Steve Doyle

Beyond the Black Mirror

“When Dame Alice fled to England, one of her apprentices managed to escape with the Black Mirror. Its whereabouts were kept secret for over two-hundred and fifty years until it was discovered among the possessions of the Earl of Desmond.”

Pausing for effect, I swirled the snifter and took a sip of brandy, glancing in turn to the three members of my audience, my hosts, Lord and Lady Wakefield, and one of their guests, a charming young lady with a slender figure and large doe-like eyes. I held the trio spellbound by the tale of my most recent acquisition, the famed Black Mirror of Alice Kyteler, a fourteenth century sorceress. I dare say it gave me a bit of a thrill to entertain them so.

“According to legend, as the earl prepared to make use of the mirror, his wife unexpectedly entered the room. Her curiosity got the better of her and she begged him to let her stay. He gave in to her wishes but cautioned her to remain completely quiet. She apparently agreed, but at some point became quite frightened, lost control of herself, and screamed in horror. Just then a mighty quake shook the great castle, splitting the ground beneath it. The earth opened up and swallowed the structure whole. Today a large lake—the Lough Gur I believe it’s called—marks the spot where the castle once stood.”

I heard a man’s voice behind me. “Come now, you don’t really believe that nonsense, do you?”

I turned to see a tall gentleman with dark hair neatly trimmed and combed back. He was of slim build, handsomely dressed in a white shirt, knickers, and brown riding boots. The wide, cocky grin on his clean-shaven face made him look altogether arrogant. I was about to remark upon his rudeness when Wakefield blurted, “Segrave! It’s good to see you old boy! Lord Mulready, allow me to introduce Sir Henry Segrave, a speed king if ever one lived! He has already broken records on land and in the air. He’s set to capture the water record next; he’ll do it, too, I dare say.”

Segrave’s grin turned sheepish in the midst of Wakefield’s boasting, but he bowed to the ladies, then shook my hand vigorously. “You are no doubt discussing the Black Mirror of Dame Alice Kyteler of Kilkenny.”

“You know of it?”

“Know of it? Indeed, I possess it.”

“What?” His declaration shocked me; I had recently paid a great deal of money for the very item.

“The earl of whom you speak was the fifteenth of Desmond, Gerald Fitzgerald, who did not in fact meet his fate through any encounter with black magic or even natural disaster. No, he was captured and killed in 1583 by a clan loyal to Queen Elizabeth I. His title and enormous estate were forfeit to the Crown, but my ancestor Shane O’Neill, an ally of the earl, saved many of Fitzgerald’s possessions before their enemies moved in. One such item was this famed Black Mirror. My family name, O’Neal de Hane Segrave, has undergone some spelling changes over the years but was originally O’Neill de Shane. That mirror has been in my family and passed down from generation to generation for nearly three and a half centuries.”

Wakefield turned toward me. “My goodness, Mulready, it seems you’ve been had!” Lady Wakefield gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. The slender young girl (alas, I’ve forgotten her name) hid her face behind her fan, no doubt to conceal her admiration of Segrave rather than her concern over the possibility that I’d made a bad purchase.

I glared at the man. “Are you suggesting my acquisition is a fake?”

Segrave didn’t waver. “I assure you it is.”

“Well, I’m not satisfied. I demand proof!”

Wakefield held up his hand. “May I propose a friendly wager? Segrave here has asked me to fund a major undertaking of his. Recall my mention of the water record? It is his intention to wrest the British International Trophy from the Americans. Now, if this mirror of his proves to be authentic, will you purchase it for enough money to build the speedboat he requires?”

I took another sip of brandy to quell my indignation and addressed Segrave more calmly. “You’d sell it?”

“For a chance to bring the trophy back to dear England, I would indeed.”

“And if my mirror turns out to be the original?” I shifted my eyes toward Wakefield.

“Then I’ll fund the project as promised, but all the credit for backing the endeavor will go to you. Think of the prestige if he succeeds, or rather when.”

“All right then, old boy, you’re on.” Wakefield and I shook on it.

Segrave beamed like a schoolboy. “I’ll name her Miss England II.”

At seven o’clock in the evening of the following week the two men arrived at my home with Segrave’s mirror wrapped in a sack of purple silk. We settled into the sitting room where my man, Jeremy, had prepared the fireplace and set out the drink tray. Soon we had a crackling fire and glasses of golden brandy on the rocks; the perfect atmosphere for a chilly October evening.

Segrave withdrew his mirror for our inspection. It was indeed a fine specimen, but its ebony frame shone like new. The piece could not possibly be as old as Segrave claimed. I pointed out the obvious age of the one I’d bought. “Look here; see the worn out oaken frame, the scratch marks? This frame shows its years.”

Wakefield pointed at the back side. “What about this felt?”

I turned it over. “Probably added at some later date.” I drew forth a pocket knife. “Let me cut through it so we can examine the black backing. It should prove scratch-resistant.” Much to my chagrin, it did not. The material flaked off.

Wakefield produced a magnifying glass and inspected the flaking surface. “It appears to be some kind of paint…like the sort one would expect on an automobile!”

“What!” I could not believe my ears.

Segrave leaned forward and held his mirror out for me. “Here, try the blade on mine.”

I took the object from him and scraped the knife slowly across the backing. “This isn’t scratching off. Wakefield, may I have your glass?”

“Certainly.” He handed it to me and I examined the backing closely, but could see no flaws. Then I tracked the glass slowly around the frame. At the bottom right corner I froze and my heart skipped a full beat. A word. Even through Wakefield’s glass I could just barely make it out: ‘Elenwyn’.

I said it aloud. Both gentlemen looked at me blankly, apparently not understanding. “Do you know what that is?” Wakefield shook his head. Segrave simply shrugged. “It’s the nom de plume of Maisha Foster-O’Neal.” I studied each of their faces for a sign of recognition but saw none.

Segrave finally put the question. “Well who’s that?”

“That,” I replied, looking pointedly at him, “is the woman you have to thank for your possession of this mirror. It was she who saved it from destruction in 1324. I daresay this mirror of yours is most certainly the real thing!”

“Then yours is a fake?” Wakefield raised his eyebrows.

I waved my hand in the air. “Yes, yes, I’ve been had, but no matter. This is the piece I seek. Segrave, I must have this!”

“And so you shall.”

Wakefield clapped him on the back. “And you shall have your boat. Courtesy of Lord Mulready.”

I could not tear my eyes from the mirror. I responded absently. “Yes, yes indeed.”

Late that evening I pored over Elenwyn’s poem Black Mirror which I was sure contained the spell that would unlock the object’s secrets.

Black Mirror

a mirror

reflecting not what is

not what will be

not what has been

nor what could be

yet reflecting all the same

a deep hope

in the shallow pools

of a wandering mind

long lost

to the truth and stark reality of life

Why do you look upon it?

Why do you recoil

at a sight you see only in your mind,

pronounce the differences

of the lie you are living?

all in a mirror that

burns in the darkness

and the reflections stare

back

haunting you

for eternity

~*Elenwyn*~

I sat staring at the last couplet. This elusive spell would haunt me for eternity if I didn’t find it. Then a thought struck me and I began looking at the lines rather than individual words. One line consisted of a single word, several had two words, one had three, several had four. I rearranged them until I had something that looked promising:

back

for eternity

a deep hope

reflecting not what is

yet reflecting all the same

of the lie you are living

to the truth and stark reality of life

at a sight you see only in your mind

Still, something wasn’t right. No line in the poem contained seven words. Had she intentionally skipped that number? Or perhaps left a line out? Elenwyn surely hid spells inside her compositions, but I suspected she might leave out a crucial detail, without which they would not work. I consulted the crumbling pages of my Latin translation of Necronomicon, that ancient book written in the eighth century by the ‘Mad Arab’, Abdul Alhazred. According to that source, a Black Mirror used in conjunction with the Egyptian Amulet of Menat could restore life to the dead. Used along with the Amulet of Shen the wearer could see for eternity into the future. Coupled with both amulets, it could grant the power of eternal life. I noticed the words ‘life’ and ‘eternity’ were both present in Elenwyn’s poem.

Over the years I had collected such artifacts, and happened to own the very amulets described in the book, specimens dating from the Sixth Dynasty. I fetched them and inspected them closely using the glass I had inadvertently forgotten to return to Wakefield. Inscribed on the Amulet of Menat were glyphs which roughly translated to: Granted unto thee the power of returning. I held my breath for several seconds. Seven words! Could it be the missing clue? With that line inserted the poem read:

Granted unto thee the power of returning

to the truth and stark reality of life

That had to be it!

The following evening I began preparations to ready the mirror for use. With an athame, I sliced my finger, drawing a little blood which I mixed with fluid condenser to energize the mirror. Then I cleaned its surface with alcohol and returned it to its silken sack. With eager anticipation I awaited the next full moon, which would occur in one week’s time. I could hardly wait. I made arrangements to be alone; regardless of whether or not there was any truth to the legend, I entertained no desire to be disturbed during the ritual like the unfortunate Earl of Desmond. Jeremy was a good chap, but a bit nosy at times.

When the glorious night finally arrived I removed the Black Mirror from the sack and placed it upright upon a white cloth, admiring it in the moonlight. It was a beauty. I donned the Amulets of Menat and Shen. The Collar of Gold caught my eye and I decided to wear it as well, lucky that! I created a circle of protection to keep evil spirits at bay. Unfortunately, I situated the mirror inside the circle, which would later prove a costly mistake. I concocted a lunar blend incense from a mixture of oil-soaked lotus and jasmine flowers combined with powder made from sandalwood and myrrh. Then I lit a pair of white candles and burned the incense, asking for the blessing of the Moon Mother as I did so.

Next I sat down on a wooden chair facing the mirror. A small table beside me held Necronomicon, The Complete Works of Maisha Foster-O’Neal open to Black Mirror, and my journal in which I had written what I believed to be the proper spell. I prepared to enter into a trance to see if I could indeed conjure up Dame Alice’s dæmon, Robin, Son of Art, or perhaps even the ancient sorceress herself. I closed my eyes and tried to relax, a difficult task considering my excitement.

When I reopened my eyes, the pair looking back at me weren’t mine. They weren’t even human, but those of a large feline whose black face gradually became clearer. It peered at me intently while I, wide-eyed, stared back. I took a deep breath before speaking, hoping my voice wouldn’t crack. “I am trying to reach Robin, Son of Art.”

The creature opened its mouth, revealing yellow teeth, but no sound issued forth.

“Are you Robin?”

The cat licked its whiskers.

“Son of Art?”

The animal stared at me.

“Are you Robin, Son of Art, the familiar of Dame Alice Kyteler?”

Before my eyes the face of the cat transformed to that of a man. A dark-skinned man with brown eyes, hollow cheeks and a prominent nose. A booming voice erupted from the mirror. “Who are you?”

“I am Charles, Lord Mulready.”

“What do you want?”

I licked dry lips. “I w-w-want to know the secret of Dame Alice’s mirror. Of life and eternity.”

The man’s dark eyes narrowed to thin slits. “What are you prepared to give?”

My palms were sweating and hands shook. I hoped the figure in the mirror couldn’t detect my fear. “W-w-whatever you require.”

“Alice wanders lost in this place. There is spell which will free her. She is willing trade the secret of the mirror for that intonation.”

I seized my notes from the table and uttered the words in a single breath. “Granted unto thee the power of returning to the truth and stark reality of life.” The face in the mirror underwent another transformation, this time to that of a thin, startled woman. She looked at me, crazed hazel eyes shining with hope.

“Dame Alice?”

She gasped. “The window! Help me! Take my hand!”

The surface of the mirror rippled like pond water and a delicate hand came through, right into the room. Instinctively, I reached out and grasped it firmly. To my shock and horror it yanked me forcibly out of the chair. I am not a small man and never would have expected the woman to possess such strength. I envisioned cracking my skull against the mirror, shards of shattered glass slicing my head to ribbons.

I fell into the Black Mirror all right, but didn’t crash into it. Instead I went straight through it and wound up sprawled face-down in hot, white sand. I heard sinister laughter receding behind me and turned my head in time to see the woman’s foot disappear through a shimmering sort of window. Beyond her I caught a glimpse of the interior of my chamber just before the image vanished, leaving me isolated.

Instantly I realized what had gone wrong. My circle of protection was no protection at all because the mirror was inside it. Alice had taken advantage of that stupid mistake to escape from this place. Slowly I stood up and brushed myself off. I looked around, peering in every direction, searching for the portal through which I’d fallen, but saw nothing but sand, sky and the sun which bore down upon me. It seemed as if someone had picked me up and dropped me in the middle of the Sahara Desert. But London time was near midnight, and it seemed like mid-afternoon wherever I was. I shuddered to think it might be no earthly place at all.

There had to be a way to open the window from this side, if I could just remember the proper words. What phrase had I pronounced before? “Grant unto me the reality of life.” “Grant unto me the power of returning to reality.” If only I hadn’t dropped my journal before taking that woman’s hand. If only I hadn’t touched that awful hand at all. If only. Of course, if Witch Alice had been unable to open the portal, what chance had I? I sat down hard on the sand.

As I pondered my predicament, the sky darkened and turned a strange amber colour. Off in the distance I watched a massive brown cloud grow noticeably larger. After a few seconds I recognized it for what it was. A wall of sand! Hurtling toward me and I with nowhere to hide! Frantically I began digging, hoping to make a hole into which I might hunker down for at least some protection. I tried to concentrate on this task, fighting the urge to check the progress of the dust cloud. Before long I could hear its rumbling.

I dug as quickly as I possibly could, but didn’t have much time and so only had a very shallow spot when the storm descended upon me. The sound was deafening and the tiny grains pelted me mercilessly, stinging me even through my clothing. I curled up and covered my head the best I could while all sorts of nasty thoughts raced through my mind. If a tornado caused the storm, I could get sucked up into it. Or, if dust completely filled the air I would be smothered to death. Of course, I might simply be buried alive. I failed to enjoy a single pleasant thought the entire time the storm raged.

I don’t know exactly how long it lasted, it seemed like an eternity, but the howling wind eventually subsided and the swirling sand passed on its way. It had left me partially buried but only under a few millimeters and by good fortune I emerged a little sore but mostly unhurt. With no idea what else to do, I began a search for food and water, of which I found none. I discovered neither plant nor animal life. Of course, there was no sign of civilization either. Nothing at all seemed to inhabit that forlorn place.

For what seemed endless days I wandered thus, surprised my energy did not give out. I felt tired but not exhausted, at least not to the point of collapse. I felt a bit hungry and quite thirsty, but never in immediate danger of dying. I know a person can only survive a few days without water, but perhaps the rules didn’t apply to this strange land.

One day I spotted something I initially thought a mirage, something hovering in midair. I made my way toward it and could make out a man’s face. The trim white beard and deep blue eyes were—Jeremy’s! My faithful servant had searched for me! I jumped into the air and shouted to him. “Jeremy, my boy! Thank goodness you’ve found me! Witch Alice has escaped from this place and I am trapped. Help me get out of here!”

A smile came over his face, but I apparently misunderstood it. Jeremy had succeeded in finding me, but his intentions were hostile rather than helpful. He attempted to cast a binding spell upon me! The fool obviously didn’t know the significance of the Collar of Gold. How lucky that I’d worn it. The purpose of the collar is to allow the deceased to escape from his wrappings. So long as I had it, no binding spell would hold me.

But it did hinder me long enough to allow the traitorous chap to close the portal before I could get through. I remained trapped and did not expect anyone else to come looking for me. For the first time I felt true despair and entertained thoughts of ending my life. Anything would be preferable to a wretched existence in this wasteland. But while immersed in this depression, I was caught completely by surprise when the shimmering window opened again. This time there floated before me the grinning face of my tormentor, the sorceress herself, Dame Alice.

I later learned this sophisticated aristocrat of the 1320s was quite confused by London of the 1920s. She decided she needed an attendant and so returned to my mansion, where she happened upon Jeremy reveling in his victory over me. But it did not take long for her to discover he had only rudimentary knowledge of the black arts and that the journal and library were mine, not his. She forcibly encouraged him to disclose the whereabouts of the Black Mirror and proceeded to search for me herself.

I imagine the poor chap still wanders through that lonely world in the land beyond the Black Mirror with its endlessly monotonous landscape. Lady Alice has had her fill of the place and can’t stand the sight of sand. We get along splendidly but she absolutely refuses to accompany me to the beach.