flames burned out quickly, but I had time to notice that several of them disappeared into the mirror’s glassy surface. Five little flames: the exact number of poor Maddi’s spots of blood on the mirror.
Then the fear subsided, sharply and absolutely. The darkness of the bedroom became cozy and comforting—although there was now a dead man in the room. After all, death is something natural and predictable, unlike Magic of the 200th and Something Degree, be it black, white, or gray-brown-raspberry colored.
I realized I had stopped distinguishing the outline of our vision. Sir Juffin nudged me with his elbow. The show went on.
It was light again in the bedchamber. I saw a nice-looking young man in a festive bright-orange skaba. That was, of course, the hapless Nattis, the apprentice-courtier, who regrettably had not stayed home in the grand city of Gazhin. The young fellow smiled shyly, revealing the childish dimples in his cheeks. Then he concentrated hard and assumed a comically threatening countenance. Just then, Mr. Govins appeared in the frame—there was no longer any doubt in my mind about his sad fate. The mentor handed the pupil a razor, the handle of which might have inspired a nervous tic in any antique collector. Even I appreciated it.
I became hopelessly distracted and reached for the miracle elixir. Sir Juffin looked at me slightly askance, and not without suspicion.
“Just a drop,” I whispered guiltily.
“Never mind me, boy! I’m simply very envious . . . Well, give me a slug, too!”
When my vision returned to me, Nattis had already gotten down to work. He dragged the razor carefully over his cheek, smiling slightly at his own thoughts. The razor gradually crawled closer and closer to the pulsing, bluish vein on his slender boyish neck. Nevertheless, there was nothing unusual about it—it was an ordinary shaving routine.
But the mirror was not sleeping. At a certain moment, several points on its surface shuddered, and the icy horror again gripped my heart, fastened on it like an old Lovelace eyeing the appetizing derrière of a young girl.
Sir Juffin tweaked my chin gently.
“Turn away. Another improper scene. I myself try not to watch things like this. You know, they told me about these kinds of things long ago. And at the end of the story they hinted at the fact that it was better to make peace with such a creature than to struggle against it . . . Mmm, my neighbor has nice furniture, you can’t deny it! And yet he looks like such a nice man . . . Well, the boy, of course submitted to its whispering . . . Ah, Max! Now you must look very carefully. I’ve never seen anything like it! Only, be careful—don’t overrate your own strength.”
The first thing I saw was a helpless grin on the fellow’s face that closely resembled the awkward smile on our unfortunate Melifaro. The dimples froze forever in his cheeks, the smooth left one, and the unshaven right one. And blood, a great deal of blood. Blood poured over the mirror, which shivered in excitement under its spurting. This is how the breath of an inexperienced diver quickens as he struggles to reach the surface. There was no longer any doubt: blood returned life to the mirror, which only seemed to be a mirror, but was really a slumbering door to another, very foul place, to such a vile little place I sensibly averted my eyes and took a deep breath, as I had begun to give in to the nauseating rhythm in a very unpleasant way. Again I peeked cautiously. Nattis, of course, was already lying on the floor; Govins stared at his face, transfixed, and didn’t see how the bloody mirror, sated now, shuddered one last time, then grew dark and quiet—for the time being, of course. People crowded into the room. The vision disappeared.
“Juffin,” I said quietly. “So you know what this is?”
“I know what there is to know, insofar as it’s possible to know at all. This, Max, is a legend, you see. And it’s a legend I haven’t allowed myself to believe up until now. Well, I mean, whether I believed it or not—that’s not the point. I just didn’t bother to give it much thought. And lo and behold . . . well, never mind. Look! Now comes the most interesting part.”
“I wouldn’t mind something slightly more boring, Juffin. I’m feeling sick already.”
“What did you expect? Sure it’s sickening . . . It’s okay, though. After a debut like this, your job in the service will seem like a piece of cake! Things like this don’t happen every day, you know. Generally they don’t happen at all.”
“I hope not. Though I am lucky when it comes to entertainment.”
Next episode. We saw how Krops Kooly appeared in the bedchamber, another nice-looking young fellow with hair the color of an orange—which, by the way, is considered to be an undisputed sign of masculine strength and beauty in Echo. In the case of Krops Kooly, this belief was absolutely justified. There are many attractive people here, I thought suddenly. Many more than where I come from. Although they themselves aren’t aware of it, they have completely different esthetic norms. I wonder if I am considered to be attractive here, or a total scarecrow? Or what?
A very relevant question, indeed.
Meanwhile, the redhead went robustly through the motions of tidying the room. What else can you do if someone sends you to clean up a long-empty room, which is nevertheless cleaned up every day? He busied himself in every corner, menacingly waving his feather duster about—the only tool of his trade. Several minutes later it wasn’t even worth going through this. The room was in a pristine state. Then young Krops apparently decided that he had earned a rest. He stopped in front of the mirror and studied his face. With his fingers he pulled the corners of his eyes slightly. Then he let them go with a sigh of regret. It seemed that the almond- shaped variety had been tried before many times, and each time he found it more to his liking. Then he examined his nose with a critical air. (Show me a young person of either sex who is satisfied with his or her nose.)
I’m afraid that this trifling dissatisfaction was the last feeling he experienced in this life. The transparent spiderweb was already glistening on his sleeve. In a few seconds the boy ended up in the middle of an almost invisible cocoon. I felt in my stomach the dull relief that gripped the poor fellow—everything became irrevocably simple. YOU MUST GO THERE! And orange-haired Krops Kooly stepped into the depths of the looking glass. His helpless smile again resembled the expression on the petrified Sir Melifaro.
I turned away when I realized that my feelings coincided unpleasantly with the experiences of young Krops: I already almost felt how I was being consumed; and most disgusting of all, I felt I could easily grow to like it! The decomposing ape face appeared before me. The cavernous orifice of the mouth surrounded by squirming spider legs seemed so calm and inviting, such a desirable haven . . .
I took a bracing gulp of Elixir of Kaxar. Yes, Magic of the Eighth Degree—it’s really something! It’s devilishly delicious, and all your delusions seem to blow away like a puff of smoke! Since childhood I had been taught that only the bitterest, most foul-tasting concoctions could do you any good—and here I had discovered that it was all poppycock! Good news!
Convinced that my good sense was still in working order, I forced myself to return to the vision. Again, the empty bedchamber, tidy and clean.
“You see, Max?” Juffin’s elbow jabbed my long-suffering side. “You see?”
“What?”
“That’s exactly it—there is ab-so-lute-ly nothing there! Everything ended right then and there, like it had been switched off. It’s no wonder my gauge read only two to three that evening.”
It suddenly dawned on me. Evidently, the cheerful adventure in loving memory of Count Dracula really had raised my poor little IQ.
“After it eats, it sleeps . . . right? And nothing happens, because the mirror sleeps with its victims inside. And there’s no magic! Right?”
“Right. That’s how it fooled us. All our suspicions came to naught with one glance at the indicator on my pipe. Magic usually exists in the object in which it is invested. It either exists or it doesn’t. But this monstrous piece of furniture—it’s alive. And a living creature is sometimes wont to go off into the world of dreams. When a magus sleeps, all gauges fall silent. Most likely they are going crazy in other worlds, if such gauges were to exist in other worlds. Which, frankly speaking, I doubt. Well, let’s go back into the living room, Sir Max.”
“You know me—always ready for a snack!”
Sir Juffin got up off the floor, cracked his knuckles, and stretched. I carefully picked up the little box and put it in my pocket. I had always wanted a talisman. Now, it appeared, I had one at last. This one was plenty.
The candle, in the meantime, had burned out. I reached out mechanically to lift the stub up off the floor.
