In the Mirror (A Short Story) Read online

drifted, the absent knowledge that he needed to pay the cable bill intertwined with the memory of tobacco smoke and a foggy vision of a trio of bandits lying in wait for–someone. Who?

  Ethan squinted and looked into the vision more carefully. A man was walking down a road. Tunic, boots, cloak, sword at his side, faithful wolf trotting along at his heels–all the typical, hackneyed fantasy fare. Ethan wanted something more, something special. Still, the fellow walked along, ignorant as you please to the fate in store for him. Whistling, even. The bandits shifted and prepared themselves for the attack, and the whistler's music stopped so that he could take a long draw on his pipe. A pipe? Talk about association...

  "Watch out!" Ethan shouted. "There are bandits in the ditch and they're going to rob you blind! Stars and garters, don't you watch television? Read fiction? You couldn't ask for a more stereotypical scene!"

  To his complete and utter surprise, the whistler paused and looked about. The faithful wolf lifted his predictable nose into the air and howled. And just like that, the bandits' plot was foiled, a spoof was born, and this time it sold to a real market. Four-and-a-half cents per word.

  Ethan thought that there ought to be a way to market mirrors to writers to hone their focus, and lo! another check found its way into his bank account.

  The mirror inspired a score of fantastic stories. A hundred! Curiously, the scent of pipe smoke accompanied many of them. The characters became increasingly real and sometimes even responsive to Ethan's coaching from his omniscient point of view.

  Then one day the whistler showed up again. He stopped when he came to the ditch that had nearly been his undoing and, pipe in one hand and his sheathed sword balanced on his shoulder with the other, he turned and looked directly at Ethan. "Well?" he said, and Ethan drew back in astonishment. The man was not particularly young, perhaps in his late forties, though he had a sort of sturdy timelessness about him. "You read the book, didn't you?"

  "I–The book?"

  The whistler nodded. "The one I left for you."

  Ethan glanced behind him, but saw only his ordinary, rather uninspired office. Turning back, he had to suck in a breath. His reflection looked thirty if he was a day, and not nearly as unremarkable as Ethan had always imagined. Cautiously, his attention went back to the whistler. "The one about the mirror? This mirror?"

  Whistler smiled, and the familiar expression sent another jolt of surprise through Ethan. "That'd be the one. Are you ready?"

  "Ready for what?"

  "To believe. To join me. It's a true story, you know."

  Insomnia, disillusion and regret effected him more than he had ever imagined they could. "You aren't real."

  Whistler laughed. "Of course I am, Ethan. As real as you are."

  "Father?" It was a whisper of pure, unadulterated hope with a generous dose of insanity tossed in for good measure. He was talking to a mirror, for crying out loud.

  The man gave him an elaborate bow. "S'truth," he said, and waved his pipe at the scenery around him as he straightened. "It's all truth."

  Ethan closed his eyes and thought he should probably call his wife. Or a doctor. But when curiosity made him open his eyes again, his bleary reflection was still compellingly young and the whistler bore an undeniable resemblance to his father. "How?"

  "Didn't you read the book?"

  "I did! I did, but..."

  Disappointment shaded Whistler's face. "You still don't believe. All the places and people you've seen, the testament I left you... Ethan, time is growing short. You're not young any more. Not in your world."

  Ethan's eyes went back to his own image, and he very nearly whimpered. That Ethan was slim and his face unlined. He looked fit enough to run for miles instead of having to stop at the top of the stairs to catch his breath.

  "Trust me for one minute, son. Reach through the mirror."

  What a crazy suggestion. It was even crazier that it worked. His hand slipped through the glass as easily as it might go through water. A chill pricked his skin, but the temperature on the other side was warm and it came with the scent of green things and pipe smoke and adventure. Even more unbelievable was the feel of skin against skin as Whistler stuck his pipe between his teeth and clasped Ethan's hand.

  "Now do you believe me?"

  How could any sane man believe this? "No," Ethan said, but he didn't pull away from the man's grasp.

  Whistler smiled again, understanding brightening his eyes. "Will you come?"

  "Yes." It was astounding, but he knew he had to. Over there his father awaited him. And stories! Oh, the stories! "How?"

  Whistler pointed upward, and Ethan glanced up to see the note taped to the frame. "Got someone you can address that to?"

  "Yes..." Ethan thought quickly to his youngest daughter. A dancer, she was, a storyteller of another sort. He hurried to the desk for an envelope and a pen.

  "Don't forget to leave the manual."

  "Manual?" he echoed, feeling like a cross between a parrot and an excited little boy.

  "The book about the mirror and the truth."

  "Oh. Right." He was amazed that seeing through the mirror worked both ways, though he should have suspected. What did all the writing teachers say? Write what you know. It only made sense that somehow, somewhere, people really did know that magic was no fantasy at all.

  Book on the desk and letter taped once again to the frame, Ethan peered into the mirror at his father. His father! "Now what?"

  "Duck."

  Was it really that simple? Sucking in a breath, Ethan lowered his head and stepped slowly through the beautiful mahogany frame. A shiver passed through him, cold, a brief sense of disorientation and then the heart-pounding thrill of excitement. He was in the mirror – and a whole new life awaited him.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Robin Lythgoe is an author of fantasy fiction. Reading and writing have always been a part of her life; before she mastered the art of the pen, she dictated her first written fiction to her scribe (a.k.a. her oldest sister). Her mother regularly took her on expeditions to the library, from which she invariably returned laden with a stack of books guaranteed to make her arms longer. She read everything voraciously, and when she finished her stack, she'd start on her mother's… and then her sisters'. Today she writes tales about wizards and magic, fantastical places and extraordinary journeys.

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  Connect with Robin online:

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/robinlythgoe

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000562546329

  My blog: https://robinlythgoe.blogspot.com/

  Cover art by Robin and by MarshaLee Champagne:

  MarshaLee’s website: https://www.whimsycalls.com/