Graduation

A wizard and his apprentice break into an art museum on a snowy Chicago night.

In a private gallery, in some forgotten side street near Chicago's Water Tower Place, hangs a unique piece of art. Rather, three pieces of art. More like two. The third one was really what The Arcanist had come to see tonight, though.

Snow had piled up on the sidewalks, nearly to his chest, obscuring the curb, and leaving plenty to crunch under boots that paced back and forth out of the gallery cameras' line of sight. Gloves rubbing together, held up to the face, filled with warm breath does little to raise the spirits when snow continues falling across hair and shoulders.

A mousy young woman in a security outfit opens a side door to a forgotten alley off that forgotten side street, and motions The Arcanist into a small security office.

The office is spartan, with a pair of rolling chairs seated in front of a bank of monitors. Two steaming mugs of coffee, and a thermos next to a bowl are taking the space where the keyboard should be. Gloves come off, and The Arcanist seizes onto a coffee mug, enjoying the sensation returning to fingertips more than even the warm liquid down a cold throat. Eyeballing the bowl, to discover it half-empty, and steam still coming from the thermos, he begins rummaging through drawers in the computer desk.

The woman, in a uniform maybe a half-size too large for her, turns around from peering out the door.

“What're you doing?” she hissed, in a loud stage whisper.

“Having chili. No sense letting it go to waste. Are there any spoons in here?”

She sighed at him, “You don't want that.”

He pointed at her, and then at himself, emphasizing each gesture with a single word before leaning back to open another drawer: “Apprentice. Master. In this particular chili, I see three beans, all of which I like. Would you really deny your master hot chili, when you made him stay outside in the falling snow for the last forty minutes?”

“Only if I thought he wouldn't like MAGIC beans. Just where do you think the other guard is, oh great Master?”

She stared him down, unflinching, until he began clearing his throat in a polite cough that would have to pass for acknowledgment at the gesture of warning him. She was not beyond pranking him, but tonight wasn't the night for it. She knew how important this night could be to the both of them, and he had been impressing it on her, since he made her join the temp agency weeks ago.

Without meeting her gaze, as she crossed her arms in the doorway, leaning against it, he slid by her, “We should get to work then. Shouldn't take long.”

The gallery's main wall held the incomplete work of art. It was a contemporary work from the turn of the last century, relatively speaking. A triptych, comprising of three panels, and done up in the style of the 16th century masters, so well-known for the format. Except these were oil on three canvases, and not woodcarvings on hinges. The third canvas hung blank, as if it was taken fresh out of the artist's supply.

Below the work is a display card noting the title as, “Of Wands,” and explaining that the three paintings were the story of a conjuror and mystic's life from ancient days. The third panel, the text reads, is blank to represent the mutable future, and no paint has ever stayed on the canvas for more than minutes at a time.

The Arcanist reached into his coat while lecturing his apprentice, “It's an apt metaphor, but absolutely wrong. Artists are so wrapped up in layered meaning that they miss the obvious. You can't paint on something that's already been painted.”

From behind, he could hear The Apprentice open her mouth, but cut her off before the obvious question could be asked.

“Yes, you can paint over something. But that's only if there's a painting to paint over. If there's no painting to paint over, you can't paint over the painting. That's why the paint doesn't stick. QED.

“Now, tell me what you see here,” he inquires, while holding up a single playing card from a poker deck.

“The three of clubs.”

“Clubs can be staffs. Or... clubs can be wands,” he prompts when she doesn't speak.

Stepping over the fuzzy velvet rope that kept people out of touching distance, The Arcanist walks up to the blank canvas, and presses the card, face-down against it. More than a little concerned that the card falls to the floor on three different occasions, finally he steps back in examination of what is a growing problem.

“Wrong card?”

“No. It's the right one. I should know.” Flipping the card over, he holds the back of the card to the third canvas, and then watches it drop to the floor again.

“It's all about tarot, right? Past, present, future?”

Grunting as he bends down to pick it up, he answers in the affirmative.

“Yes. It was originally supposed to a helpful divination, but divinations are a tricky thing, predicting multiple futures, and diviners are as cryptic as a sphynx wrapped around an oracle wrapped around a smartass. He told me I couldn't see it until the future was here.”

A thoughtful noise comes from in the small throat behind him, as he can tell she's trying to puzzle it out, too.

“Can't you tell tarot both ways? Like upside-down and rightside-up?”

Turning on her, and giving a similar glare as his chili glare, he reminds her with similar gestures, “Apprentice. Master. Stop being smarter than me.”

Taking a leg up over the velvet rope once more, The Arcanist turned the poker card upside-down, and let the art on the back of the card expand until it filled the whole third canvas hanging in the gallery. An image of a man facing into a horizon appears, and next to him are three tall staves, but the whole image is upside-down, just as The Apprentice had guessed. Stepping back behind the rope, The Arcanist scratches his chin and goes over the possibilities in his head as to its meaning.

The now-confident voice of his second fills the quiet of the gallery, even though it's softly spoken.

“One possible interpretation of an inverse three of wands is a parting of ways and opposing goals with someone you'd pursued opportunities with previously. Not necessarily betrayal, but sometimes that, too. It could also mean you failed to plan ahead, and missed something really important.”

“I know. It's staring me right in the face, but I don't see it yet. Also, when did you get so good at divination and readings? What did I say about being smarter--”

Turning around to give her another verbal poke, he found himself staring down the barrel of a wand.

“...Oh.”

The Arcanist's vision washed as white as the growing flurry falling outside, tumbling to the ground, silently as any snowflake in Chicago.

Author's Note

Originally submitted to a flash fiction contest (defined as 500 - 1,500 words) back in March 2015 with the prompt requiring the writer to include a triptych, the three of clubs, and three-bean chili in their piece.

Word count is 1,187.

The entry was submitted under one of my pseudonyms, Adam Locke.

(Confession: a heavy debt goes to Jim Butcher, author of The Dresden Files, whose titular character's banter with his own apprentice inspired this homage piece, as I'd begun reading the series shortly before this prompt appeared.)