Clea looked up from the desk littered with scrolls. She smiled at Stephen Strange and lifted her cheek for a kiss, but her eyes studied him carefully.
“What is it, Stephen?” she asked softly. The scrolls rolled back noisily as her hands left them. Incense flowered the air of the paneled room as Dr. Strange walked to a high-backed chair and sat down. The tips of his fingers touched the side of his face and he stared into the fireplace almost sightlessly.
Clea almost gave up expecting an answer and was about to return to her study of the scrolls of Amarkand when Strange spoke.
“Something is going to happen.”
Clea searched his face for a clue, but found none. He seemed thoughtful, so she did not intrude. Instead, she leaned a shapely hip against the dark oak desk and fingered the ornate medallion hung between her full breasts. The crimson robe she wore parted and a leg of great beauty and shapeliness protruded. She did not intend to distract Stephen Strange with any display of sex, and indeed, knew that no such exhibition—whether accidental or deliberate—would interfere with his thinking when he was in this mood. Stephen Strange was a man all right, with a man’s desires and feelings, but there were times when he was just above such things as physical pleasure.
“I have felt . . . something . . . for a fortnight,” he said. Clea nodded in agreement. That much had been obvious. But what?
“An old adversary . . . I feel it, yet I do not know which one.” In Clea’s mind there were a host of possibilities, each more deadly and powerful than the last.
“An old adversary?” she asked.
Stephen Strange looked up at his lovely companion. Her stark white hair framed a lovely and eternally young face. Her figure was superb and even the loose crimson folds of the casual robe could not conceal its lushness. But he saw her more as a woman personified, a female perfected, than as a sexual object at that moment. His face was creased with concern and thought.
“I feel . . . that it is someone from years ago. I don’t know why. A feeling.”
“Could it be . . . Dormammu?”
Strange shook his head. “No, your uncle, the dread Dormammu, is sealed in his dimension. Nor is it the Demon. Zota. Baron Mordo . . .”
Strange’s voice trailed off into a whisper. Baron Mordo. There was an ancient enemy all right. The memory of Mordo and his early conflicts came back to Stephen Strange, and the memory of the man that Strange had once been came with it.
It was not a memory that brought pleasure to Stephen Strange, but he forced himself to relive it. Perhaps in the memory of those times he might find a clue to the present troubles.
Dr. Stephen Strange had been a surgeon then, a brilliant and renowned surgeon, acclaimed and acknowledged as a medical man. But as a man, as a person, he was almost universally despised. Even those who acknowledged his brilliance could not stand him. He was arrogant, ruthless, cold, haughty, proud, and greedy. His fees rose as his fame rose, the arrogance feeding on the fame.
“The operation was a success, Doctor,” Dr. Ziegler had said to him after a surgical procedure that was later written up in all the medical journals. “Your patient wants to thank you.”
“I can’t be bothered,” Strange had said, pulling off his surgical gown and reaching for his cigarettes. “Just be sure he pays his bill.” He stuck an imported cigarette in his mouth and walked out, leaving Dr. Ziegler behind with a slowly mounting fury.
“To him, the problems of others mean less than nothing,” Ziegler muttered angrily.
Outside the OR was a group of doctors from an upstate research facility. “Doctor Strange, I’m Doctor Siegel, these are Doctors Patten, Mayer and Christensen—”
“Yes, yes, what is it?”
“Doctor Strange, we need your help on our new research project—”
Strange turned away with a disdainful expression. “Sorry, I am not interested in charity work.”
“But with your skill, your knowledge,” pleaded Dr. Siegel, “we might be able to find a cure for—” Strange walked toward the elevators, putting on his hat. “Wait! Come back!”
“When you are willing to pay me for my talent,” he said coldly, “I will listen. Not until then. Good day!”
Strange remembered the feeling of smug satisfaction he felt going down in the elevator. They’d find someone willing to donate enough money to pay for his services, if they wanted him badly enough. Or they’d cut costs elsewhere. It didn’t matter, as long as he received his fees and a good support in proper equipment and personnel. Good people cost money, whether they were doctors, plumbers, space scientists, or lawyers. He remembered getting into his car—a sleek new model, with special modifications, real leather upholstery and four hundred horses under the hood.
He didn’t remember much of the drive out of town—only the rain-slick street . . . the sudden corner . . . the explosive sound of the blown tire . . . the tree . . . the rending shriek of metal . . . and blackness.
He’d been lucky, they said, lucky to live. Only minor bruises and unimportant cuts—except for the hands. His hands had been badly smashed. It took thousands upon thousands of his dollars to bring in the best surgeons to repair the bones; cosmetic surgeons to repair the skin; therapists to aid him in regaining his skill.
Then there had been the visit to Dr. Noto, the eminent orthopedic surgeon. The plump, bald-headed man had studied the X rays in silence, which only irritated Strange. He knew the doctor had spent a long time on the X rays already and this was just window dressing.
“I don’t know how to tell you this . . .” Dr. Noto began.
“Speak up, man!” Strange snapped. “I can take it. What do the X rays show?”
The orthopedic surgeon spoke slowly, reluctantly. “Stephen, you’ve had a very bad accident. Although your hands seem to be all right, the nerves have been severely damaged.”
Strange stared at his hands. Nerve tissue did not repair itself very well; once severed, nerves did little to rebuild their electrical connections. Only very minor repairs were ever done and there were no sufficiently good surgical techniques developed to assist in the healing.
“You . . . you mean . . . ?” Stephen Strange’s carefully controlled exterior was marred by an expression of stunned amazement and horrified realization. He had been having a little trouble, but he accounted for that by assuming he was not yet fully healed.
“Yes,” Dr. Noto said. “You’ll never be able to perform an operation again.” They both knew the tremendous skill required to be a surgeon, and to be a great surgeon required even more. Men who considered themselves skilled with their hands—carpenters, pilots, dentists—were clumsy compared to the subtle and almost microscopic motions of a skilled surgeon.
Stephen Strange refused to believe. “No!” he said. He backed away. “No! I don’t believe you! You’re lying! You must be lying!” He held out his hands. “They’re well, I tell you.” But Noto had just shaken his head sadly.
Others tried to help him, but he was still too arrogant, too vain, and too bitter to take help of any kind. His self-pity threatened to swallow him whole.
“Even though you can’t operate, you can work as my consultant,” Dr. Ziegler had said. “As my assistant.”
“Stephen Strange assists nobody!” he had replied in a nasty voice.
He went into seclusion, spending days brooding, letting bitterness fill his soul. He had no friends, no lovers, no family, none who really cared for him—only those who depended upon him. He continued his physical therapy with an obsession that took all his time.
“I must be the best . . . the greatest! Or else—nothing!” He ground his teeth in anger and frustration. “I’ll never consent to work for anyone else!”
He lost track of time. He listlessly stopped doing his physical therapy. His money ran out. He moved from his palatial home to an apartment, then to a single room. He neglected his appearance, grew unshaven and shaggy. He stared for hours at his hands, refought battles in his mind, relived triumphs, and felt very sorry for himself.
He became little more than a human derelict, wandering the city aimlessly. He felt contemptuous for those around him, just as he always had, only now those around him were bums. These vagrants were, in his mind, stupid and witless. He and he alone had suffered the unendurable tragedy. It had been Fate herself who had singled him out. The others had just been stupid and careless and deserved their miserable condition.
One day, slouched against a scabby brick wall near the docks, drifting into a favorite dream—miraculous recovery, instant recognition, fame, fortune, the tribute of lesser beings—words penetrated his fogged brain.
“Yeah, hey, I heard of the Ancient One, also. They say he can cure anything, by some magic power, I heard.”
Strange looked up. A couple of seamen were walking along the street. The one with the heavy seabag over his shoulder said, “If you ask me, he’s just a legend.” The argument began, fading off as they walked on toward the seedy delights of the waterfront bars.
But the words clicked something in Stephen Strange’s mind. The Ancient One. Many times in the past he had heard that name mentioned, mostly in low whispers; too many times for there not to be some sort of truth to it all. Was there truth to this . . . this modern legend? History tells us there have been men with certain unusual powers, he thought. What if this Ancient One is such a man?
It took the last of his money and he spent weeks traveling to the Orient on the cheapest transportation. In India, with his money gone, he had hitchhiked the last kilometers, then walked up the mountain, staggering into the quiet of the templelike building. It reeked of time and incense. His months of searching were over. He knew it. Something told him.
Within the domed temple there was a thronelike chair with an Oriental sitting cross-legged upon it, wearing a purple robe and a strange golden headdress.
“You! Old man!” Strange’s voice cut through the silence of the temple like a dropped pan. “Are you the one I seek? Are you called ‘the Ancient One’?”
The head rose and the calm eyes looked at him. The man was old, very, very old. “I am the Ancient One,” he said.
Strange staggered closer. He was close to collapse, headachy from hunger, dry from thirst, and desperate from longing. “Then you’re the one with the magic healing power!” He held out his hands and stumbled closer, unshaven, smelly, and shabby. “I need you! You have to help me!”
“Be patient, man of the Western world.”
Strange made a sound and came toward the old man. “I heal none save those who deserve it,” the old man said, his voice creaky and weak. “The power of my magic must never be wasted on the undeserving! First you must prove you are worthy!”
Anger suffused Stange’s mind. He had come so far. It was the end of the trail for him. His string was played out. It was all or nothing. “You can’t refuse me!” he said, starting toward the old Oriental with his hands spread into claws. “I won’t let you! I’ve traveled too far . . . waited too long!”
“Stop!” the Ancient One said, gesturing with his long-nailed hand. For a microsecond, it seemed as if his hand glowed with light. Stephen Strange gasped in surprise.
“Wha—!” He was raised off the ground. His worn boots were two feet from the smooth stones of the temple floor. He gaped down in complete surprise.
“I will permit no act of violence here!” the old man said with authority. “None may lift a hand against the Ancient One!”
Strange’s desperate writhing to get free of the invisible hand that grasped him was futile. He’s holding me motionless above the ground, he thought with wonder. With just a gesture! It’s uncanny!
“And now,” the Oriental sage said, “I shall peer into your brain . . . into your memory . . . and learn the truth about you!”
Like papers fluttering past in a strong wind, Stephen Strange saw his entire life. Earliest memory. Childhood. School. Early hurts, early triumphs. The growing desire to become a doctor. The feeling of superiority, the growing sureness that he had been selected for a very special fate. Early manhood. Medical school. The first time he had put scalpel to living flesh. The antiseptic atmosphere of the hundred operating rooms in which he had created his legend. The arrogance, the haughty egotism. The accident. His hands. The plunge into despair and self-pity. The trip. Now.
“You sought me for my healing power,” the old man said, making a gesture that lowered Strange to the floor. “But I cannot help you, for your motives are still selfish!”
The anger began to grow again within Strange, but before he spoke, the Ancient One continued. “And yet . . . and yet, I seem to see a spark within you . . . a spark of decency . . . of goodness . . . which I might be able to fan into a flame.”
Strange gritted his teeth. He was not interested in decency or goodness, only in recovering the skill and power of his hands, for without their undeniable ability he was nothing—less than nothing. A godling fallen from Olympus.
“If you will stay here . . . study with me,” the old man said in his reedy voice, “perhaps you will find within yourself the cure you seek.”
Disgust rose in Stephen Strange. “I should have known.” he sneered. “It was all a waste of time! You’re nothing but an old fraud!” He turned away, determined to leave. “Your little parlor tricks don’t impress me! I’m leaving.” He stopped as he caught a glimpse out the window.
The landscape was covered with snow as far as he could see. There had been no snow at all when he had staggered into the mountainside temple. Cold, yes. but hardly snowdrifts. “Where did that snow come from?” he exclaimed. “It wasn’t there before!” He pressed close to the cold window, looking down the mountain. “I could never make it down through the pass now!”
“No,” the Ancient One said softly. “You will have to remain until it thaws.”
Strange turned suspiciously from the window. “That snow isn’t your doing, is it?” The moment he said it, he felt foolish. “Aw, what am I saying? Pretty soon, I’ll convince myself you do have magic powers!”
The old man permitted himself a faint smile. “Naturally, man of the Western world, you must not allow yourself to believe in magic! It would be unseemly.”
Strange made a face and looked again out of the window. The drifts were even higher. These Himalayas must be pretty weird, he thought. You could get killed out there. Good thing he had gotten to the temple—or whatever it was—before the storm hit.
He heard a sound and turned to see a husky man about his own age or slightly older come into the room. He was thickset, with a mane of black hair, but going bald above the temples. He wore an Oriental-style thin mustache and goatee, and a plain, dark-green Chinese robe. His dark eyes, under thick brows, glared with unconcealed hostility at the unshaven and unsavory-looking stranger.
“And now,” the Ancient One said, “inasmuch as you must remain here until the snow thaws, my pupil, Mordo, will show you to your chamber.”
Stephen Strange gave an involuntary shiver. Mordo! The very name was frightening, almost theatrically so. But he smiled inwardly, for his own name had caused his schoolmates and fellow medical students a lot of not-so-innocent fun. Yet this Mordo was a creepy-looking character.
Strange was assigned a room—bare but for a cot and a stool—as tidy and as pleasing as a monk’s cell. He wandered the temple at will, ate sparse meals of rice and soup, and was totally and completely bored. The days became weeks. He explored the place out of boredom. There were many rooms filled with ancient thick books, fragile scrolls, pots and jars—all sealed—and hundreds of talismans, amulets, chains, and symbols carved in stone and cast in metal.
Every day Strange saw Mordo studying, sitting in the Oriental lotus position—one Strange found foreign to his Western ways—but he paid little or no attention to Strange. The servants were wraiths that came and went and spoke no English. There was no one to talk to and nothing to read. The Ancient One spent days sitting motionless, eyes closed, taking no nourishment. He could die and no one would know until he started to smell, Strange thought.
He saw Mordo with a huge scroll unrolled before him. It was covered with marks meaningless to Stephen Strange. Looks like a typical doctor’s prescription, he thought with wry humor. But all that Mordo does is study those meaningless scrolls and recite his empty dirges in that boring monotone of his. What a waste of time! I never should have come here in the first place!
Strange wandered through the temple, hands deep in his pockets, glancing from time to time out the frosted windows, hoping for an early thaw. He turned a corner in the stone corridor and found he was approaching the room where the Ancient One sat on his thronelike chair.
I’ll ask the old man if he knows how long it takes the snow to melt around here, he thought to himself. He turned into the archway to the Ancient One’s room and stopped suddenly.
The Ancient One sat as before, unmoving, his head slightly bowed in meditation. Around him, in writhing tendrils of faint green, were transparent vapors. Even as Strange watched, the vapors thickened, almost obscuring the old man. Strange saw the old man’s eyes pop open and heard his whispered words.
“The vapors of Valtorr! I am being attacked by an unseen enemy!”
Strange took a step into the room, but hesitated. What could he do? How can one combat tenuous vapors?
“The vapors were spawned by black magic!” the Ancient One said, even as the green vapors thickened to opaqueness, almost as if made of something solid. “And only by black magic can they be dispelled!”
The vapors almost obscured the old man now, hiding him beneath a writhing dome of green, closing in, constricting. “I summon the powers of the Vishanti!” the old Oriental cried. “By the spell of the dread Dormammu, in the name of the all-seeing Agamotto . . . all thy powers I summon . . . Begone, forces of darkness!”
There was a blinding flash of light which staggered Stephen Strange. The vapors had dissolved into nothingness by the time Strange’s eyes had returned to normal.
The old man slumped forward, one hand holding his head, and Strange ran quickly to him. “If I hadn’t seen it, I’d never have believed it,” he said. “What was that? What did it mean? What force defeated it?” The questions boiled up in Stephen Strange’s scientific mind.
“I cannot explain to a nonbeliever, but . . .” The old man’s voice was weak and the odd encounter seemed to have drained him. “I must be always on my guard . . . The forces of evil are ever pitted against me!”
Strange brought the old man a glass of water and after a few sips he seemed recovered. “Look, I’m not a surgeon anymore, but I’m still a doctor. I can see that you’re weak . . . ill . . . You need rest.”
The Oriental waved a wrinkled hand. “Impossible! I must remain until I find a successor. The evil forces must not be allowed to run free on Earth.”
Strange tried more arguments, but nothing would nudge the old man, so he wandered away, thoughtful and apprehensive. As he stared out at the snowscape he spoke aloud. “If I stay here much longer. I’ll end up becoming a believer! I’ve got to get away before I become a part of all this madness!”
Already what he had seen was being rationalized away, discredited, and doubted. Nevertheless, he kept an eye on the old man, who at least did not seem to get any worse.
Several more weeks passed and one day Stephen Strange found the snows were at last melting. He went outside in his shabby leather jacket and looked it over. It would soon be time to leave. The knowledge both elated and depressed him. These were conflicting emotions, and he had not had much experience with emotions of any kind—except pride, envy, and greed.
He walked back in and immediately smelled something. Incense was nothing new, but this was an odor of a different sort. He followed the scent until he discovered Mordo standing over a small table. The student magician had his back to Strange and was talking in an intense voice.
“Dormammu, accept my incense offering! Let the force of your power descend upon my enemy! Let him feel your fatal touch! I beseech you, Dormammu!”
Stephen Strange could see, on the table, a ring of burning incense, which emitted an odd green smoke. The smoke parted as Mordo waved his hand and Strange saw a small effigy within the ring of smoke. It was of the Ancient One!
“Dormammu, do not fail me!” Mordo’s voice filled the chamber with an intensity that startled Strange.
“That replica, the spell . . .” muttered Strange. The one who had tried earlier to kill the Ancient One was his own student—Mordo!
Mordo turned suddenly, as if a signal had been given, and stared right at the half-hidden Strange. “Ah! The prying stranger has found me!” He gestured at the replica of the Ancient One and again the wind of his hand parted the smoke. “You wonder what it is I do . . .”
Mordo took a few steps toward Strange, a smile of evil pleasure upon his heavy face. “I’ll tell you, because you are too weak to stop me! I have learned more than the Ancient One suspects, and once he is slain, I shall be the only master of black magic!”
Strange was angered, and offended by Mordo’s arrogance. There was only a flicker of recognition—so this was the way people felt around him, when he had been arrogant and proud!
“You won’t get away with it!” he snapped, turning away toward the arch. “I’ll tell him—he’ll toss you out!”
“Fool!” roared Mordo. The furor in his voice caused Strange to glance back and that was his undoing. “You think I am helpless? You think you can defeat my plan?” Strange again started to turn, but Mordo’s hypnotic eyes held him. “Behold!” the magician said.
Light seemed to flare from Mordo’s eyes and Stephen Strange gaped in surprise. The light filled Strange’s vision until there was nothing else, only the staring, bulging eyes and the brilliance.
“See how easily I can cast a spell upon you?” Mordo sneered. “A spell which will prevent you from ever giving away my secret!”
With a mighty effort of will, Strange wrenched himself from that terrible gaze, but escape was not that simple. Wisps of green vapor seemed to come out of nowhere, swirling about his head in tenuous arms. The wisps became bands and they orbited his head, whichever way he turned. With incredible swiftness they closed around him, thickening, darkening, becoming a heavy metal clamp around his mouth. Stephen Strange tried to cry out, but he could not. The best he could manage was an inarticulate rumbling deep in his throat.
Eyes wide with fear he staggered back, then glimpsed a mirror. But the reflection did not show the gray metal band that encased his head and locked his jaw firmly in place!
Then it isn’t really there, he thought. Yet I am unable to speak. His mind was staggered by the reality that this thought revealed. So there is such a thing as a magic spell—and this is proof of it!
In the reflection. Strange could see Mordo’s triumphant glare. Swiftly, Stephen Strange conceived a plan of action. Although he could not speak, he could move. He turned quickly and leaped for Mordo’s throat.
But the green-clad magician was even swifter. With a gesture he caused flashes of light to leap from the four directions of the compass and bind Strange’s wrists together in a steely grip.
“Halt!” Mordo exclaimed. “By the powers of darkness, I command you!”
Stephen Strange was helpless. He could feel the cold hard edges of the mask covering his face and the cold bright light that bound his hands.
“Weak, unknowing western dog!” Mordo sneered. “How helpless you are before the magic of the ancients!” He gave Strange a contemptuous look. “And now I shall finish with you!”
He gestured and Strange gasped. Both steel mask and binding beams of light flickered and disappeared. “There!” Mordo said. “None can see your iron clamp, or the force that surrounds your wrists . . . but you! You know that they are there!” Mordo laughed roughly and walked away, leaving Strange confused and angry.
Strange felt his face. He could feel nothing, yet he could not free his jaw. His hands were free to move, however, and his legs. Strange tried to rationalize it.
It’s probably nothing more than simple hypnotism, he thought. I won’t let that stop me!
He started off through the cold stone corridors toward the Ancient One’s favorite room. I’ll go to the Ancient One, he thought, and—
He let out a cry of sheer agony. Bolts of light flashed out from the compass points, binding his legs. The moment he stopped moving, the light beams flickered and disappeared.
It was no bluff! Mordo does possess the power of black magic, he thought. But what can I do? I’ve got to warn the old man, got to save him—but how?
Strange found he could walk again, but the moment he thought of warning the Ancient One the beams of light flashed, binding his ankles in searing pain until he stopped trying to move.
Thinking quickly, Strange put his thoughts to other things—multiplication tables. Just how high was the Empire State Building? The compression of a deuterium pellet by laser light was 0.000,000,001 seconds. Was it Puccini or Verdi who wrote La Boheme? Ah, yes, Puccini. Cerebrovascular disease is the third biggest killer in the United States.
He was almost to the arch looking into the Ancient One’s chamber. He could hear Mordo talking to the old man. He doesn’t suspect a thing! Strange thought. Fiji, Barbados, and Iceland are the nations with the smallest number of people in their armed forces: none. Fourteen stone is 196 pounds, in the British measure. “Wherever the art of medicine is loved, there also is the love of humanity.” Hippocrates, about 400 B.C. Attila the Him, Félix Faure—president of France—and Pope Leo VIII all died having sex. The pyramid of Cheops was 146.6 meters high.
“You have shown much progress in your studies, my pupil,” the old man said as Strange shuffled into view. Mordo stood with his back to Strange. “You have mastered many of the mystic arts,” the old man added.
“That is good!” Mordo said, and Strange heard the contempt in his voice. “For I am eager to follow in your honored footsteps.”
I bet you are, Strange thought and opened his mouth. “Listen, I—” He gasped with pain as the steel clamp seized his jaws and the beams of light struck out at his wrists and ankles. He was once again helpless. This time the restriction did not go away when he stopped moving.
“Who dares intrude?” the old man asked in a quavering voice.
Mordo turned with calm confidence. “It is you,” he said, “the witless blunderer from the far Western continent.” His eyes hardened. “Well, if you have words to utter, speak!”
Strange blinked his eyes, the pain at wrists and ankles extreme. He knew the steel and the light beams were invisible, but he felt their painful reality. He saw the sneer on Mordo’s lips and his frustration increased.
The green-clad magician turned away contemptuously. “Send him back to the New World, Ancient One! There is no place for him here!”
Strange tried to catch the old man’s attention, but the hooded eyes seemed sightless. Strange managed a glare at Mordo. How smug he is, he thought angrily. He knows I cannot expose him. Never have I hated anyone so much!
There was another momentary flash across Stephen Strange’s mind. He had never loved anyone either. He had never cared for anyone enough to either love or hate them. It was sad that hatred was his first really deep emotional experience.
“Begone,” the old man said and Strange found he could walk . . . but only away.
Alone and helpless, Strange brooded, his consciousness tinged with the smoky feelings of anger. Now, at last, he thought, I see the power of sorcery! But I cannot give up! Mordo must never be allowed to defeat the Ancient One. For if he should, what would happen to the world as we know it?
Strange acknowledged the depths of his sudden conversion . . . or revelation . . . or realization. He was still confused, uncertain, and afraid, but he was determined.
A servant passed by and Strange asked for a glass of water, and then realized he could speak. I am only subject to Mordo’s spell if I try to warn the Ancient One, he thought. Yet, I am able to speak of other matters! So there is still one hope.
Stephen Strange conceived a plan. If I, too, can learn the secrets of this black magic, then I can perhaps battle Mordo with his own weapons.
He found he could walk and did so, straight to the chamber of the old Oriental, whom he found alone. The old man’s head came up slowly and he acknowledged Stephen Strange’s existence.
“Ancient One, I crave a boon. I wish to accept the terms you offered me some days ago.” He swallowed nervously before continuing. “I wish to study at your feet, to be taught your knowledge . . . to . . . prove myself worthy of the mystic arts.”
The faintest of smiles touched the withered cheeks. “Ah, at last I have reached the real Doctor Strange!” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I knew that there was good within you . . . if I could but bring it to the surface. I accept you, my son. You shall be my disciple!”
Stephen Strange swallowed, astonished at the feeling of raw emotion all this brought to him. But the old Oriental was not yet finished astonishing him. The tiny wrinkled figure made a pass with his hands through the air.
“First, I release you from Mordo’s spell . . . so!” There was a flash of light from the old man’s head, enveloping Strange for a brief moment. “Now you are free to speak, to act, even as before.”
“You . . . you knew of Mordo’s spell?”
“Of course,” the ancient Oriental mystic said. “The pupil can have no secrets from his master.” The elderly wise man raised a long-nailed finger. “But, although he is evil, I prefer to keep Mordo here, where I can control him, rather than banish him.
“One day, my son, when I am gone, it will be your task to battle Mordo . . . to the finish!” Strange gulped audibly, remembering Mordo’s casual enslavement of him. “You have been tested, and you have passed your baptism of fire!” Strange felt an elation, yet a weight of responsibility settled upon him.
“But the path ahead of you will be difficult, and fraught with danger.” The ancient mystic peered through the floating wisps of incense at the newest of his disciples. “Do you wish to continue?”
Stephen Strange took a deep breath and made a commitment. “I do, Ancient One!”
It began at once. The days turned to weeks, the weeks to months, then to years. He never noticed when Mordo was no longer seen around the mountainside castle, for he studied the mystic arts with a fervor that surprised him. Not even during examinations at the medical school had he worked so hard and for so long. Time meant nothing; he was often surprised to look out a window and find it day when he had thought it night, or spring when he had thought it still winter.
Slowly he changed, though he was not even aware of the changes. The unshaven, desperate and nearly broken husk that had been the hopeless Stephen Strange became the confident Doctor Strange. He was no longer arrogant—the rigid discipline of the Ancient One had seen to that—and his life took on a deeper meaning, one that went far deeper than a mere desire to revenge himself on Mordo, or to protect the old teacher.
Slowly he prepared himself for the battles ahead, and he had a feeling they would be epic battles—battles which could only be won by magic . . . and had to be won by Stephen Strange. His world became a world of candle flame illuminating ancient parchment, a world of canticles and spells, of learning what not to do as well as what to do—and when to do it. He found the insights into his own life, into his very existence, to be shocking and then strengthening. His contacts with beings and powers in other dimensions were frightening, but always he was guided and protected by the Ancient One. Then, on one of these forays into the unknown, he turned to the fragile wraith that was the Ancient One’s astral projection, and found he was not there.
He almost panicked. Alone in formless blackness, which was pierced by the shimmering forms of a horde of creatures of light, he thought he had been abandoned.
Then came the voice in his mind, the calm, reassuring voice of his master. “You have the strength. You have the power. Use it.”
Strange turned, his hands striking out, fingers spread, stiff, and flickering with forks of light. “By the flames of the Faltine! Begone!”
Crimson fire leaped from his fingertips, searing the very fabric of ebony space, curling it up, ripping through it to engulf the approaching darts of light, to turn them away, to banish them forever. The blackness faded to purple, to blue, to a lighter blue hung with the thick white clouds of the Himalayas. He was back, and safe.
The Ancient One sat on a nearby rock. It was a thousand-foot drop to ice and snow. The winds howled in the white canyons, yet here, on the ledge, it was calm and sunny. Doctor Strange looked at his mentor. “I . . . I . . .”
“You survived,” the Ancient One said. “You should go forth into the world.”
Strange stared at him. “No, I can’t . . . I have so much to learn here . . .”
The wrinkled hand gestured at the outer world beyond the snow-laden mountains. “There are things to learn out there. There are tests to meet. Adversaries to temper the steel within you. You should go.”
They looked at each other, student and master. Then Strange had turned and walked down the ledge and into the stone temple. He left the mountainside retreat a short time later. Eventually he did meet Baron Mordo. They battled and Strange defeated him. But the insidious Mordo returned again and again.
Stephen Strange shook his head to clear it and glanced at his beloved Clea. “I was thinking of . . .”
“The Ancient One?”
Strange nodded. Abruptly, he rose from his chair and strode to the window. “It is not Mordo . . . but . . . I do not know what it is. I sense only the faintest of . . . disturbances.”
Clea nodded. It was often difficult to put such things into words. Words were confining things, static, meaning only one or two things at once. The disturbances in the very air that had somehow alerted Doctor Strange were not things to which words would stick. It was enough to know that Stephen Strange was alerted.
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Seduction of the Innocent
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