The Key
Key 124 was malevolent, and nothing the decrepit wizard tried could change it. The solid brass monstrosity sat heavy in his gloved hand. The key was intended to be the pinnacle of his career, the ‘Key to Everything’, but his magic was corrupted. The worst of his bitterness had tainted the molten metal—the result was the most dangerous key he’d ever cast.
Frightened by what he’d created, the wizard threw it back in to the crucible and reheated the furnace. The key was protected by the wizard’s own magic and a imbued with a force of will no inanimate object should possess, it refused to melt. Defeated, the wizard used the impenetrable key 93 to lock 124 inside a magicked strongbox. He retired to his cot.
After a night filled with tortured dreams he awoke to further disappointment. Key 93 lay on the floor, stretched and twisted to resemble a bracelet. It was drained of all magic. The strongbox was shattered, and the locking mechanisms warped beyond repair. In the middle of the wizard’s work bench sat key 124, its malice tangible.
Afraid to touch his cursed creation, the wizard used his sleeve to sweep the key into the deepest pocket of his robe. Spade in hand, he headed into the woods, intent on burying the cursed object to be rid of it. Betrayed by his subconscious, the wizard’s free hand slipped into the depths of the pocket. When his fingertips grazed the cold metal the wizard’s desires grew.
The key cocooned within his fist; the wizard’s thoughts turned from its destruction to his own desires. He knew the key could unlock the secrets of the world, that was the very reason he’d created it. His search for the secret to eternal youth had driven him for so many years. Never in his many centuries of life had he been so close to realising his dream.
The once powerful mage, grown weak with age and disappointments, could only resist for so long. He found himself back in his workshop, the spade and all reason abandoned somewhere in the trees.
In his mind’s eye a door glimmered before him. The lock welcomed the key, but the tumblers began to grind and screech in protest. The wizard focussed his attention on unlocking the door. His desire shifted from eternal youth to getting the damned door open. He beat, scratched and scrabbled at the door—all earthly requirements forgotten.
A week later, the wizard’s finger twitched for the last time. It came to rest against a door that didn’t exist. Weeks passed. His flesh shrunk beneath papery skin, then writhed with life once more, as insects recycled his elements into new forms. Centuries later, all that remained were mossy bones. Nature even reclaimed his workshop.
For key 124, time held no meaning—one minute, one month or one hundred years, they were all the same. Purpose only existed when fingers wrapped around the cold, hard brass, and a desire formed in the mind of the bearer.
It had been a year since Gloria died, Edward still felt a cold stab of pain in his gut when he thought of her. She’d been his one true love, his very reason for living. Her premature death had robbed him of purpose and direction. His saving grace had been their child, little Jenny. She was so much like her mother it hurt, but her need for him had kept him alive in his darkest days.
The morning dawned clear and crisp. A perfect day for a walk in the woods to collect bluebells for Gloria’s grave. Edward let Jenny run ahead, picking flowers as she went, her eyes were alive with joy and her cheeks flushed pink. They wandered deeper into the trees, Jenny’s meandering taking them off the usual paths.
When she tripped and fell, Edward rushed forward in concern, but she sat up with a giggle. Instead of the bluebells, which were now scattered on the leaf litter, she clutched a strange looking key in her yellow-woollen mitten.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and Edward snatched the filthy object from his daughter’s tiny fist. Her chubby face screwed up in fury, but he was blind and deaf to her woes. The key, warming in his palm, had his total attention.
No one heard little Jenny’s screams turn to whimpers as she scrambled after her father. Her short legs no match for his purpose-filled strides, she was soon lost. Her fate much like the wizard, whose bones she’d tripped over.
Edward returned home. The key nestled in his fist. He collected his ladder and a length of thick rope and carried them to the tree at the bottom of the garden. He leaned the ladder against a sturdy branch, to which he tied one end of the rope—the other end he knotted and looped around his neck. He gazed down at Gloria’s grave. His face lit with a beatific smile and his eyes filled with tears of absolute joy.
Edward kicked away the ladder and croaked his final words--
“I’m coming, my beloved.”
Key 124 slipped from limp fingers to land on the grave. It sat. Time held no meaning—one minute, one month or one hundred years. A day would come when fingers would find it and a desire would form.
Copyright 2024, Jacqui Greaves. All rights reserved.
Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.
Key 124 was malevolent, and nothing the decrepit wizard tried could change it. The solid brass monstrosity sat heavy in his gloved hand. The key was intended to be the pinnacle of his career, the ‘Key to Everything’, but his magic was corrupted. The worst of his bitterness had tainted the molten metal—the result was the most dangerous key he’d ever cast.
Frightened by what he’d created, the wizard threw it back in to the crucible and reheated the furnace. The key was protected by the wizard’s own magic and a imbued with a force of will no inanimate object should possess, it refused to melt. Defeated, the wizard used the impenetrable key 93 to lock 124 inside a magicked strongbox. He retired to his cot.
After a night filled with tortured dreams he awoke to further disappointment. Key 93 lay on the floor, stretched and twisted to resemble a bracelet. It was drained of all magic. The strongbox was shattered, and the locking mechanisms warped beyond repair. In the middle of the wizard’s work bench sat key 124, its malice tangible.
Afraid to touch his cursed creation, the wizard used his sleeve to sweep the key into the deepest pocket of his robe. Spade in hand, he headed into the woods, intent on burying the cursed object to be rid of it. Betrayed by his subconscious, the wizard’s free hand slipped into the depths of the pocket. When his fingertips grazed the cold metal the wizard’s desires grew.
The key cocooned within his fist; the wizard’s thoughts turned from its destruction to his own desires. He knew the key could unlock the secrets of the world, that was the very reason he’d created it. His search for the secret to eternal youth had driven him for so many years. Never in his many centuries of life had he been so close to realising his dream.
The once powerful mage, grown weak with age and disappointments, could only resist for so long. He found himself back in his workshop, the spade and all reason abandoned somewhere in the trees.
In his mind’s eye a door glimmered before him. The lock welcomed the key, but the tumblers began to grind and screech in protest. The wizard focussed his attention on unlocking the door. His desire shifted from eternal youth to getting the damned door open. He beat, scratched and scrabbled at the door—all earthly requirements forgotten.
A week later, the wizard’s finger twitched for the last time. It came to rest against a door that didn’t exist. Weeks passed. His flesh shrunk beneath papery skin, then writhed with life once more, as insects recycled his elements into new forms. Centuries later, all that remained were mossy bones. Nature even reclaimed his workshop.
For key 124, time held no meaning—one minute, one month or one hundred years, they were all the same. Purpose only existed when fingers wrapped around the cold, hard brass, and a desire formed in the mind of the bearer.
It had been a year since Gloria died, Edward still felt a cold stab of pain in his gut when he thought of her. She’d been his one true love, his very reason for living. Her premature death had robbed him of purpose and direction. His saving grace had been their child, little Jenny. She was so much like her mother it hurt, but her need for him had kept him alive in his darkest days.
The morning dawned clear and crisp. A perfect day for a walk in the woods to collect bluebells for Gloria’s grave. Edward let Jenny run ahead, picking flowers as she went, her eyes were alive with joy and her cheeks flushed pink. They wandered deeper into the trees, Jenny’s meandering taking them off the usual paths.
When she tripped and fell, Edward rushed forward in concern, but she sat up with a giggle. Instead of the bluebells, which were now scattered on the leaf litter, she clutched a strange looking key in her yellow-woollen mitten.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and Edward snatched the filthy object from his daughter’s tiny fist. Her chubby face screwed up in fury, but he was blind and deaf to her woes. The key, warming in his palm, had his total attention.
No one heard little Jenny’s screams turn to whimpers as she scrambled after her father. Her short legs no match for his purpose-filled strides, she was soon lost. Her fate much like the wizard, whose bones she’d tripped over.
Edward returned home. The key nestled in his fist. He collected his ladder and a length of thick rope and carried them to the tree at the bottom of the garden. He leaned the ladder against a sturdy branch, to which he tied one end of the rope—the other end he knotted and looped around his neck. He gazed down at Gloria’s grave. His face lit with a beatific smile and his eyes filled with tears of absolute joy.
Edward kicked away the ladder and croaked his final words--
“I’m coming, my beloved.”
Key 124 slipped from limp fingers to land on the grave. It sat. Time held no meaning—one minute, one month or one hundred years. A day would come when fingers would find it and a desire would form.
Copyright 2024, Jacqui Greaves. All rights reserved.
Content may not be copied or used in whole or part without written permission from the author.