T.V. Vessels, Jr.
You will believe in magic.
“Why?” you ask. The Wizard of Is is why. Meet Albert Pintergrass, future wizard, at forty-three—at least he could be, if he can manage to survive long enough—in a magical land called Eez where the mystery of magic is at work and where there is power in magic.
The power of magic works through a pair of simple gemstones called reds and nots, in realms with names like Is and Siss, Dakks and Melrose, and a former realm called Ultra, in a place all wizards call home, Eez. In Eez, we find brooms for flying—if you want to clean the floor, use a sweep; brooms are for riding, not cleaning. There are wands for zapping out magic on command, medical miracles performed by angels. And winks for shifting ahead or back through time or space—choose one please, because you can’t do both at the same time, you know. Flyers to transport one from point A to point B, so much better than any airplane ride. Spells to cast for just about anything, Potions whose motions can help, or hurt, depending on the turn on one’s wrist, for whatever ails you, and, of course, there is the School.
That is right, I did say school—a really, awesome school. A university in fact, called Marvels & Mirth - School of Wizardry & Witchcraft—a magic-filled learning center for anyone who qualifies as a potential future witch or wizard.
“So how did a forty-plus outsider qualify to become a wizard?” you ask. It’s in the blood. Albert Pintergrass has a bloodline tie to magic. He doesn’t know it and doesn’t want to know it. So distantly removed is that connection that even his parents probably wouldn’t have known about it. Isn’t that how it always happens? The important part is that he is related. So he is qualified to “try out.” He is needed to continue as the last in a line of rulers called guardians.
When the last ruler of Is dies of natural causes—she was a hundred years older that Moses you know—an heir must be produced to take her place. Otherwise, the Realm of Is will be no more. Our hero doesn’t care a wit about a place he has never known. That is one of the reasons he isn’t on anybody’s list as a first choice, that and the fact that there are five other closer relatives who were already informed of the impending end and were being trained for their possible ascent to power should one of the nearer relatives not be able to serve. Unfortunately, for Albert, all five heirs die suddenly from unexplained causes in unusual circumstances, leaving guess who.
“What happens?” you ask. Well, a little expedition goes out to find the next heir, who also happens to be the last of the line, Albert. The problems encountered when attempting to secure his trust and bring him up to speed fill this first volume. Several attempts are made by others to end his life, while the three special investigators known as the Evers, who are Whatever, Wherever and Whenever—unfortunately a fourth Ever, Whyever, didn’t live long enough to make the trip—take on the task of protecting him.
You need to understand the innermost workings of wink technology, a subject I’m still deciphering, to understand why the Evers have the challenges they do: exhibiting memory loss, showing up at the wrong time in the wrong place, often appearing confused and, from all outer appearances, suspiciously mimicking insane men. Nevertheless, they continue their search.
When we finally discover their world, which is parallel to ours but held apart by a sphere induced by combining the powers of a heart-shaped stone called The Black, a magical science called wink technology, the powerful Realm Guardian Wizards, and, of course, a little unicorn magic, we are at one with the place, familiar with our surroundings, through myth and legend.
“But isn’t magic, well, magic?” you ask. Yes and no. Magic has different qualities just like ice cream or cheese or soda having their own smoothness, creaminess, or fizz—I bet you have your favorites. So it is with the magicks. It takes several flavors of magic to make a magical sphere, the bubble holding their continent—called Eez these days—outside of our domain, our world. To understand this, it helps to think in terms of out of phase or phase shift. With each tick-tock of the clock, the sphere marches forward, carrying Eez safely inside, and it isn’t all on the surface. The sphere reaches from deep inside our earth out to hundreds of miles high. Its base sinks down to a molten trench that feeds Pavil, that world’s active volcano, with its lava flowing and its gases rising. The sphere reaches out to the Atlantic on all sides. Forever in motion on an endless journey, it jumps north to south, south to north, midway between the large continental bodies to the east and west, wandering the same serpentine route, the sun’s zenith directly overhead every day at noon, its path wavering ever so slightly as the forces of the shifting continents and the tug of its molten anchor below shift and surge. It is an ancient route, followed for thousands and thousands of years.
And this is just a beginning.
Author of two books, each of which is the first of a series, Mr. Vessels offers his first publication with this book. His earlier work, a science fiction adventure series titled J. D. Dawn, completed in the 1980s, is undergoing an update before publication. With his eye on magic this time, the second series begins with The Wizard of Is and the Power of Not.
Talmadge is an avid Sci-Fi fan who also enjoys mysteries and humor. A good book is only one of his joys; he also enjoys movies and television. Preferring the short-story format, Talmadge says this form allows the writer or reader to move quickly through the story and gives the reader room for his imagination to fill in the peripherals while also allowing the author to fill the pages with more important elements such as action and intrigue, giving vivid life to his characters.
Born in 1949, in the West Texas town of Tahoka, but now a California resident, our author works as a cad manager for an electrical-and-lighting design firm in Marin County and resides with Randi, his wife of twenty years, in Petaluma, California.
This emerging author has an abundance of material to keep him occupied as he makes the transition from the world of the working class, also described as “going to work every day,” to the world of retirement, which is sometimes characterized as “not leaving home unless you really want to.” He intends to devote his free hours to writing, traveling, and lots of golf.
Chapter 1 - What, Where, When and Why?
When it all began, I was standing behind my front desk, working. Three men came in wearing dated three piece herringbone suits. Their heights caught my eye as they crossed the entry hall. The tallest was a steely eyed, six foot three bearded individual, sandwiched between a clean shaven, four foot seven fellow with darting, weary eyes, on his left, and a sleepy eyed, mustached five foot three counterpart on his right. Nothing else in particular impressed me about the three. They stopped mumbling among themselves as they stepped up to my desk.
“Good morning, kind sir,” said the tallest of the three. “We are here on business. Would you happen to know where we might find one Albert Pintergrass?”
“That would be me,” I replied, beaming with new interest. “Welcome to my establishment.”
“We are here—” said the man to his left.
“Concerning your unfortunate loss—” continued the last of the three.
“We represent W, W, & W Investigations,” the first man added, “formerly W, W, W, & W Investigations.”
“Sadly though, Mr. Whyever has passed on now—” added the second man.
“Now it’s just Whatever—” said the first man, as an introduction.
“Wherever—” added the second.
“And Whenever Investigations,” finished the third. He stepped forward and offered me their card.
It read, “Whatever, Wherever, Whenever & Whyever Investigations,” with the “Whyever” crossed out with a bold X.
“What unfortunate loss might that be?” I inquired.
“Why yourrr—” the first man began, stammered and paused. A question crossed his face, then his eyebrows arched as he took in his surroundings, as if he had only just noticed the hotel for the very first time. “Your establishment—did you say?”
“That is correct,” I acknowledged with pride.
“Something’s not right here—” the tallest man said, a scornful expression crept onto his face, “—WHEN!”
He turned to face the one called Whenever mumbling—trying to whisper—anger red on his face. Trying not to intrude, I listened—I thought I heard a royal we as the tallest man continued. “We didn’t get it wrong again did ‘we’?”
The smaller man smiled at the challenge, extracted an odd looking object from his vest pocket and began to examine the face. A moment later he answered. “Nope, right on time—it is exactly 10:27—as you requested.”
Whatever glanced back at me, grinning, his posture stiffer. His eyes rose to the clock on my left. I turned and saw it was indeed 10:27, still one more hour before Fred would relieve me. I was already becoming hungry. The tall man’s eyes shifted to my right. I followed his gaze to the calendar there, which read “June 16” in three inch text.
Whatever flashed a short lived smile once more, adding, “Many apologies my good fellow. I do believe there’s been a mistake.”
“No problem,” I said, nodding as I returned to my work.
He turned and waved the others out the door, continuing to speak ‘at’ me as he did so, glancing back over his shoulder. “Perhaps we will call on you again, some other time—”
Without looking up I dipped my head, in a casual nod—Whatever ‘Whatever’.
Hey, Albert. Were you making a joke?—That was my smarter self. I usually try to ignore it. Maybe ‘it’ is my subconscious. Maybe it is my inner voice, the one I’ve heard ‘others’ conversing with, walking down the street, talking ‘to’ themselves. Whatever it is, it’s mine. He’s all mine—always trying to look out for my welfare—emphasis on the ‘trying’ part. As I said, usually I find it safer just to ignore him—usually. Too often though, it seems an impossible goal—still it is the safest course of action. But if ‘it’ starts using terms like ‘we’ or ‘us’ instead of ‘Albert’ or ‘you’—well—that is when I start to get nervous. Today is a good day, one of it’s normal days—mostly I find him annoying.
—Attempting a whisper, the group’s leader continued to direct himself to the smaller man. “The date—you idiot. You’ve gotten it wrong again. We are going to have to do this all over again. Everything’s gone wrong—have to do all over . . .”
His voice faded to nothing—a second later his volume picked up so I could just hear him still growling under his breath.
“—you get the wrong date? When! How could you be so—d@*!!! it When, when will you learn how to use that thing? Why can’t you—Grrrr—frail it, When! Why do I even bother? Nothing has happened yet—there’s been no letter, no explos—”
His voice cut off abruptly as the door closed, along with the street sounds.
I straightened from my work, placing my pen atop the papers on the counter. I stretched, rolling my shoulders so the muscles of my back could chase out the kinks. I smiled at hearing the joints snapped and popped with relief. I rocked my head from side to side, noting the crackles and snaps of surrender as those joints came back into alignment.
Awww, I thought, much better.
You are going to damage something, one of these days, Albert, my smarter self advised. Would you stop that already.
In defiance I laced my fingers together and pressed my palms outward to snap my finger joints as well, just to show him how well his suggestion had been received.
Oooo, NO! Albert. Nooo, stop. Albert! Stop it!
I looked around the hotel interior. Mine was a mini ‘Hilton like’ hotel, forty seven rooms on five floors—not too big, not too small—a triple A, four star, profitable little business I loved. One unique feature this old style hotel offered were the luxury accommodations on the lower two floors. The penthouses of the modern behemoths were all up high, whereas this magnificent structure had been designed in a time when servants still accompanied their employers when they traveled, the lower levels served as conduits for convenient access in and out, for the rich and famous, as well as those who attended them. Despite its age, the original design had included an elevator—updated recently with the latest, greatest unit designed to fit into the existing shaft. I preferred using those magnificent stairs myself—they were wide, graceful and eternal—works of art. The building had been built at a time when precious woods hadn’t been considered endangered or rare—everything was the best that money could buy—the inlays ran to darks approaching black and lights so bright they outshone white and clear woods so clean they looked like pure polished amber. These had been displayed exquisitely throughout the interior—bottom to top—exotic woods enhanced every feature, more beautiful than anything the rest of the world could offer.
