One Thousand

Everything was ready. The sun had set, the candles were lit, the sacrifice had been made, and the blood of the dove was spilt over the arcane circle. All that remained were the words.

The man was prepared. He had practiced his magic, gradually learning and perfecting different spells, gaining control of elemental forces. He had accomplished much, even learning to summon and converse with spirits, a skill which had provided him with tonight's spell.

The demon he had summoned and trapped had asked what it must do to be set free. Thinking of his gray hair and wrinkles and grandchildren, the man had demanded the demon instruct him on casting a spell to grant him his youth back. The smirking demon had complied. However, the instructions it had given would be quite a challenge. While the preparation would be easy, the recitation would be difficult. The spell was one thousand words long and must not be read from paper. Every word needed to be memorized, and any slip of the tongue or skipped syllable could alter the spell in unpredictable and dangerous ways. It had to be flawless.

All one thousand words.

Every day he practiced. It was a massive mental effort to recall the entire spell, but he dedicated himself to the task. Weeks passed before he felt confident enough to record a few attempts. Then, came the happy day when he had successfully recited the whole thing without a mistake. Still, he was cautious. He did not attempt to cast the spell until he had managed to recite it correctly three more times. Confident now that he would make no mistakes, he prepared the ritual.

After a final check to see that everything was prepared, he focused his mind and began the recitation. The words flowed effortlessly now. Energy built as the spell went on, gaining momentum. Passing the halfway point, he continued without pausing except to breathe.

Then, with the end in sight, a sound interrupted him. His phone beeped with a notification. Why had he not turned it off? What a fool he had been! When it beeped again, he stepped aside for a moment to check his notifications, finding that his idiot son had messaged him about plans for tomorrow. Frustrated, he powered down his phone and returned to his ritual.

But, where had he left off?

He stood there silent, trying to remember the last words he had spoken. He could not be certain, but stopping now would leave the spell incomplete, which could be even more dangerous than continuing on with an error. He sweated, feeling the energy of the spell faltering. Then, he continued from where he believed he had stopped. The power reached a crescendo, the last word was spoken, and the spell reached its climax. All of that energy was released into him.

The man waited anxiously to sense any changes. His body began to feel subtly softer. He felt the weariness of his years fading as a new freshness spread through his flesh. Checking a hand mirror he discovered that his hair was darkening and his skin smoothing. It was working. Already he looked more than a decade younger. Smiling, he imagined all the things he might do now. He could start over. He could build a fortune. He could have himself a gorgeous young woman, or women, while not burdening himself again with children. The world was his to command.

“I’ve done it,” he declared. “I’ve done it!”

He coughed, having heard his voice crack on the last words he had spoken. Something felt wrong. He no longer sensed himself regaining something, but instead there was a feeling that he was gradually being diminished.

The man checked the mirror again and was shocked to find the face of a teenager staring back at him in horror. He was barely more than a boy now.

“Wait,” he begged. “That’s enough. Stop!” With each word his voice rose higher and higher as he felt his perspective falling lower and lower. He was becoming shorter now, losing inches along with his years. He stared at his hands, watching as his fingers grew soft and somewhat pudgy. His clothes hung loosely from him, leaving him feeling like a child playing dress up. Soon, they began slipping off of his smaller frame, leaving him feeling more like a baby now than a boy, and he was still getting younger.

“It’s not faiwr,” he whined like a little brat throwing a tantrum. “I said it wite! I did!”

Tears flowed from his eyes as his legs wobbled. He sobbed woefully as he dropped to his butt and lay down on his back. Then, when he had no years left to lose, his regression came to an end, leaving him a bawling baby lying in an old man’s clothes.

In time, when he had calmed down, he tried to move, only to find that he was too weak to even sit up. He tried to figure out a way out of this predicament. Maybe he could recite the spell again, maybe backwards. He tried to speak some of the words, only to discover that even simple words were impossible to pronounce now with his feeble lips and tongue. The stink of something below alerted him that his mouth was not the only part of him that he had lost control of. Soon, his mental exhaustion had become too much for his body to handle, and he fell asleep.

The next morning he woke up to the sound of children. He opened his eyes to find his grandchildren, looking like giants staring down at him, with his idiot son looming behind them. His son scanned his father’s scattered notes, figuring out where the baby had come from.

There would be a lot of words spoken to explain what had happened, many conversations to be had about the future of the baby. For the moment, though, the baby would have no say in anything at all.