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The Third Wish

by Peter M. Floyd

 

I was in the middle of a pleasant little nap in the Seventh Sky of Severus when the summoning came.

Enfolded in a cloud bank, I was snuggling under the billows in a comfy-cozy fashion, all of the troubles of the sixteen quasi-pyramidal dimensions slipping away like forgotten dreams. This was my first real rest after four or five eternities spent putting out fires in the Red Chasm of Varsh, and I was looking forward to spending a nice long perpetuity indulging in some me time.

But no such luck. I had been there for only two or three eons when the all-too-familiar tingling sensation began in my phalanges and outer membranes and then spread in jagged waves along my dorsal limbs and then up through my carapace. There was no denying it; some fool on the mortal plane had successfully cast a spell to call me to them.

“Oh, by Crom’s back teeth,” I said to no one in particular. “Not now!”

But my words were in vain, and all too soon I felt the glorious softness of the cloud melt around me. For fifteen horrible seconds I slipped through the oily blackness between dimensions, fighting back the urge to vomit. (Dimensional travel always gives me motion sickness.) Then, with an audible pop, I landed in the mortal plane.

My surroundings there were not prepossessing, but when are they ever? There are, I am told, many wonderful vistas in the human world, but mostly what I see are the ugly underground dens of malignant, small-minded necromancers (and, to be honest, there isn’t any other kind of necromancer).

This time proved to be no exception. I found myself in a room with a smallish floorspace but a high ceiling, giving the impression of being in a mine shaft. Before me was a firepit filled with burning logs that gave off far more smoke than fire — if I’d had lungs I would surely have started coughing them up. Wooden shelves were laid out on the walls, bearing books that, if judged by their covers, did not contain addictive beach reading. There was also an abundance of human skulls about, many with burning candles stuck on the tops of their craniums. They seemed to be serving no other function than as necromanical paperweights. Call me a stickler, but to my mind you have no business littering your workplace with skulls unless you’re either an orthopedic surgeon or a phrenologist.

The sole non-skeletal inhabitant of this dreary chamber was a little man wearing a dark blue robe covered in symbols which, if I’d had the interest to study them, would no doubt have signified allegiance to various unpleasant demons and deities. He sported a black pointed hat and a black pointed beard, neither of which became him in the least.

“Praise Apollyon!” he cried out. “Thou hast sent thy servant to answer my prayers. All praise to thy Satanic majesty!”

Hoo boy, I thought, This is going to be just awful.

I should point out that I had not manifested as my true self, firstly because it would have melted this poor fellow’s brain, and secondly because it wasn’t really possible to do so in a mere three-dimensional sphere of existence in any case. Instead, I had dressed myself in the usual sort of manifestation that such clients expect, with batlike wings, a pointed tail, scaly legs, and eyes just about everywhere. Not the most aesthetically pleasing of appearances to be sure, but in this profession the uglier one is the more one is respected. (One of the many reasons I was seriously thinking of changing jobs.)

Anyway, I was stuck doing this person’s bidding now. I did a little bow (harder than it looks when your back is made up of endlessly fluttering wings) and said, “Hello, friend. Whom do I have the honor of serving, and how may I be of service today?”

At these words, the little man was so excited that he literally began to dance about and cackle with glee. It took all my control not to burst out in a guffaw. Don’t laugh at the client — that’s one of the unwritten rules of the biz. It’s just bad form.

“Oh, spirit of evil,” he said, his voice going up an octave in excitement. “I am the great enchanter Martok the Magnificent, the most powerful mage in all Benovia. I have summoned thee to seek out and punish my enemies!”

I sighed. I was afraid it was going to be something like this. Entities such as I never get called on to make daffodils spring from solid rock or paint rainbows in the sky or cause the trees to burst into song (all of which I can do). No, when it’s not smiting the enemy then it’s raising people from the dead, or creating some weapon that can kill a hundred people at once, or turning some otherwise useful item into solid gold.

I was also disappointed, but not surprised, that Martok had not bothered to inquire what my own name was. (Strictly speaking, I did not possess a name, but that is beside the point.)

“If I must,” I said. If I sounded reluctant — and I did, I confess — Martok the Magnificent paid no notice.

“Excellent! I have many enemies — four hundred and fifty-three at the last count,” he said. “Everyone who has ever insulted me or slighted me or taken what is rightfully mine. All the old masters of the magical arts who called me a fool and all the women who called me a cad when I sought their company. I want them to suffer, to burn, to cry for mercy and get none.” He grinned in a way that did not make him any more likable.

“Well,” I said. “ I can see that you are a man of passion. Unfortunately, I won’t be able to smite all four hundred and fifty-three of your rivals. According to the rules by which I am bound, you may ask of me three wishes and no more, which I will then carry out to the best of my ability.”

“Only three?” Martok was outraged. “I poured a cupful of my own blood on a pentagram, and then sacrificed two cats and an Irish wolfhound for a mere three wishes?”

“Sorry,” I said apologetically. “I did not make the rules but I must obey them.”

“I see,” he growled. Then his face lit up. “What if I —?”

“Also, each wish must have a single object, discrete in time and place. So, you can’t ask me, as one wish, to kill all your enemies.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointed again. “Then I must think about who most deserves to taste my wrath.”

“Take your time,” I said. I then felt compelled to add, “But perhaps you might want to go a different path. You must have heard the expression ‘Living well is the best revenge’. You may think that inflicting pain and misery on the people you think have wronged you may feel satisfying, but I guarantee you it won’t. If you want my advice, you’ll let go of the past, drink a nice glass of claret, and read a good book. That will make you feel far better than any savage acts of vengeance. I speak from experience, you know.”

I said this hopefully, but that same experience I mentioned told me that he would not listen to these words of wisdom. The clients never do. Indeed, his brow clouded up and his eyes bulged out in anger. He looked like a man who had never drunk a glass of claret in his life.

“Damn me for a one-legged coxcomb! I did not ask for your advice, demon slave. I want you to go and rid me of those who have wronged me, and I do not wish any discussion about it!”

And that was that.

“All right, all right,” I said, with a bit of testiness (which I admit was unprofessional of me). “Have you decided upon the first recipient?”

The grin took over his face again. (Looking at the state of his teeth, I found myself thinking that if he’d spent as much time on dental hygiene as he did in wallowing in self-pity he’d have been a much happier man.) “First, seek out Mervyn the Mage, the man who first tried to teach me the great arts of Magick.” (I could hear the K that he stuck on the end of that word.) “He said I was an inept spellbender who would never become a true sorcerer. For his scorn, I would like you to go and tear him apart. I want you to peel the skin off his living body, to scoop the entrails out of his carcass as he watches in agony, to shred the very marrow of . . .”

And on and on. I’ll spare you the rest. Let’s just say Martok was very detailed. One thing I had to give him — he had a fertile imagination.

I waited patiently until he got to the end.

“ . . . until he finally succumbs due to pain and loss of blood.” He took a deep breath. “That is my first wish. Can you do this?”

“Of course,” I said. “Be right back.” Then I was gone, leaving behind a cloud of smoke (not really necessary, but it adds to the effect).

It was a good half hour before I came back. I found Martok hopping about with impatience. Or perhaps he merely needed to use the privy.

“It is done,” I said.

“Tell me all about it!” he cried eagerly, his eyes bulging again.

“Well, I did like you said. Peel, gouge, rip, slice. It got pretty messy at times, I can tell you.”

“Yes,” he chuckled. “I can imagine. Did he cry out in pain?”

“Well, of course. Do you think you could get your small intestine pulled out through your mouth and not have it hurt?”

“Ah,” he smiled dreamily. “If only I could have been there! I would have liked to see him at the end, pathetic and pleading for release from the pain. I almost wish he had not died, so that he could long remember the torment I brought him.”

“Died?” I said. “Oh, he’s not dead.”

That snapped him out of his reverie. “Not dead?” He frowned, and then grinned again. “Oh, I see! You used your powers to keep him alive through his dismemberment and beyond! Still alive, and still feeling the agony! It’s even better than I had planned!”

I could have let him go on in his happy delusion, but I am cursed with honesty. (I mean that literally; if I were ever to utter an untruth, my head would pop off and my body would dissolve into a swarm of bats.) “No, I’m afraid you misunderstand. I did tear his body apart, as you requested, and this quite naturally killed him. But then I put him together again and reinserted his soul, thus bringing him to life again.”

He frowned with his mouth and eyebrows simultaneously. I could see that he was beginning to have doubts, though he struggled to keep up hope. “So, you returned him alive to his mangled body, so he will continue to suffer? That’s not quite what I asked for, but I suppose . . .”

I could see that I would have to make things plain to Martok. “Let me make things plain,” I said. “I did carry out your wish precisely. Upon your giving me your wish, I slipped transdimensionally over to Mervyn’s abode where I subsequently performed on his body all of the little renovations you requested, which resulted in his demise. Once I had done this, fulfilling your wish, I undertook a recovery charm, which restored his anatomy to its original form, as if nothing had ever happened to him.”

There was no hiding Martok’s disappointment. “Damn me for a pox-ridden whoremonger! Why on earth did you do that? I didn’t ask for him to be restored.”

“True, but you didn’t ask for him not to be restored, so there was nothing to prevent me from doing so.”

“Do you mean to tell me,” he said heatedly, “that after all this, the only lasting consequence is that he’ll merely have the memory of being skinned and gutted?”

“Oh, dear me, no,” I said. “I’m sorry if I gave you that impression. No, upon restoring Mervyn’s soul, I removed all traces of the preceding events from his memory. As far as he’s concerned, he’s simply spent a quiet night at home alone with his books.”

Have you ever heard of someone being so angry they are unable to speak? I’d heard the expression many times, but always took it as an exaggeration until this very moment. Martok puffed and spluttered like a kettle on slow boil, but not a single understandable syllable passed through his lips for well over a minute.

When he at last gained control over himself, he said, “This has not been satisfactory. When I give you a command, I expect you to do that and nothing else. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” I said contritely.

“Yes, master,” he snapped.

“Oh, there’s no need to call me ‘master’,” I reassured him. For some reason, this only seemed to make him angrier.

“Silence! In any case, that should not count as one of my wishes, as you did not follow my commands.”

“But I did. I carried them out to the letter. I simply did some additional work on my own time, as it were. No, I’m afraid that’s one wish down, and two more to go.”

“But —” he began.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “The matter is out of my hands.”

Martok angrily picked up one of his skulls. I think he intended to throw it at me, but for once prudence overtook him, and he set it down again.

“All right, then, listen,” he said. “Let’s try something else. We’ll forget about Mervyn for now. Here’s my second wish. In the village of East Piggsley is the home of the lady Eleanor of Amberstone. Some years ago, I asked her to be my wife, and she had the temerity to laugh in my face. For that insult, she must die. I want you to go to her home and . . . kill her. That’s all. Don’t repair her body, don’t restore her soul, don’t do anything but make her heart stop permanently. Do you understand this?”

“Of course,” I replied.

He looked at me as if he doubted my word, which, I must say, I found a bit offensive. “I want you to promise me that.”

“I swear by the thirteen unpronounceable names of the Great Shadow,” I said, “that I will go to the home of the lady Eleanor and do nothing at all apart from stopping her heart.”

Martok beetled his brow and flickered his eyes back and forth as if mentally running over the words I had just said. After a moment, he appeared to be satisfied. “All right, then. Proceed.”

And I was gone again.

This time, I returned only a few minutes later.

“Well?” Martok asked, staring at me with greedy eyes.

“I apologize,” I said humbly. “I was unable to complete this assignment.”

This set him off again, but as it was clear that anger was his go-to emotion I was not in the least surprised. “How could you not complete it? I gave you my instructions! You are duty-bound to carry them out!”

“Well, remember what I said,” I replied. “I told you I must carry out your wishes to the best of my ability. However, in this case it was simply impossible to do so.”

“How impossible? You have access to all the powers of the Infernal One at your disposal!”

“That is true. However, even with all of the power in the infinity of dimensions, there are some things I still cannot do simply because they are logically impossible. I cannot, for instance, add two and two and get five. I cannot conjure up a hellbeast that is both larger than Constantinople and smaller than the sultan’s right big toe. I cannot paint your house bright green with orange stripes and at the same time make it aesthetically pleasing. And I cannot carry out the request you made to me.”

“Why not? All you had to do was kill Eleanor. Nothing else.”

“Ah, but that is, as they say, the rub. As it turned out, I could not kill Eleanor without also doing something else, which would have violated the terms of your request. Hence, I could not complete the task.”

Martok frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the Lady Eleanor had another life inside her. If I were to stop her heart, as you asked, it would not only kill her, but it would also kill that interior life, which requires her continued existence to live.”

His mouth dropped open at my words. “She’s with child?”

“No, she’s not pregnant. I didn’t mean to imply such a thing. But she does have a tapeworm inhabiting her lower intestines. It has made its home there for over a decade.”

Martok threw up his hands in disgust. “Damn me for a thieving ox-driver! I don’t care about tapeworms.”

“Be that as it may,” I said, “The fact is that I could not fulfill the terms of your wish as you set them out. Killing the Lady Eleanor would kill the tapeworm, and that latter act would most certainly fall into the category of ‘something else.’”

Millennia of experience have taught me that the cool logic of pure reason is never something that people truly want to hear, and this proved to be the case with Martok. The little magician loosed a torrent of words which I shall not repeat here as, regardless of what your own sensibilities might be, mine do not permit the repetition of gutter language.

“Well,” he said after running out of profanities, “at least this one did not count as one of my wishes.”

“I am sorry,” I said, “but I’m afraid it does.”

“What? How?” He raged. “How could it count if you didn’t carry it out?”

“Well, I hate to be a pedant,” I said, “but in fact I said in summoning me, you gained the right to ask for three wishes, which I would try to carry out to the best of my abilities. The fact that I was not able to carry out the second request does not negate the fact that it was, in fact, asked. Again, I don’t make these rules.”

Martok’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead like hungry caterpillars on a leaf. He gave me a glare which would likely have curdled the blood of any mortal being. “I think you are deliberately undermining my desires. You are trying to make them fail. But know this, o wretched servant of the infernal, that my final wish to you will come with the proviso that if you do not make it come to pass, for any reason, then you will consume yourself in endless fire, and spend the remainder of eternity in absolute mortal agony.”

“Certainly,” I said agreeably. “If that’s what you want.”

This did not seem to be the response he expected, and he spent a moment staring at me with baleful enmity (which is the worst kind of enmity).

“Very well,” he said at last. “Before I state my wish, I am requesting — no, demanding -— that you carry it to completion, no matter how many other men, women, or tapeworms it might affect. But as soon as it has been completed, you are to return here immediately without doing anything further. Is that perfectly clear?”

“As crystal,” I responded.

“Very well, then. Let me think of what my next command shall be.” He picked up a random skull and gazed at it intensely, as if expecting it to come up with some helpful suggestions. I had a few ideas of my own I could offer, such as making his hovel a bit more airy and presentable, a place where he could have friends over for tea and canasta. I could even have provided the friends for him, as I suspected he had none of his own. However, it was clear by now that he had no interest in any recommendations I might have to make, so I kept silent.

After a moment, he said, “The next target on which I shall set you is Selwyck of Greenfield, he who dares to call himself Selwyck the Sublime. He fancies himself the greatest wizard in Benovia.”

“And what has he done to incur your wrath?” I asked.

“Damn me for a flea-bitten dog-snatcher! Did you not hear me? He has made this ridiculous claim, when it is clear that no other than I am the greatest magic-maker in the realm. I tolerate no rivals.”

“Ah, I see,” I said. “You’ve never actually met him, then?”

“I know him only by reputation, which I am quite sure is massively exaggerated. What matters it whether we have met face to face or not?”

“Well, it is none of my business, I suppose,” I said, “but you might find that if you were to actually meet this fellow in person, you might take a liking to him.”

Martok huffed and puffed wordlessly for a moment. When he regained his voice he spluttered, “Too right it’s none of your business! You are to carry out my command as I give it to you, not question it.”

“Ah,” I said, “and what is your command?”

“I’m getting to it,” the magician said, and passed a hand across his sweaty brow. “Now, this Selwyck has a wife and three children, whom he loves dearly . . .”

“How sweet!” I said. “A man needs a family. Have you ever considered finding a wife and settling down? Or a husband. I don’t mean to presume anything about your romantic interests. At any rate, you might find it a more fulfilling life than one spent in revenge and black magic.”

If I had thought Martok could get no angrier than he’d already been, I would have been disabused of this notion at this point. His face turned a color of purple rarely seen outside wisteria gardens, and a large vein popped out on his forehead.

“I am not interested in a family!” he said. “I outgrew that sort of sentimental tripe the day I threw my own father down a well. The only things that are of interest to me are power, wealth, and the bitter tears of my enemies as they succumb to everlasting pain and torment.”

“Well,” I said, “I don’t necessarily agree with your goals, but I certainly can’t deny that you are earnest and sincere in your pursuit of them.”

Martok grunted, as if to say that he was not quite sure whether I was offering a compliment or not, but either way he did not particularly care. “Now,” he said, “as I was saying . . . What was I saying? You are interrupting my flow of thought with your infernal babbling.”

“Oh, I do apologize,” I said humbly. “I believe that you were talking about Selwyck’s family.”

“Ah, yes. I believe that the best way to make a man suffer is to strike first at his family.” A soft smile settled on his face as he said this; it did not become him in the least. “As I said, he has a wife and three children . . .”

“Boys or girls?” I asked.

“What?” he said. “I don’t know. Two boys and a girl I think, not that it matters. They could be two girls and a boy, three of a kind, or a troupe of goat-legged satyrs for all I care. The point is —”

“Oh, it could matter a great deal,” I said. “Most parents will tell you that boys are a completely different kettle of fish than girls. Now, of course this is gender-stereotyping, as there are obviously outliers in both sexes — and for that matter gender itself is not as binary as people seem to think (and I speak as one who is neither male nor female). But, having said that, I would suggest that on the whole boys are a rougher lot than girls. More energy and shorter attention spans.”

Martok stared at me, his mouth agape. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying that the gender balance of families is perhaps a more serious matter than you realize. Sorry, what was your wish?”

“Damn me for one-eyed skulldigger,” Martok exploded, “Would you just shut your mouth?”

“Got it,” I said. “Done in a jiffy.”

It took a moment for Martok to catch on.

“What?” he said, blinking. “No, that wasn’t my wish!”

“Sorry, too late to change it,” I said apologetically. “Wheels are in motion.”

“I was just asking you to cease prattling! That wasn’t one of my commands to you,” he said, almost pathetically. And then, more sharply: “And anyway, you’re still talking! If you’re granting that wish, shouldn’t you be quiet now?”

“What?” I said. “Oh, I see. No, the shutting up wasn’t a wish. It was phrased in the form of a question, so it doesn’t really count. Though I realize I never answered it, which was quite rude of me, for which I apologize. And I’ll answer it now: No, I’m sorry to say I will not shut up. Communication is an essential part in the carrying out of my duties, and so —”

“But if that’s not the wish you granted, then what is?”

“What you said before that.”

He looked confused. “What did I say before that?”

“I’ll play it back for you,” I said, and thrust a finger towards the ceiling in a dramatic manner. (This was completely unnecessary, but mortals do seem to appreciate a few theatrical gestures.)

From out of the empty air, Martok’s voice echoed in the walls of the chamber: “Damn me for a one-eyed skulldigger!”

Upon hearing his own words, Martok’s features began a slow but steady slide from confusion to horror. “You don’t mean to say — I will be damned?”

“Well, yes,” I tried to placate him a bit: “Though technically being a one-eyed skulldigger is not in and of itself a cardinal sin. However, I’ve met quite a few of them over the centuries, and to a man (and a woman in one case) they have all been unsavory types. So, in the spirit of your wish, I’ll be sending you down to —”

“No, no!” he said, casting aside the angry hauteur that he’d worn like a second skin all this time and replacing it with pathetic, abject terror. “Don’t send me down there! I’ll do anything!”

“Yes, I know,” I said. “That’s why you’re going.”

Martok fell to his knees. Tears flowed in streams down his craggy cheeks. I could not help but feel moved, not that it made a difference. “I’ll give you anything!” he begged. “I have ancient tomes with long-forgotten lore! I have precious gems worth thousands of ducats!”

“There’s nothing I can do,” I said, not unkindly.

“Please! I’ll be a good person from now on! I’ll give up revenge and necromancy and all that lot! Just spare me!”

“It’s not that I’m unsympathetic,” I said. “The problem is that if I don’t carry out this wish, I’ll be consumed with endless fire for the rest of my days, as you so vehemently insisted, and that’s something I’d just rather not have to deal with.”

“I take it back!” he screeched. “Just let me —”

By this point there seemed no point in prolonging the agony, so after an apologetic shrug, I raised an arm on high and uttered a few words in the First Tongue.

There was a burst of light, followed by darkness. There was a burst of sound, followed by silence. There was a burst of stench, and this was followed by more stench, as the room was not well-ventilated. And then I was alone in the room, save for the disembodied skulls.

I gave myself a performance review, and decided that I had fulfilled my duties as required. I had performed Martok’s final wish without regard to any other consequences, as he had requested. Technically, I could not obey his command to return to his chambers, as I had not left them, but that struck me as hairsplitting, and I considered myself having followed the spirit of the request, if not the letter.

Once again speaking in the First Tongue, I said: “I, nameless spirit of the 14th Dominion, do declare that I have fulfilled my duties to the supplicant Martok the Magnificent.” Not strictly speaking necessary, but it’s always good to signify when the job is done. It makes the paperwork easier.

I opened up a hole in the outer dimension and slipped back into the Seventh Sky, wrapping myself up in the clouds again. I was grateful that the interruption was over, but at the same time I felt a sense of contentment at a job well done. I had fulfilled my duties as required and made the mortal world a better place at the same time.

And, really, is there anything more satisfying than that?

 

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Host Commentary

…aaaaand welcome back. That was “THE THIRD WISH” by Peter M Floyd, and it was his first time at Escape Artists, but you can find more linked from his website at

Careful what you wish for is a well-trodden truism—not only in the sense of watching your words, of course, as Martok the Magnificent failed to do here, but also in the sense that people are just… terrible at knowing what they need. I’m not sure I can think of a single time in my life that what I thought I wanted to cure my woes actually turned out to help at all, until something or someone unexpected came along and gave me what I needed.

Of course, the constant barrage of marketing trying to convince us to buy solutions doesn’t help, especially when that same barrage is usually what’s convinced us there’s even a problem in the first place. Particularly as someone prone to dopamine-seeking online shopping and imagining all the ways that this new thing will suddenly make my life better, or easier, or happier… only to be, of course, disappointed every time, if I even remember it a week later.

This even, distressingly, has extended to ADHD meds for me. I’m still in titration and getting settled on a dose, but after hearing so many stories of people describing the incredible, life-changing calm and focus it gave them after the first day, how they suddenly understood how everyone else just got on with life instead of struggling as they always had, it’s been… okay? It’s been not as good as black coffee, frankly, though I’ll admit that the 8th cup of the day started to be a struggle to choke down, and I suspect my emotional regulation is a little better on the proper stuff rather than when I was on enough caffeine to make a horse fly.

Still. I am running out of excuses and it is becoming undeniable that, alas, there are no magic answers out there I can wish for, but that the true solution to all that ails me was, in fact, inside me all along. In fact, given what ails me, it could probably never have been anywhere else. Which is, I am forced to admit, ultimately good news, that it is in my power entirely; but can’t I be a little childishly peeved that it won’t be so easy? No? Fair enough. Better than being damned for a one-eyed skulldigger, I suppose.