The Three Terrors

 Long ago, in a time so forgotten that now only the stars themselves remember, there lived a great wizard. This wizard, although he was great, was foolish, and tampered with things that would have been better left alone.

      One day, while he was watering his garden, the wizard looked up and found himself face-to-face with a Galeria, one of the darkest creatures known to the magical world.

       The wizard swallowed his fear, took a step back, and said as calmly as he could manage, “How can I help you?”

       “I was told you were the most accomplished wizard around. Is that true?”

      “To the best of my knowledge, yes.”

      “Then I suppose you’ll have no trouble solving my problem.”

      “If you pay a decent price, I’m sure I’ll be able to help you.”

      “Give me a purpose.”

      “What?”

      “I said give me a purpose.”

           “What do you mean?’”

           The Galeria sighed, “I would not expect you to understand, wizard; you’ve lived a mere three hundred years, and will only live a few more. I, on the other hand, have lived for over a thousand centuries, and have no chance of dying any time soon. Throughout this life, I have had only one purpose: to exist. Such a life gets tiring after you’ve been doing it for as long as I have.”

           “I was under the impression that your kind found joy and amusement in destroying things.” Said the wizard icily. He leapt back as the Galeria unsheathed her talons and snarled, spitting acid an inch from the wizard’s face.

           “You fool! You arrogant fool! We Galeria are forced to commit such deeds. Over the centuries we have trained ourselves to ignore the cries of pain we inflict. If we did not, insanity would derail us all. There is no way on earth you can free me from my curse, the curse that haunts all Galeria, but you can give me a way to enjoy life. As long as the result of my actions is pain or damage, it doesn’t matter what I do.”

           The wizard stood thoughtfully for a moment, trying to think of a way to bend the current situation to his needs. “Well…” He said slowly, “I believe I might have a way. Of course, there’d be a price. And I don’t believe there’s any way to undo it.”

           “We’ll decide on price afterward. What’s your proposition?”

           “Forevermore, if you wish, you will hear the cries of an artist in need of inspiration. You will give it to him. When-”

           “How do I give them inspiration?”

           “When the spell is complete, it will come naturally to you. Now, as I was saying, when he has finished his piece of art, it will be so incredible that the very clouds will shake with its magnificence.”

           “How does this fit the requirements of my curse and how do I gain from it, wizard?”

           “Patience, Galeria. You will see. Now, when the artist witnesses and experiences what he has created, he will become so entranced by his apparent skill, that he will lose himself in his own believed brilliance. Pride in such quantities never fails to utterly destroy a man.”

           “And what, I ask again, do I get out of it?”

           “You are privileged to view a masterpiece which you helped create, while not having to wait around to see the negative side-effects.”

           “That’s not enough.”

           “Not enough? Well then…I suppose we could make a game out of it. To earn your inspiration, the artist must survive a challenge, or three, which do you prefer?”

           “One challenge will suffice.”

           “Very well, the artist must survive the challenge, and only then will he receive his award. You get the fun of the game, and the magnificence of the art, your curse is satisfied by the destruction of the artist’s sanity, or the death of the artist if he fails to survive the challenge. Is it a deal?”

           “What’s the price?”

           “Seven vials of Galerian poison, as I’m running extremely low at the moment, and a good word for me everywhere you go. That’ll be very good for business.”

           The Galeria reached out a talon and shook the wizard’s hand. The wizard uttered a few words under his breath, and a moment later, the Galeria transformed from a hideous monster into a magnificent beast. Her torso was that of an ordinary human, but the rest of her body was scarcely visible. It shimmered, elusive, like a rainbow in a puddle, only there if looked at from the right angle. The Galeria shrieked, “What have you done? I am…I am…hideous!”

      “I needed to make you impressive, but approachable. No artist would dare approach a monster for help, but you…you are the epitome of inspiration. Now, good-bye. We both got what we wanted, which is, perhaps, a first between a wizard and a Galeria.” With a self-satisfied smirk, the wizard disappeared in a cloud of flower petals.

Uncountable years later, in a small cottage on the outskirts of a quiet town, a man named Edgar Allan Poe sat in his armchair by the fire, trying to bully his mind into writing. After another few hours of fruitless labor, Edgar set aside his writing and unfolded himself stiffly from his chair. He sighed and walked tiredly over to the fire, letting his eyes unfocus in the smoky haze of the last dying embers.

He turned his face away from the hearth and focused on the papers lying on the table beside the armchair. What would I give, he thought, to be rid of writer’s block forever? 

It was in this silent, foolish plea that the Galeria found him.

Edgar turned to go upstairs, but he had barely reached the bottom step when the air in front of him exploded in a blinding flash. After a moment, the light faded, and when his eyes adjusted, Edgar saw, for the first time in his life, a creature with powers beyond his imagining.

For the first time in his life, he touched magic.

“You called, human?” Asked the creature casually.

Edgar could only stare, speechless.

“I asked if you called, human,” said the creature more impatiently.

“Explain.” Edgar croaked.

The creature sighed, “Very well. My story began long before humans maligned the earth with their presence. I should start by telling you I have no name. I am a Galeria, the last one remaining on this earth, preserved only because of the form to which a wizard confined me. He said it would make me play my part better; all it’s done, from what I can tell, is draw out this accursed state.”

The creature, or Galeria, whatever that could be, paused to scowl and cross its arms before continuing. “The wizard granted me the gift of inspiration, and I am both doomed and blessed to travel the world, giving it to whomever survives my test. Will you accept this challenge?”

“Why should I risk my life for inspiration I am already capable of procuring by myself?”

The creature laughed, “How little you know of my power! If you choose to accept my help, you will, beyond any doubt, create a masterpiece that will shine forevermore as a beacon towards which all other artists aspire. Dare you turn down such an offer?”

Edgar hesitated. He thought of his family. He thought of his slowly sickening wife, Virginia. She was visiting her cousins by the sea in hope that the fresh, ocean air would do her some good. What would she think of him, if he accepted this offer? Would she call it honorable, to create something that could create such joy, or would she call it dishonesty, for leaning on the help of this otherworldly creature, claiming authorship of that which was not his? He sighed. He knew there was little chance of him writing something soon, and if Virginia’s health continued to deteriorate, he would need more money than he had to pay for help, so he took a deep breath, looked the Galeria straight in the face and said, “I accept. What is this challenge?”

“It’s quite simple. I will transport you there presently.”

“Isn’t it possible to take the test here?”

“You will be here, but here will be different, for the time being.” As the Galeria said it, Edgar felt his knees buckle involuntarily, and he crashed face-first to the carpet.

When he scrambled to his feet again, a knot of dread forming in his already tense stomach, Edgar saw that his living room had been transformed. It was vaguely recognizable as the house he loved, but only under close inspection. Vines hung from the mantelpiece, and the space between the armchair and the hearth had tripled in size.

The Galeria had disappeared, and instead, a lion sat calmly before the hearth, casually licking its front paw.

“What is my task, O Lion?” Asked Edgar in the most confident voice he could manage.

The lion stopped licking his paw and looked up at Edgar with deep, knowing, amber eyes. “Three fears will appear before you. As you face each of them, find some way to mock their terror. If you are successful, you will receive your award. Fail to do so, and you will be destroyed.”

Edgar nodded, too nervous to speak. Without a word, the lion faded, and a moment later, the room was plunged into darkness.

Edgar felt a scream escape his mouth, but the darkness seemed to devour it before it left him. He listened, every muscle in his body taught and trembling. A rustle issued from somewhere on Edgar’s right. He jumped. A thump sounded from his left. He sank to the floor, his eyes straining vainly into nothing, his hands groping fearfully in the air around him, his ears straining for what he feared to hear.

But I’m not afraid of the dark, Edgar thought, perplexed. 

A soft, ominous chuckle echoed close behind him. Edgar spun around. There was nothing but the endless darkness. 

I am nothing…I have no power. Edgar turned slowly in a circle, searching blindly for something to cling to. But there was nothing.

Of course, he thought, I am only scared of not knowing. 

Taking a deep breath—feeling slightly foolish—Edgar began to sing to the darkness:

Shadows may lurk,

And demons may spy,

But the unknown will never

Draw from me a cry.

Your silence is wimpish,

Your dark simply weak;

You know not the meaning

Of true ‘fear technique’

The moment he finished his song, his fear vanished, and the room lightened. Except that it didn’t lighten on Edgar’s living room. It lightened on a small graveyard. Edgar found himself standing before an overgrown, weather-beaten tombstone bearing, in messy, careless writing, his own name. There was no date, no mention of accomplishments, and no sign that any visitors had come to honor this small memorial.

As he stared at his tombstone, Edgar felt a drop of cold dread freeze his stomach. Is this the future? He thought. Is this truly my fate?

He felt afraid, but he couldn’t understand why. He was afraid of death, yes, but no more than anyone else. Besides, he was still young, still had his health. Death seemed too far off to be afraid of.

But after playing the scene over and over in his head, Edgar understood. Here was a fear he hadn’t even known he had: of dying before he could make a mark on the world, dying before he had any accomplishments to his name.

Well, here goes, he thought, and began to sing,

When I fall and leave this Earth,

When I pass beyond Death’s veil,

I won’t look back to see

What remains of my life’s tale

Forgotten or remembered,

It seems all but the same,

I love my life too much

To care for deathless fame

           When he finished singing, the scene changed again. This time he stood in the doorway of the family’s kitchen. Edgar looked cautiously around the room, and when he glanced down at the floor, his heart nearly stopped. Lying on the rough, wooden boards was Virginia. A dead Virginia.

Edgar fell to his knees and screamed. A wild roaring filled his ears, though whether it came from the room or from his own imagination he couldn’t tell.

You must mock it, Edgar, he told himself, convince it that you are not afraid and it will go away. 

But how on earth could he mock this in song? How could he think about anything but the figure on the floor in front of him, his beloved Virginia, his heart, his mind, his life? He couldn’t. It was simply beyond him.

So honor her, he thought. His heart agreed with this, and with a great effort, he managed to sing in a wretched, croaking voice:

My dearest one, Virginia,

My heart is torn in two,

When I see you moored,

Beyond death’s door,

In a land where I can’t reach you

My dearest one, Virginia,

My love, my life, my heart,

Please know that I

Cannot abide

To be, from you, apart

As the last rasping note faded from his lips, Edgar bowed his head in defeat. He could not even try to mock this pain, this terror that gripped him so torturously, so he said a silent farewell to the one dearest to him and awaited his destruction.

The kitchen faded, and Edgar found himself kneeling in his own living room, the Galeria floating before him.

“Are you going to kill me?” The words scraped coarsely on his battered throat.

           The Galeria pursed its lips. “No.”

Edgar’s brain processed this sluggishly. “…Really?”

           “Hmmm. No. You did not fail. The instructions were to survive the challenge, which you did—most people do not, mind you. They kill themselves or go insane. Congratulations. Now, if you choose to accept it, I will grant you inspiration beyond your imagining.”

           Edgar looked thoughtfully at the Galeria. He sighed and shook his head, “No.”

           “Excuse me?”

           “No thank you. I do not desire a free pass into the pages of a textbook or the wall of a museum. Whatever I accomplish, if I accomplish anything, will be done by my own hand. Virginia would not have it any other way. I will find my own way into history.”

           A spasm passed through the Galeria at his words, but it recovered quickly. It said quietly, “There was once a curse placed upon all of my race: every deed done must cause damage. You came out of your ordeal alive, and rejected my offer, which protects you from the dangers of my inspiration. No damage, and perhaps some good, was done…very soon my curse will claim its price for my failure. Farewell, Edgar Allan Poe, I can only thank you for releasing me from this accursed state of being.”

They gazed at each other, the demon and the author, waiting.

It came—softly, with a muted fizz, like air escaping from a bottle. The Galeria dissolved, and in the instant before she disappeared entirely, Edgar thought he saw a trace of relief on her features.

           Edgar stood alone in the sitting room. For a few moments, he gazed at the spot where the Galeria had floated. Then he crossed the room, sat down in his armchair, took out his notebook, and began to write.