Get a grip, I told myself, it’s just a chair. I sat down, pointedly ignoring the other, even less rational voice in my head, gibbering for me to make a break for it.
The chair wasn’t particularly comfortable, but I settled in as best I could. The old man released his hands, crossed his arms in front of him, and looked down at me (which was quite a feat, since even seated I was eye level with him) simply staring, unblinking at me, as if sizing me up. The back of my neck broke out in a sweat as I anxiously licked my lips.
After what felt like a very long time the old man looked away from me, sighed slightly and said, “So?”
I couldn’t help but be impressed by how much context he could put in one small word. I licked my lips again and began, “My name is…”
The old man interrupted me with a quick gesture and a single forceful shake of his head. “No names,” he said.
“What?” I asked, confused.
“No names,” he repeated.
“Um, ok,” I said, confused, “but I’m not really all that concerned about anonymity.”
His face softened slightly and a faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, it’s not that,” he said. “Names have power.”
I blinked at him. “Power? You mean like, magic? Like in fairy tales?”
His smile spread to the rest of his mouth and I realized that he was amused by me. “Believe what you will,” he said with a shrug, “but at your own peril.”
“So what, if I tell you my name you can steal my soul or something? Control my mind? Turn me into a frog?”
Whipkey seemed unruffled by my skepticism. “Probably not,” he replied, “but I could learn things of you. Perhaps things you wish no one to know.”
Right. I got to my feet. “Mr. Whipkey, thank you for your time, but perhaps this was a bad idea.”
The man’s smile disappeared and the sternness returned to his voice. “You came here for help, did you not?”
“Yes, but…”
“Does either my knowledge of your name or your acceptance of my beliefs have any importance, if I can indeed lend you aid?”
I paused. This whole affair had pretty much been a last ditch act of desperation, what did it matter if the man was a little crazy? I didn’t think he could overpower me, so it wasn’t like I was in physical peril. If he could help, there was no reason not to indulge his delusion.
“Okay,” I said, sitting back down, “I guess you can call me…Smith.”
Whipkey smiled again and seemed to relax once more. “Very well, Mr. Smith, how can I help you today?”
“Well, I’m a writer, a novelist actually.” I ran my hand nervously across my mouth; why did I feel like a schoolboy sent to the principal’s office for peeking into the girl’s bathroom?
“Ah,” he said sagely, “so it is books that you are interested in.”
I couldn’t suppress a rueful grin. “Just one book actually: the one I can’t seem to write.” I took a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “You see, I have writer’s block.” I watched him intently, waiting for him to laugh at me, scold me, or maybe just throw me out of his store for wasting his time.
He did none of that. He simply nodded slightly, his thick glasses flashing in the light from the lamp and said, “Go on.”
Emboldened by this lack of ridicule I continued. “Well, like I said, I’m a writer, have been for years, but lately I can’t seem to get anything out. When I started on my latest book it began great, but a little way into it I just, I don’t know, lost it. There was no more spark, no passion. I no longer cared about the characters and the plot seemed to implode. So I reluctantly shelved it and began another. The same thing: good start and then: kaput!”
Looking up at the little shopkeeper, he met my gaze and waved his hand in a gesture of mild impatience. “The third attempt didn’t even get off the ground, so I went back to basics: character drafts, outlines, none of it helped. I even pulled out my old ‘Ideas’ notebook, but nothing worked. It’s as if any talent I ever had has simply left me. I’ve been blocked before, but nothing like this. Now I can’t even put together a story in my head. My imagination has just…atrophied!”
I hung my head in frustration, absently rubbing at my pant leg. “I’ve already missed two deadlines and my editor tells me that if I don’t produce something by the end of the month I will be in breach of contract. I’ll have to return my advance and I don’t know what it will mean for my future with this publisher. This is my career, my livelihood.”
I grimaced. “But that’s not what really bothers me. Dreaming up stories, it’s something I’ve always done. It seems I’ve always wanted to be writer, to share with the world the crazy ideas filling my head. Without that I feel like I’ve lost a part of myself.” I looked up at the old man, but his expression was unreadable. “So I was talking to St-, I mean, a friend of mine, venting really, and he told me that you had helped him with a, um, similar problem.”
Sighing, I spread my hands. “So here I am, desperate and out of options. Can you help me or not?”
Whipkey continued to stare unspeaking at me, long enough for my neck to break out in sweat again. At last he unfolded his arms and asked, “What did your friend tell you of me?”
“Nothing really, he said that I would have to check you out for myself. I suppose you’re a hypnotist or something?”
He let out a small laugh and said, “Something like that.”
“Are you going to swing a pocket-watch in front of me, or have me stare into a candle flame?”
“No,” he said simply and turned away, walking over to the long red curtain. Reaching behind one side the little man extracted a faded golden rope, and with a quick pull, parted the curtain, revealing the mystery behind.
At first I thought the wall was covered with a mirrored surface, like a dance studio or a gym, because it seemed that the entire wall reflected back the dimly lit room. But then I noticed an ornate metal frame and I realized that it was in fact one massive mirror, well over seven feet tall. The frame was made of what I assumed was silver, tarnished with age and with an intricate pattern worked into its surface. The swirls and ridges of the frame seemed to flow and writhe as I examined it, as if churning water surrounded the mirror.
The glass of the mirror appeared to be quite old as well, with tiny black specks and barely visible lines veining throughout its surface. There were also minute imperfections in the glass, causing some minor distortions of the reflection, not enough to distract, but enough that made me certain this was no mass produced piece from a home improvement store. This was a genuine antique. The thing had to be worth a fortune!
“The mirror is old, very valuable,” Whipkey said, echoing my thoughts. “But its true worth is in what it may reveal.”
“Mirror, mirror on the wall…” I said, trying to settle the sudden uneasiness the reflection stirred in me.
“Do not mock what you cannot comprehend!” the other man said, his voice hard. “If you want my help, then do as you are told and keep your childish prattle to yourself!”
Stunned by the intensity of his words and I nodded my head in acquiescence.
“Very well, keep your eyes on the mirror and we will see what will be seen.”
I did as he said and stared into the reflection. Whipkey turned down the wick of the lamp, leaving the glowing embers of the fire as the only source of light. I could scarcely make out more than my shape in the dark reflection, but heard him walk behind me, coming to stand just behind and to the left of the chair.
“Um, I really can’t see anything, now,” I said timidly, not wanting another chastisement.
“Patience,” came his quiet reply from behind me.
I squirmed nervously in the chair and stared at my barely visible reflection. I studied the vague outline of the chair, the shadow of my seated form, and the soft flicker of orange shed by the cinders off to my right.
Or was it my left?
I suddenly had a peculiar vertigo-like feeling; was I real or was I t
he reflection? My head swam as the room become far too warm. I wanted to look away, to ask for some water, to run screaming from this place! But instead, just sat there idle, transfixed by the ancient mirror.
Somewhere in myself I wondered if this was how Alice felt before falling into Looking-Glass Land.
As I stared at my image (or it stared at me) the darkness seemed to lessen and I began to see myself more clearly. My eyes seemed to be adjusting to the dim light, but the quickly fading part of myself that still clung to reason recognized it was only my own reflection that seemed to brighten. The rest of the room reflected in the mirror remained obscured; I still could not make out the form of Mr. Whipkey and even the chair beneath me persisted in shadow.
Meanwhile, my body became more and more defined. It was as if I had begun to emit a kind of phosphorescence, yet there was no actual increase of illumination. Even so, if a spotlight had suddenly come on above me I would not have been able to see myself any clearer. Somehow I could simply see in the dark, or at least, see myself.
“Yes. Good,” said Mr. Whipkey from somewhere behind me. “You are doing well, continue watching.”
Not that I had any choice. I didn’t seem to have any control over my body. I couldn’t blink; I could barely remember the sensation of blinking. Or perhaps I was the reflection and could only blink when the other me did.
As I watched myself (and myself watched me) grow more defined the rest of the room seemed to darken even more. Finally all that