Lars was about to retire for the night when the knocks fell on his door.
A chill wind howling down from the mountains rattled the windows. The fire burned low and red in the hearth. As the wizard shuffled out of his bed to answer the door, he drew the blanket around himself, too cosy to leave its warmth. Its frayed edges trailed across the stairs and creaky floorboards.
With lazy eyes, Marcella watched him from where she lay curled on the rug downstairs, licking her paws. She purred upon seeing him, then rolled, belly up in invitation. Lars knew better than to give in. He’d suffered far too many scratches not to learn his lesson.
As he opened the front door, the little parlour filled with voices. Lars hurried back a few moments later with urgency in his steps, exchanging the blanket for a green travelling cloak and a leather satchel with many pockets.
“I’ll be back soon,” he said to Marcella. He then grabbed his staff from where it leaned against the wall beside a broom.
A red ball of yarn rolled to a stop at his feet and the cat meowed.
“Now is not the time for games, Marcella,” he said. “Lives are at stake. I must go!”
He placed the ball of yarn within her reach and rushed out. A telltale thud and a curse could be heard moments later. He’d hit his head on top of the doorframe, as he often did whenever he went out in a hurry.
Marcella rolled on her side and went to sleep without a care in the world.
A crowd gathered outside the florist’s house down at the village. It was a modest-looking two-storied house, but the grounds upon which it stood were magnificent, surrounded by tall, lush hedges, blooming with flowers all year around, come sun, rain or frost. The shop obtained its supply from there.
Folk said the garden was magical.
Yet tonight it seemed different. As Lars walked to the storefront, he could sense an unrest in the air. Whatever magic had been cast upon the flowers was waning, and there was a wild look about the plants, growing out of control. The hedges were scraggly and weeds crawled over them.
The storefront was shuttered.
The kind old lady who owned the flower shop had passed away a few days ago. But that was not why he was called here.
Inside the house, many voices murmured. A woman's voice called out.
“A healer! Would someone please bring a healer?”
Lars did not call himself a healer, but healing was indeed one of the branches of magic he had learnt. The villagers looked reassured and moved away from the doorstep to give way. He took off his cloak and hung it on a hook by the door.
The downstairs bedroom was as cold and damp as it was small. In a bed lined up against the wall lay a young man, his eyes shut and brows furrowed. He slept fitfully.
He had stayed in that strange sleep for days now, as told by the neighbours.
He was Alvar, the old florist's grandson. On the many occasions Lars had visited the shop, he'd seen him tending the garden outside--as far away from the customers as he could possibly be, face hidden under a big straw hat.
He spoke little, and not unless absolutely necessary, and the first time the wizard tried to speak to him, he got so startled that he cut his finger on the pruner he'd been working with. The most he'd ever gotten out of him was when he gave him a bunch of red chrysanthemums, as a thanks for healing his finger.
They were wonderful flowers, and most certainly grown with magic. They had remained perfectly fresh in a vase for many days until Marcella pushed it off the table.
“He's been like this for three days,” said Elena, Alvar’s aunt. She was the florist’s daughter. She had arrived upon hearing of her mother’s ill health. Her bags and trunks still lay half-opened in one corner, and she had not even had the time to change out of her travelworn clothes yet.
“He’s been awfully quiet since his Gran died,” said Aunt Elena. “Didn’t attend her funeral, wouldn't even visit her grave-- no, the lad just keeps working himself to death. And look what’s happened to him now!”
Lars struck his staff onto the floorboards and with a crackle, the low-burning candles flared to life, and the fireplace blazed bright. She looked startled, unlike the rest of the villagers, who were used to his magic by now.
“Cold rooms give you nightmares,” he explained, and saying no more, got to work.
He put on a monocle, which looked rather out of place on his youthful face. He brushed away Alvar’s thick brown curls and examined his eyes, then listened to his heart with a strange horn-like device. The sounds were slow and faint, as though beating from far away.
“Did he cry?” Lars asked, ear still pressed to one end of the horn.
“Eh?” Aunt Elena gave him a curious look.
“When his Gran died, I mean.”
“Oh, no. He hasn't even said a word since.”
“I see.” Lars thought he had this one figured out. He rummaged around in his satchel. In the countless little pockets, there were dried herbs and rare flowers only found in the farthest reaches of the mountains, seeds of strange fruits unheard of, and roots of plants whose leaves glowed on a full moon night.
One by one, Alvar’s neighbours took their leaves, murmuring in reassured voices how the young man was going to be alright, just like the fellow the wizard had treated last week, or the innkeeper the week before. At last the house was quiet and there was only the three of them left.
Lars found what he’d been looking for--a brown, shrivelled up root, a dull old thing that one would hardly notice when walking down a forest trail. He set one end on fire and a thin, silvery smoke rose out of it. He placed it on the windowsill at the head of the bed.
The fragrant tendrils of smoke coiled out slowly and caressed Alvar's face. His frown softened and he seemed to relax for a bit.
“Now we must wait and see,” said Lars.
Aunt Elena sat in a chair by the bed. He sat by the doorstep and lit his pipe, watching the stars. Alvar dreamed.
Alvar dreamed. Or perhaps he had been dreaming all along, but only now did he become aware of it. And when he did so, he tried to take control of his surroundings, because the depthless void he'd been drowning in up till now was beginning to suffocate him.
He wanted something pleasant.
There was a strange sweet smell in the air. It smelled more and more like something familiar, and his surroundings began to change shape.
Roses. Lilies. The smell of grass. The smell of earth after it rains.
Alvar was back in his garden.
He heaved a great sigh and wiped his brow, smearing a line of dirt across his forehead as he did.
“Oh, I forgot my gloves again,” he muttered, staring down at his hands.
Even so, he liked this better than the dark void. It was a bright afternoon, one of those that follow after a day of sullen clouds and pouring rain. The orange sky beamed in the puddles at his feet. Drops of rain rolled from leaves and landed on top of his head.
Alvar much prefered to be back into reality, where nothing had gone wrong. This was just another day. He would wash and go inside, and Gran would be there in the armchair, knitting that red scarf she'd been working on for a while. Her eyesight had gotten worse, and it was taking her longer than usual.
She was determined to finish it soon, even if she sometimes got really bad headaches from looking at the needles for too long. She was not feeling well lately. He was trying his best to care for her.
“I'm back,” he said, closing the door after him.
There she was in the living room, squinting hard at her knitting and fumbling with the needles. The fire in the grate burned so low she could barely see anything.
“You'll ruin your eyes at this rate,” he said, tossing a log in and stoking up the fire.
Gran dismissed him with a gesture of her hand. “It's almost finished.”
“Is it?” Alvar tried to see, but she covered it with her arms.
“It's supposed to be a surprise,” she said primly, as if he hadn't seen her work on it day after day.
“Fine!” he lifted his arms in surrender and chuckled, heading off to the kitchen to make dinner. As he began chopping up the vegetables, Gran came to help, and there was the same old debate on whether he should cut his hair.
“It's gotten too long, see?” she said, but he'd rather let it grow down to his waist than go to the barber who made him look like a shorn sheep, the last time he went.
“Oh, now you're exaggerating it!” said Gran as she peeled a potato. “I think you looked adorable.”
“Exactly,” said Alvar.
Gran found all things adorable, even those most people would consider horrid-looking-- bugs, spiders, snakes, worms, and the list went on.
On one of her mushroom hunts, she'd shown him many unsightly mushrooms that grew on rotten, dead things upon the forest floor. They were so obviously poisonous that not even a beginner would mistake them for edible ones. Yet she spoke of them fondly, and told him how they were such an important part of the forest. She knew a great deal about such things.
Perhaps they would go on one of those trips again, when she felt well enough to go out, thought Alvar as he served them dinner.
But before he could bring that up, Gran said something very odd indeed.
She looked forlornly at the old clock on the mantelpiece. Alvar looked too, but strangely enough, he could not tell the time. The clock's face and hands seemed oddly warped, as though viewed from under water. He shook his head and continued eating. Perhaps he was just tired.
Out in the village square, the bells tolled the hour, seven--or six--or twelve--he couldn't tell. The rings sounded garbled and collided into one another.
Gran put down her spoon and sighed. “It's time, Al.”
“Time for what?”
She took Alvar's hands into her wrinkled, knobby ones. “Wake up.”
He didn't understand. “I'm wide awake. It's not even bedtime.”
She chuckled sadly. “It's time for me to go.”
“Go where?”
Gran only smiled, and her image began to fade before his eyes.
No. A rush of sadness took over Alvar, the hollow kind one feels upon waking from a wonderful dream, only to realise that was all it was--a dream. Gran was no more. All this was but an illusion made by himself.
As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the world around him began to lose its colour. Walls, floor, ceiling --all went paper white, the house turning into crude charcoal lines on parchment. He held onto Gran's hands, lest she should fade away too.
“No!” he cried, “this can't be happening. This isn't true!”
It was supposed to be like this forever. Peaceful mornings, sunny days, lazy afternoons and tea-time, this perfect little life for ever and ever. He wanted this afternoon to stretch for an eternity.
“Listen to me, Al,” said Gran, and as she spoke, she seemed to glow with a light from within. “Afternoons like these would come again. Seasons will change, and the world will go ever on. So you must pick yourself up and move with it.”
Alvar shook his head even as heavy drops of tears rolled down his cheeks, a childish stubbornness taking over him. “I want to stay here with you.”
“No you don't. You have so much to live for. So many wonderful places to be, things to see. Don't you want to see to them all?”
Visions flitted before his eyes, of gardens in full bloom, of starry nights, of waves crashing on a sandy shore. It was true. He did not want to live trapped in a dream forever.
“Yes,” he said feverishly. “Yes, I want to see it all. But how do I do that?”
Gran placed a gentle peck on his forehead. “I've been telling you that for so long. You just need to wake up.”
The words echoed inside his head.
Wake up.
After three days of unconsciousness, Alvar opened his eyes with a loud gasp and sat bolt upright on the bed.
Lars, who had begun to nod off at some point, stirred awake. But there was no need to rush. Aunt Elena got to him first. Clinging to her arms, hair ruffled, eyes red-rimmed, Alvar sobbed, on and on until he seemed to have run out of tears.
“I've got you,” she said, gently rubbing his back. “I'm right here.”
While that went on for some time, Lars took a glass bottle out of his satchel and went near the window. The root had completely turned to ash, and a last few wisps of smoke lingered. Putting them inside the bottle was not an easy task, but he managed it. He then labelled the bottle before returning it back into its respective pocket.
Only after Alvar had calmed down a bit he sensed the other presence in the room; the wizard from the mountains, the one with the monocle and the green cloak and flaxen hair that flowed in the wind.
He wiped his face on his sleeves and tried to look presentable--as much as one can be after days of being knocked unconscious. He still felt a little dizzy.
“How can I ever thank you, sir?” he said to Lars, shuffling out of bed.
Lars was already packing up and throwing his cloak back on. As always, his answer was an offhanded wave. “It's fine. Take it easy for the next few days.”
But what he proposed next surprised Alvar and Aunt Elena both.
The walk to the cemetery was quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Stars gleamed in the sky above, a crisp night breeze rustling through the leaves. Lars led the way. The rhythmic click of the staff against the rock-studded path punctuated the silence and the green stone set upon it glowed with a warm light.
As a cold wind rose, Alvar tucked his red scarf snugly around his neck. Though unfinished, it was warm and perfectly comfortable.
He placed flowers on Gran's grave at last, seven days after she had passed away. It hurt to see her name engraved upon the headstone, for it made the truth more concrete. It hurt more, but it hurt less at the same time, much less than denying the truth, shutting the world out and going to sleep, hoping she'd be there when he woke up. With every falling tear he felt himself ease up.
Lars remained with them all the while, perched on a big rock, keeping a courteous distance. He gazed across the meadows beyond the graveyard. Alvar wondered what he was looking at, for he was staring at nothing like a cat.
“Can wizards see ghosts?” asked Alvar, going up to him.
“Some can, if they know how and when to look.” He stretched out a slender hand and gestured toward the horizon. “This is the time they pass over the Bridge of Stars.”
“Bridge of Stars?”
“Mhm. Once the souls of the dead are quite finished with all their business on this side, they take the bridge to the afterlife. They prefer to do so when dawn is near, for that is a time of transition, when night meets day. Now, look.”
Alvar could see nothing out of the ordinary, because he was no wizard with strange powers. But as the last of the stars vanished into the light of daybreak, he thought he could see a silvery outline of a figure far away, becoming one with the dawn.
“I should probably go get some sleep now, and so should you two.” Lars hopped off the rock, and stretched out a hand to Alvar to help him get down.
“Here comes a new day,” said the wizard on the way back as a bright sun rose above them. “Spend it well.”