Ouroboros

Oliver: Chapter 1

My name is Oliver Murphy, and the thing I loved most about being a traveling magician was waking up in one town and falling asleep in another the same day. Sunrise in Albuquerque, sunset in Tucson. My second favorite part of my job was the people I met along the way.

Being a magician requires curiosity and a willingness to learn. Any chance I got, I'd talk to the locals about ghosts, myths, legends, oddities, and Native American folklore. El Chupacabra, gold mine ghosts, and skin-walkers were only a handful of subjects in the thousands of stories I'd heard.

I'd met Navajo medicine men, who taught me the secrets of survival in the desert. I learned how to find water, what plants were beneficial, and what types of plants to avoid. I fell in love with the sky and the stories it told of brave warriors, passed on to me by weathered old men around a crackling campfire.

I was given talismans, promised to ward off evil; though I would come to learn promises are easily broken. I was given good luck charms, special stones, and tarot cards enchanted by gypsies I'd met passing through Laredo.

Before hitting the road alone and heading out west, I traveled along the gulf coast with a small freak show. After a quarrel with a fellow side-show magician over the legitimacy of his illusions, I disbanded from the company. At the expense of my magic tricks, I've always believed in integrity and the use of true magic when performing. I don't claim to be a good magician, but I do claim to be a true magician. My rival was much better at giving the people a good show, even if it wasn't real.

On my way out of the sticky swamps of Louisiana, I spent some time on the bayou and in New Orleans. It was during those days I learned of the risks behind black magic and Voodoo. There are different levels among the supernatural, Voodoo being one of the most dangerous disciplines. At the risk of part (or the entirety) of one's soul, mastery of Voodoo was a possibility. A certain level of respect and appreciation for the art is required, and without such appreciation, an individual can be easily lost among the darkness.

That morning, I woke with the uneasiness that something was wrong, but nothing was amiss. The heat of the morning sun was already burning through the windows, and I glanced out to check if the black dog was still stalking the area I claimed as my own for those few days. Fortunately, the coast was clear.

I proceeded to walk the short distance to civilization with caution, looked twice before crossing any roads, and headed into a diner on the outskirts of town. The neon lights claimed Rosie's Diner had the best flapjacks west of the Mississippi.

After two cups of coffee and a mediocre stack of lukewarm pancakes, it was time to hit the road. I had decided to head south, from Phoenix to Yuma, to get close to the border and find a medicine man who'd know what sort of talisman would be best to ward off a beast such as death.

I traveled the barren landscape to Yuma, watching as the vegetation grew sparse and the cacti grew taller and taller with every passing mile. The dry and jagged red landscape was a stark contrast to the rolling green cornfields from which I hailed.

I grew up along the muddy banks of the Mississippi in a rural farm town too small to be worthy of a dot on a map. The air in the river basin was similar to a bowl of hot soup during the summer months. Looking across the fields, the heavy heat was visible as a thick veil of haze, magnifying the sun's glaring rays, making even breathing a chore. I wiped my eyes clean of dusty cornfields long ago, with no intention to return.

The sky was aflame with sunset as I pulled into town. I got to work immediately, posting fliers and advertisements on any available space that would catch the public's eye. I walked into diners, tourist shops, and gas stations to hand out business cards and matchboxes covered with promises of real magic.

As the neon signs of motels and gas stations lit up, I made my way into a small bar not far from where I had parked for the evening. If I planned to find the local medicine man or soothsayer, a local dive was my best bet.

In the spirit of adventure, I ordered a few drinks and began talking to anyone who seemed interested. I'd always been one to talk to strangers, which seemed to serve me well for the most part. A friendly face seeks a friendly face, and soon enough, I was talking to a few younger Native American men who were able to point me in the right direction. Luck was on my side, as there was a soothsayer who lived on a campground not far from town.

After a few rounds of local brews, a couple shots, and plenty of good stories shared among strangers and friends alike, I decided to head back to my humble abode. As much as I wanted to speak to a supernatural professional, I was in no proper state of mind to do so. My eagerness would have to wait until the next day.

The chill of the clear evening began to set in as I stumbled along. Street lamps flickered, bits of trash and paper skittered and danced past my feet with the cool breeze of the desert night.

My heart began to race as the reality of my vulnerability hit me like a train at full speed. I shook my head, trying to find any sense of clarity in the haze of my drunkenness. A paper cup rolled out of the darkness, causing my breath to catch. I scanned every dark space with utmost effort, trying to make out any ominous shapes moving among the shadows of dumpsters or street signs.

The sound of laughter from an alleyway in the distance was no consolation, I stumbled along the sidewalk as fast as I could manage while my head spun. I leaned against a clay building in an attempt to catch my breath and my balance. Behind me, I could hear the echo of my panting and footsteps, still marching on in the night.

When the echoing didn't stop, my stomach dropped. Slowly, I turned around. The silhouette of a dog stood under a street lamp not far from where I leaned heavily, braced against an unlit storefront. The sound of static ripped through my entire body, and I sprinted in the direction of my camper.

Without hesitation, the dog followed close behind but not in pursuit. It paced itself, a few street lamps away. It was hunting me, following me to my final destination.

I reached my parking place and fumbled with my keys, dropping them in the dust. As I leaned down to pick them up, I fell forward out of drunken clumsiness. Hitting my head on the steps, so close to my quiet sanctuary, I surrendered to my fate. I rolled onto my back, ready to look death in the face.

I stared into the sky, counting the stars to see how far I got before the Hell hound caught up to me and took my life. I saw the Milky Way, Orion's belt, the Big Dipper, and a lone shooting star.

"I wish not to die," I whispered to the stars, to the gods and warriors above, to anyone who was listening.