SORCEROUS SIGNALS
Written by Robert E Keller / Artwork by Marge Simon
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The Pipes are Calling






















Father was digging for pipes again, and I punched the wall in frustration, skinning my knuckles. I was so
sick of it I wanted to run away and never come back. Dirt flew from the garden as he shoveled, some of
it thudding against the house. I couldn’t pretend to ignore it any longer, and I ran outside. “What are
you doing?” I said. “Stop it!”

Father had already dug up several carrots and tomato plants. He paused and leaned on his shovel, his
leathery skin beaded with sweat. He was getting sunburned and looked breathless in the heat, his eyes
distant. His clothes were covered in dirt stains.

“Go in and rest, Father,” I said.

He shook his head. “Got to keep digging, son. I think there’s a pipe down here. I got a strong twitch in
my leg when I was watering the crops.”

I sighed. “You always get twitches, but you never find any pipes except for old rusted ones. I don’t
understand why you bother.”

His eyes narrowed. “You don’t, huh? Didn’t I tell you the Iron Smiths once ruled this land? They built a
system of pipes underground to move water through. It was downright ingenious. Some of the pipes
were fused with magic and could turn water into a powerful potion.”

“I’ve heard the story, Father,” I said, rolling my eyes. “You’ve told it to me a thousand times. Nobody
has ever found a single one of those magic pipes. In fact, you’re the only one who bothers searching,
the only one who still believes. I just don’t see why...” I faltered, too overcome with frustration to
continue. As a boy of fourteen with no other family, I was stuck with this pathetic old lunatic. The days
blurred into one another—a mix of struggling to put food on the table while watching my father dig his
sanity away.

“Why don’t you grab a shovel, son?” He wiped the sweat from his brow. “Help me dig. When we find the
pipe, it will be like finding heaven.”

I slumped down on the porch, crushed by a hopeless feeling. Our property was full of holes, leading to
the woods over fifty yards away.

Father went on digging for a while, and then let out a yelp. “I hit metal!”

I didn’t react. I’d seen this many times before.

He dug frantically. “Yeah, it’s a pipe, son! A big, fat one.”

I waited, knowing what would come next.

“It’s definitely a pipe,” he went on. “It’s...ah...rusted. Shoot. It’s just a rusty iron pipe. I don’t see any
special markings on it.”

I wondered if I should make potato soup for supper.

Father threw down his shovel and staggered to the porch. He sat down and shook his head. “You know,
I really thought this would be the one.”

“I know you did,” I said. “But you always think that.”

He uncorked a flask of whiskey and took a swig, his haggard face twisted with bitterness. “I guess I’m
too much of an optimist. Ever since your mom took ill and died, life’s been so dang hard. The king has
taxed us nearly to death. It doesn’t matter that we’re dirt poor and we mostly live off the land. His tax
collector still comes and demands the same ungodly amount of coin. I’d like to strangle that tax collector
and bury him in one of these holes.”

I nodded. That at least made sense.

“If only we could find one of those special pipes,” he said, sighing.

“But how would that solve our problems?” I said, still trying to reason with him after all these years. “Are
you thinking you could sell it or something?” I’d asked this question before, but he’d never given a
straight answer. I didn’t expect one now.

He scratched his head. “We couldn’t sell something so rare and wondrous. Instead, we’d unlock its
secrets, drink its water. We’d gain knowledge and become like wizards. Then we’d live the good life, son.
I could quit selling whiskey and be a respectable man. And I could pay for you to get an education and
maybe learn a trade.”

“Father, you’re out of your mind,” I said, putting my head in my hands. “We’re not going to find some
stupid pipe and become wizards.”

“I saw it in a dream,” he said. “And it wasn’t me who found the pipe—it was you. But if you won’t dig for
it, then I have to.”

“A dream is just nonsense,” I said. “I’m not digging for anything. There are holes all over our yard.
Thank goodness we don’t have any neighbors!”

“There’s not enough holes,” he said. “Obviously.”

I groaned. “Please, Father. Just give it up.”

“We should go to the last Iron Smith,” he said. “It’s not that far. He had nothing to say to me the five
times I visited him, but he might talk to you.”

“I’m not going,” I said. “How many times have I told you that? Why can’t you just be normal? We need
to worry about winter and stuff like that. And the next tax day!”

“We will,” he said, standing up. “But this is a good day for digging.”

My despair boiled over and I grabbed his leg. The old man was getting worse, and my desperation was
reaching new heights. “Father, if I go to the Iron Smith, and he doesn’t tell me anything, will you give up
on this crazy stuff?”

He hesitated, his face tense. Finally he nodded. “It’s a deal, son. If you go with me to the forge, and he
doesn’t speak, I’m done with it all. Yes...done with it forever.”

I rose, determined to save his sanity. “Then let’s get it over with.”

* * *

When, after a day of travel through rugged forestlands, we reached the forge in the mountains, the Iron
Smith stared right through us. The smell of oil and leather filled the cave, and shadows congealed
beyond the torchlight. The Iron Smith was covered in oozing sores, his sickly gray flesh wrapped partially
in dirty bandages. He was tall and bony, with a bald, misshapen head and eyes that seemed to hold a
tint of yellow.

“We’re poor folks,” my father said. “We can barely pay our taxes or find enough to eat. We have nothing
to offer you other than our thanks—but we need your help!”

The Iron Smith rubbed oil into leather. His workbench was covered in tools and unfinished yet
impressively crafted items such as kettles, knives, and pieces of armor. The heat from a nearby fire pit
was intense. Sweat dripped from my face.

I stepped forward. “My father is looking for pipes left by your people. Special ones. Do you know where
they might exist?”

The Iron Smith went on with his task.

I picked up a device and examined it. It looked like a claw, and I couldn’t imagine what it might be used
for. “I haven’t seen one of these in quite some time,” I said, in an effort to catch his interest.

He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “Have you molded iron?”

I nodded. I was here to save my father’s sanity, and I felt no shame in lying. We’d come a long way, and
the least this fellow could do was speak to us. “So what about those pipes?”

My father started to open his mouth, but I seized his arm.

“There are pipes all over in the earth,” the Iron Smith said. “Dig around and I’m sure you’ll find some. My
people created a vast system to refine and magically enhance water in this area. But when they moved
from these lands, they left many of the pipes underground.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” I asked.

“I am diseased,” he said. “My people exclude those like me.”

“We want to know about the special pipes!” my father blurted out. “The ones  legends speak of. The
ones that can give us knowledge and power.”

“My people left only iron,” he said, sneering disdainfully. “I suggest you adopt a different goal, old man.”

“Then there’s nothing but rusty pipes left in these lands?” I asked.

He hesitated, gazing into my eyes. I held his gaze.

“I know nothing of rust,” he finally said. “Our iron does not succumb to the elements.”

“But we’ve seen them,” I said. “Rusty pipes in the earth.”

He smiled, showing yellow, pointed teeth, and goose bumps erupted on my flesh. “Are you sure you can
see, boy? You seem blind to me.”

“I see just fine,” I said. “What do you mean?”

“Look in the mirror,” the Iron Smith said. “You might be surprised at what you glimpse staring back at
you. Let the light be your guide. It will open your eyes.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, sighing with frustration. “We didn’t come here to learn about mirrors. We
want to know about magic pipes.”

“Do you think you deserve such knowledge?” he said. “What do you know of feeding the earth? All you
can think of is feeding yourselves. I was like that too. That is the disease I bear—brought on by my own
selfish yearnings. My people call it vanity. On humans, it doesn’t show outwardly, but as you can see,
that’s not the case with my kind.”

“So you can’t help us?” I asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

My father knelt down. “I beg you! We’re a couple of sorry peasants. I sell whiskey just to pay my taxes.
Is there nothing you can do for us?”

“There is nothing you need from me,” he said.

My face reddened with anger. “If you’re so wise, why are you an outcast?”

“I was an outcast,” he said. “Now I’m an example.”

“You’re useless!” I snarled at him. “Come on, Father. Let’s go home.”

The Iron Smith seemed oblivious to my insult and continued his work.

My father hung his head and wept.

* * *

When the tax collector came, we had no money to pay. He warned us that the next time he returned
we’d have to pay double, along with a fine, or the king would take possession of our house and land. I
was miserable and shaking with anxiety, but Father had other things on his mind. He’d succeeded in
pulling a short pipe from the yard and laying it on the porch. He spent hours scraping rust from it—only
to find more rust underneath.

“I don’t understand it,” he said. “The Iron Smith said their metal never rusts. Yet look at this pipe. And
why is it cut so short?”

“We’re going to lose our house and land, Father,” I said. “Do you realize that? I don’t care about that
stupid pipe. You promised me you’d give up on that stuff. You lied!”

The old man’s mouth fell open, pain in his eyes. I realized he felt terrible but couldn’t help himself. Lonely
chills crept over me.

“I can’t give up,” he said, and he went back to scraping the pipe.

“I have an idea.” The tax collector’s disapproving face was burned into my mind. “We could dig up a
bunch of those pipes and sell them for scrap metal to a blacksmith!”

“That wouldn’t work,” he said. “The metal is cheap and plentiful in these lands thanks to all the mines the
Iron Smiths dug. We’d have to gather a mountain of it just to make a handful of coin. It would take us
weeks of digging and backbreaking labor just to get enough to pay the taxes. No, I’ll brew a lot of
whiskey instead. I promise. But first I’ve got to keep searching for our salvation!”

I considered running away. But I had nowhere to go, and I couldn’t bring myself to abandon him. He was
like a seventy-year-old baby who needed constant care. I had to make sure he ate and slept, otherwise
he might waste away.

In desperation, I tried to remember what the Iron Smith had said—something about looking in a mirror
and learning to see. I got Mother’s mirror from Father’s bedroom and gazed into it. My face was young
and smooth—yet somehow it looked old and cynical. I widened my eyes, struggling to see. But I saw
nothing different.

When I stepped outside, Father was shaking his head. “I wore a hole right through it, son. Rust all the
way through.”

I tilted the mirror so I could see the pipe’s reflection. It looked the same.

“Maybe I should scrape near the other end,” Father said, hope springing back into his eyes. “Maybe
that’s the magical end.”

I walked into the garden and examined the large pipe father had dug down to just before we visited the
Iron Smith. I looked into the mirror, and the pipe’s appearance changed. It was now black and engraved
with runes, and water dripped from one end of it. When I moved the mirror away, the pipe was rusty
with no sign of water.

My heart sped into a flutter, and I jumped down into the hole. With a shaking hand, I let some water drip
into my palm. I lapped it up.

The blood rushed to my head and I nearly passed out. Then the feeling subsided, and I could sense the
network of pipes beneath the ground. The Iron Smiths’ system was still intact, feeding the earth and
keeping it free of rot and disease. I could feel miles of pipes calling to me, and I was flooded with a sense
anything could be accomplished. I was confident I could do whatever I wanted in life, that knowledge and
wisdom would be my guide.

This was the transformation Father had dreamed of. But there was a dark side. The world wasn’t ready
for such knowledge, and it could upset a precious balance and lead to massive suffering. Humans were
still too petty and thoughtless to be given such gifts. The Iron Smiths had known this, and they’d
concealed their network with magic to keep people from gaining power from it. They’d further hidden the
pipes by planting decoys in the ground that were easy to remove—like the short one Father had dug up.

I could see the pipes as they really were because I had compassion and wisdom—the reflection of my
true self. Caring for my father had given me strengths and qualities I wasn’t even aware of. The Iron
Smith had seen that in me.

I climbed out of the hole and shoveled it full of dirt. It would take me days to fill in the rest of them. I
walked back to the porch.

I sat down next to Father and patted him on the back. “No luck, huh?” I asked.

He bowed his head. “No luck, son. It’s just a rusty hunk of metal. I’m a crazy old man who’s wasted a lot
of time. I hope you can forgive me.”

I smiled. Father didn’t realize we had everything we needed. He didn’t know my knowledge had expanded
to dizzying heights. And he wouldn’t know, because I could never tell him or anyone else. But things
would change for us soon enough.
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Robert E. Keller is a fantasy writer who lives in Northern
Michigan. He has published fiction in such magazines as
Bards and Sages Quarterly, Necrotic Tissue, Murky Depths,
Labyrinth Inhabitant, and others.