached she looked up, eyes unseeing and milky. The sage forced his face to be still though inside he wanted to scream at the cruelty of the world. The girl crouched. Side by side they looked nothing alike. Adopted perhaps. She took the woman’s hands and started talking quietly, “Ma, I brought someone who might be able to help. He was a healer in the army. Isn’t that nice Ma?”

Again her voice had changed, soft but capable and calm. A chameleon voice. He crouched next to her. She cringed away sharply. He pretended not to notice as he spoke to the woman, “Good evening Ma’am. Is it okay if I try to help you? I am a mage so this won’t hurt, but it may feel a bit unpleasant. Some people say it is like insects crawling on them, others mice.”

She laughed, dry and raspy. “I’ve had both mage-boy. It won’t bother me none.”

He set a gentle hand on her head and closed his eyes. Her hair crackled under his touch, grime holding it in place more than any connection to her scalp. Unpleasant sensations were no stranger for him either though. He simply registered the feeling and moved on, letting his magic drop gently down into her body.

The first sign of trouble was her throat. Agitated and raw, lined with lumps. He drifted down further. Her lungs were tattered. Arinithe. It was common among those who worked too hard too long and needed something to make themselves keep going through the day. For most it did little harm, but some had stronger reactions. Like her. He could fix it. But unless she stopped smoking as well, it would do little good. For now he soothed the inflammation with his magic, giving her at very least comfort enough to listen as he talked.

When he opened his eyes again, the woman was smiling. The girl was still looking at him suspiciously, but he could see the relief peeking from the corner of her eyes as well. He sighed and sat on the ground. Telling people they had to change was always hard.

“Do you know why you are in pain?”

A glance over to the girl, guiltily. She knew then, but wasn’t going to tell. Instead she smiled and answered with convincing happiness, “No, I don’t. But I’m glad you fixed it doc!”

He fished a coin out of his pocket and held it out to the girl. She stared at it like it was gold which, to be fair, it was. “Go buy some honey, it will help her heal.” She would likely do so anyway, but to ease her conscience he added, “And use the extra to get some food. Be smart about it, low cost and nonperishable.” She looked at the old woman one last time, only scampering off when she nodded assent. A devoted child. He smiled, though his face fell as he looked back to the woman. Hers was stony as well.

He did not bother beat around the bush. “If you keep smoking that, it’ll kill you. I can hold back the pain, soothe the inflammation, but even if I treat it every day it’ll just come back worse the next.”

She nodded. “I know. But if I quit, I can’t work. And we have precious little money as it is.”

“She’ll be worse off it you are dead.”

“She’ll be even worse off if she is starved and dead.”

He sighed, twisted his seat to lean next to her against the wall as he thought.

“First time you’ve been confronted with something you can’t fix eh? Don’t worry, nobody’s a god.”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure if she was trying to be sympathetic or ribbing him but it didn’t matter. His teacher had always admonished him for not being able to see the forest for the trees. Yet it was a trap he fell in over and over again. He sighed again. Nothing but to do it.

Her face was twisted in a wry grin. The grin of someone who expected nothing and often received less. He smiled into it. “True, nobody is a god. But I’m the next best thing.” She laughed and his grin widened. He loved a challenge.

***

Each cycle, he started in the same place: a cave, close to the surface but tucked away where nobody could find him. Where nobody could stop his last-ditch effort, if anyone could be bothered to care in the midst of the fire and storm that raged through the sky. The echoes of thunder bounced against the walls, growing fainter and fainter as time sheared, tossing him into the past. Purple runes faded to darkness, the acrid smell of wild magic dispersed. He stood still.

Eventually he shook himself free of the peaceful quiet. Some cycles it was hunger, others his bladder; regardless, he never moved until he had to. Then he strode forth, confident in the dark warren of tunnels that he had loved running through as a boy. One hand traced the wall. Two lefts, a right, then careful of the hole in the floor. And then light.

It was noon, on a nippy day when spring was not quite fully awake yet. Birds sang. Even that first time, with the end still sharp in his mind, he had smiled.

The first thing he did was always walk north. Two miles from this cave lay another. This one was small, barely big enough for a grown man to slide his shoulders into. Luckily he had never been claustrophobic. Ten feet in, it grew into a small room, just big enough to turn around. Here he had his stash. Travelling clothes, coins, preserved fruits and dried meat, all left years before after a nightmare had woken him from his sleep. It had felt silly at the time, but every year he thanked whatever god had sent that vision.

The meat had gone off, but the fruit was still good. He ate, pocketed the money, felt along the hem of the coat to make sure the two sapphires were still sewn firmly into the seam.

It was one of these that he slit carefully from its fold of cloth, setting it reverently on the table in front of the appraiser. The two had once been earrings, given to him as a gift from a princess right before her execution. He thanked her as well each time he used them.

The old woman seemed to make the appraiser nervous. Or perhaps it was the girl and her dragon, glaring through the window after he had banned pets from entering. The gem drew his focus though. The sage stared out at the street as he inspected it through his glass. It was his third cycle selling the gem to this particular appraiser. He knew what he would get for it, how he would haggle, where they would land. The only question was how exactly he would spend the money this time.

The girl – Miriam, as the old woman had introduced her while giving her name as Agatha – the girl Miriam clearly did not like being left out. She did not like talking either, at least to him. Her face closed as tightly as her mouth. Perhaps she would open up over time. He hoped so.

The appraiser gave his number. Agatha’s face twisted in suspicious delight and he smiled as well as he settled the final sum. She took his arm as they left the store. No chance of her white knight slipping out of her grasp. He was not trying though. He had made up his mind.

***

The building they started with was small. They divided the attic in half with a sheet for their sleeping quarters, tucked a small sofa in the corner of the kitchen, and devoted the rest to what Agatha quickly began calling the Mage’s Hospital. At first they made little money. Their clients drew from the same streets Agatha and Miriam had lived on. Few had money enough for supper, let alone a doctor. He didn’t care. He treated them for free.

For the first month he worked mostly alone. Agatha drifted in and out of withdrawals, helping when she could but mostly laying in her bed resting. Miriam barely left her side, reading aloud to her when she was awake and quietly stroking her hand when not. The pair slowly grew healthier. Food likely did more for them than his careful attentions, but he still made sure to start each day with a check if they needed anything before he gave his magic to the people.

Word spread quickly. Soon wealthier people began to come, those who could pay for the services of a mage in a land where there were few. He made them wait until anyone who could not pay was finished. Sometimes he had no magic left and they went home empty handed. There were few complaints however. Enough were seen that the rumor spread further, of a miracle worker, a mage who could fix the dead. Exaggerated of course, but as long as they were still on the right side of the doorstep…

A year in they had enough to buy a bigger house. Three stories this time, with bedrooms for each of them as well as two spares for patients who needed to stay overnight. There even was a small garden with a narrow porch looking out over it. Despite the step up in accommodations, they stayed in the poorest section of town. The people who needed him most were there, and he took secret enjoyment from the discomfort on nobles’ faces as they exited their polished carriages onto the filthy street.

Miriam seemed to take the bare soil of their new yard as a challenge. At first everything she planted stubbornly refused to live, withering and dying within days, dead leaves dropping to the ground. Slowly though, she started colonizing the torn ground – thanks in no small part to the gardener’s boy, who had taken to hanging out with her after the sage healed him once. He knew from Agatha’s smile that she saw it too. When a year later they started stepping out together, no one was surprised.

***

The years flew. Some days – always treasured in retrospect – he did not think of the end. Would those precious days become more? Would there be a time when he was like the others, with no idea of what was coming? Perhaps. But for now he knew. The world would end tomorrow.

He knew the date by heart but even without a calendar he could tell. The sun always seemed different as it sunk beneath the rooftops for the last time. Fuller, redder. As if it was preparing for what was to come.

The porch creaked as Agatha sat next to him. She tucked her skirts tightly around her legs with a shiver. “You look… lost.” He shrugged, then took off his jacket and draped it over her frail shoulders. She was far healthier than when they had met, but age was catching up to her. At least it would not have a chance to truly ravage her in the end.

“Is it true what they say about mages?”

He shook himself from his thoughts and smiled. “What specifically?”

“That they can see death coming as they age.”

The smile slid from his face and he sighed. “No, not commonly.”

“You look like you’re staring in his face right now, you know.”

He forced a smile. She was always an observant one. “I just need some sleep is all.”

Her eyes told him she didn’t believe him. She did not call him out though, just leaned against his shoulder and shifted her gaze out to the last shards of red spraying above the rooftops. “Pretty isn’t it?”

He hated this sunset. Every time, it was a reminder of another end. Another time he had failed to stop it, another time everything he had built would be ripped away from his grasp. It was the color of fire and blood, a reminder of death waiting on the morning.

He did not realize his hand had clenched the edge of the porch until hers slid gently atop. Her eyes were wet and dark and for a moment she looked unspeakably old. “I don’t know what’s eating you. I can’t promise it will be okay. But I believe you will figure it out. You’re clever, mage-boy. You got this.”

Finally he smiled for real. Satisfied, she gathered herself to her feet. “Now then, I will go to bed. Us old people need our rest. Remember to get some sleep yourself.”

Darkness drew close around him. Stars flickered overhead, lightning bugs down below. In the distance an owl called. Hunting? Looking for a mate? Its song rang hollow and plaintive, never finding an answer. He never took her advice, instead simply waiting. The stars fled, and flecks of fire began to spread across the sky from behind him. They grew brighter and fiercer, writhing and snapping as it became clear this was no normal sunrise. The roar began, winds howling through the stratosphere with enough speed to make the ears ache even on the ground. The spell he had put on their house held. They would sleep peacefully, feel nothing. No fear. No loss. He closed his eyes.

***

He sat by the entrance to his cave, back against the stone. He hadn’t moved to get his stash yet, still too paralyzed by the thought of those he had loved. Again they were lost, yet not. He could go back. Should he? Things never unfolded the same, he knew that from Johan. He himself was a wild card, never consistent in his actions. But they would be similar, the same song played in a different key. He would help a city, save two women off the streets. He had little doubt that if he did not go, Agatha would die, and so would Miriam most likely.

But they would anyway.

Everyone would.

That was the nature of the end. No matter what suffering he alleviated in the world, what good he did, it would make no difference. In a short time, all his work would be erased. The pain would flood back.

And so he sat, slowly growing hungrier.

Should he try stopping it again? He had tried five times already, six if you counted the original. He could change the details, but never the outcome. If he stopped one mage from casting the world-ending spell, another would do it instead. It was like the world came prepackaged with an expiration date and nothing he did could make it last longer.

He got up and paced. He was trapped as much as anyone else. Unless…

He broke off in a run, heading towards his stash. Quickly he retrieved it before sitting on the ground outside the cave. How would he react? Hopefully well, but if not, at least he would be free. He called to his magic, coiling it tight around his head. One pull and… he forgot.

He was lost, alone in the woods. He had supplies. A traveler then? He frowned, wondering why he could not remember. A head injury perhaps. He felt the back of his skull. It was not sore, but bruises could take a while to form. No matter, he had nowhere to be. That much he knew. He stood and slung the pack over his shoulder. A smile split his lips. Time to go explore.

***

He did not know how many times he had made the choice. The expanding chasm between his remembered age and apparent told him it had been many years. Five cycles? Six? He remembered nothing of those lives when he came to himself in the cave. Had they been happy or sad? Who had he met? Part of him felt a twinge of melancholy at the missed memories, but it was overridden time and time again by the fear. He did not want to lose again. And so he made the same choice, over and over. Forget, start anew. Live.

***

He had not been lying those many years ago when he told Agatha that mages had no notion of their end. Men did though, and his creaking bones told him this would be his last cycle. For the first time in many years, he let his memories be. It was time to say goodbye to the world. He did not know what it would do without him. Cycle forever, oblivious and alone? Probably. But at least no one would know. No one would suffer.

The trip to the sea took longer than normal on his tired legs. He sailed across and after a bit of searching found two exhausted women in the street. The dragon growled at him. He ignored it as he dropped a sack of coins at their feet. They called after him but he kept walking. Hopefully they put the sapphires to good use. The last few coins he had kept were enough for a passage home, and for the last time he boarded the ship he had learned to love.

The captain raised an eyebrow as he stepped on. “Found what you were looking for already?”

The sage smiled and shook his head. “Sometimes you need to travel to remember that it lies back home.”

***

The sage walked stiffly up the dirt path to the house which was was once his. It was May and the cherry stood in full bloom. He was grateful to it, grateful that even now in the end he could have his ritual one last time. His cane wobbled as he shifted his weight, reaching a hand to the sky and breaking off a branch. He brought the flowers to his nose. Beautiful.

He turned towards the house but already the door was opening. It was the wrong year, the fourth not the first. Johan was not reading, waiting for his knock, but cooking instead, spying this old man through the lace curtains. The sage waited instead. Johan came across the lawn. For once there was no fear in his eyes at their first meeting – but of course, the sage was old now. The intimidating warrior he had once been was gone, gone except for the short cut of his hair.

Johan was still young, beautiful. The sage stood stunned for a moment before remembering himself and giving the best bow his creaking bones would allow. The cane wobbled. Running footsteps. He did not slip but it did not matter, Johan caught him anyway. Concern in his strange blue eyes, light and out of place against the ebony face.

“Are you alright sir?” The sage smiled and nodded. It was good to hear his voice, deep and melodic. He closed his eyes.

“Sir?”

The voice – Johan’s voice – was concerned. The sage pulled together the fragments of his tired mind. Blue eyes met his own as he dragged his lids back open. So soft, so gentle. He smiled again, answered, “Let’s sit. My bones are old, I could use a rest.”

Together they hobbled to the wooden bench under the cherry. The sage sat, Johan crouched in front of him. The end was near for him, he could feel the blackness ready to swallow up his meager life. He took a deep breath. “I wish to ask a favor, Johan.”

Confusion twisted his face at this old man who knew his name but he said nothing, merely nodded for him to continue.

“Years ago, I buried my husband there, in the cairn. My own death is near. Would you please grant an old man’s last wish and place me next to him?”

Johan nodded. The sage smiled. Still kind. Still good. He patted the seat next to him and Johan shifted out of his crouch obediently. Should he tell him? But no, time was too short and the knowledge would only hurt him. Best let him live happily. He closed his eyes and leaned to the side, letting himself fall into the embrace that opened for him. Here in the end, he was home.

***

The years passed. Lives came and went, the cycle continued.

The world ended.

And yet, it did not. The sage’s magic broken, the cycle shattered.

The world went on.

Many died, but the survivors continued, rebuilt. Children were born, farms sowed. Life went on.

The cairns stood, slowly regrowing the weeds and moss that Johan had diligently kept at bay from the day an old man died in his arms to the day of his own death. Soon the rocks would be buried, nothing but a memory of the past.

The pain would be buried as well, the suffering, the death. The world would rebound.

In a way, he had won.