The aged man leaned his weight against his long, misshaped, walking stick, edging poised lips closer to Vilmos’ ear. “Do not let the body fool you boy,” he whispered, “I will not blow away in the wind.”

Just then a cold, harsh wind started to rip across the point. With each passing second, it increased in force until it was a gale of great strength. Very soon, Vilmos found he could no longer stand in its face. He crouched to his knees and then to his belly. The old man did not so much as twitch. “Please stop it!” screamed Vilmos.

“I cannot. Only you may stop it.”

Not wanting to fall from the ledge to his death, Vilmos huddled close to the ground trying to maintain his grip with desperate fingers. “I don’t know how to stop it. Let me go. I want to go.”

“Then surely you shall perish.” The man spoke sternly, his voice lacking any hint of remorse.

Vilmos trembled. “Do you mean die?”

“As surely as you were born.”

Truth in the other’s words stung Vilmos, similar to the dirt in his eyes. He knew without a doubt that he would indeed perish if he failed to stop the wind.

Wind whipped at him. Dust stung his face and blew into his eyes. And while Vilmos could barely see through this dust and dirt, he felt he had to see the old one again. Gazing through stinging dirt proved a difficult task accomplished only with shielding hands. To Vilmos’ dismay, the man stood straight and tall, tall as the twisted staff he carried. He faced the wind and his stance still did not vary.

Suddenly the man did not appear so aged to Vilmos. In fact, somehow he seemed different, as if Vilmos saw another standing there in the old man’s place. “I do not deny that you have powers beyond my grasp,” began Vilmos, “but I don’t understand the point of the test. I don’t know what to do.”

“Vilmos, use that which you already know. Use the skills you possess. Use them now!” The man spoke powerfully.

Compelled by the enchantment of the voice, Vilmos made a vigorous attempt. He concentrated, trying to make the wind stop. He clasped his eyes tightly together, held his breath, clenched his fists so firmly that his fingernails dug into his palms. The wind did not desist; it continued to lash at him with increased vigor. Fearing for his very life, Vilmos tried again. He thought about the wind and wanting to stop it. In rebuke, the blast of the wind started to push him toward the edge of the cliff. Vilmos dug his fingers into the dirt trying desperately to hold on, grasping and clawing until his hands were bloody, but to no avail.

His fingers pulsated with pain. Vilmos screamed and pleaded desperately for assistance. He turned his head wildly back and forth, wary of the approaching drop. “I don’t want to die… please help me… how can you just stand there, help me! Please, I beg you.”

“Reach inside yourself for the power. It is there. The power lives within you. You have used it many times before, though you didn’t know why or exactly how. You are the power Vilmos. It yearns to be released from within you. Release it.”

“Please help me.” Vilmos sounded pathetic. “P-please.”

“Release the power Vilmos,” repeated the other, “let it go. I am giving you a reason to use your power. I give you your life! Do it now, quickly, or you will DIE!”

The voice was commanding again, Vilmos felt compelled to do as invoked. He had to prove he could stop the wind. Somewhere within was the key, a key that must be found. It had been so much easier before. He had never really tried to use the power. Previously it had just come to him when he needed it. He needed it now, and it wouldn’t come.

“Hurry, Vilmos. You must hurry!” spoke the man with a hint of anxiety in his voice.

In time, Vilmos found the object of his inward search. The strength was there.

Still unsure exactly how he was supposed to make the wind stop, Vilmos decided to let his mind drift. His thoughts wandered until he found a helpful clue. As he anticipated, the solution to his dilemma seemed to seep into his mind.

It had always been there.

“Quickly, Vilmos!” The man spoke frantically. “You must release the power now.”

A test of the power within forced the wind to flicker. Strength flowed to Vilmos unbidden. He bathed in its caress; it felt so wonderful.

Magic isn’t evil; it is beautiful.

Vilmos knew what he had to do to make the wind cease. Now he would do it.

The man screamed, “Vil-mos, release the power, release it now before it is too late.” His anxiety increased with each passing second. “Hurry Vilmos. You must release the power now. Let it go, feel it flow.”

Vilmos perceived a peculiar scratching at the back of his mind, something loomed closer. Magic isn’t evil, he reminded himself, the words flowing to him again.

“Go on try it,” whispered the voice, “set it free.”

Vilmos shook his head to rid himself of the irritating scratching.

“I will, I will,” Vilmos said.

For an instant, Vilmos toyed with the wind. The gale stopped full, then started again with sudden vigor. Vilmos shook his head again to rid himself of the irritating scratching at the back of his mind.

Was it a whisper?

Seemingly as if simply acknowledging the whisper existed was enough, the voice came again. “No Vilmos,” it whispered.

Vilmos shook his head again, his concentration faltering. Irritated, the old man grabbed Vilmos about the shoulders and lifted him from the ground, shaking him violently.

“Do as you were told boy!” he screamed, his razor sharp finger nails pushing into Vilmos’ arms.

With untold power captivated in a crisp, clear voice, the newcomer spoke again. “It is a trick Vilmos. Look closely, see his true form. Evil comes in many shadings, but you can always see through it if your vision is clear and your mind is centered. Search its form. LOOK!”

The wind stopped dead; the old man released his grip. Vilmos fell to his knees.

“No Vilmos, it is not true. Release the power. Do not listen to foul lies. Release it now.”

Heeding the will of the voice, the power of magic within Vilmos soared. Torn between the two choices, unsure which to follow, who spoke the truth, or what to do, Vilmos clasped his hands to his head. His mind reeled with pain. He wanted to curl up into a ball and disappear.

Unchecked, the power within grew to a crescendo, reaching beyond Vilmos’ control. His wild eyes stared in disbelief as crazed thoughts continued to spin through his mind. He was the power, the master of all he surveyed; he would release the force within.

“Vilmos, in the name of Great-Father, I command you AWAKEN!” spoke a third voice with overwhelming sincerity and vast fear. In the haze of Vilmos’ consciousness, the voice was a distant untouchable shadow. The power within was so inviting and warm, he did not want to let it go.

The old one grew greedy and smiled an evil grimace. “YES, Vilmos, can you feel it? Yes. That’s a good boy. Now, USE it.”

Vilmos discerned and separated the perceived voices. The newest, the faint, distant one overridden with fear and heart wrenching pain, was feminine. The crisp, clear voice of the newcomer was calm and compelling. The voice of the old one demanded action.

“Are you the evil one?” Vilmos asked.

The instant disbelief entered his mind, the enchantment was lost. The energy within him dissipated. Vilmos looked dead into the old man’s eyes and understood the guise.

“You truly are the evil one,” said an amazed Vilmos. As he spoke, both strangers disappeared. The words reverberated in his thoughts.

With the releasing of the deadlocked gaze on the wall opposite his bed, the vision ended. Complete and utter confusion played across Vilmos’ face. The sepulchral dream had ended, though its images were still held in his mind’s eye. It had seemed so real, but how could it have been? He had never left his room; he would not have perished. It was only another daydream, a dreadful one.

He reflected upon what he had seen there and was deathly afraid, for normally when the dream ended the evil of the Dark One disappeared. This time the dream was different, Vilmos could recall shapes and images, even the form the evil one had taken.

It no longer seemed that the evil one was just part of a dream. He remembered the raging winds and the fear. It was then that an alarm of distress sounded within. Again there was a small part that he just couldn’t remember—he had seen something, but what was it?

The images became steadily less clear as he strained to focus on them. Pain in his hands caused all thoughts to drift away and when he looked down at them, opening and closing them with evident agony, he knew the pain had been real.

Physically and mentally drained of all its energy, his body was an empty shell with all its stamina gone. Vilmos wanted to sleep, yet he dared not close his eyes. The dream had been real, not imagined, he reminded himself.

Aghast, he curled up in the corner, fitting his small form into a tightly curled ball. The pain had been real, the dream been real, his mind repeated relentlessly.