Annoyed, yes.
Hungry, always.
Exasperated—to the point of dramatic sighing—nearly every hour.
But never frightened.
So when his master awoke before dawn with a start, clutching his staff, listening to the forest as if it whispered directly into his blood… Pennyboy knew the day would go poorly.
“Pack your things,” Parlock muttered.
“Why?” Pennyboy asked. He was building up the fire to cook their breakfast.
“Because someone is pretending to be me,” Parlock said grimly. “And they’re doing a very good job.”
Pennyboy blinked. “Who would want to pretend to be you?”
Parlock didn’t hesitate. “Anyone with poor judgment and a taste for trouble.”
The Sightings
They set off shortly after sunrise, dousing the fire and eating cold biscuit. There wasn't time to cook, Parlock insisted. Not even tea. That's when Pennyboy knew it was serious. Parlock rarely went without his morning tea.
They traveled toward the deeper part of the Wychwood—a part Pennyboy disliked intensely. The trees here seemed to have opinions. About him. They leaned overhead in judgmental arches. They shed leaves only when Pennyboy passed under them, not Parlock.
They soon found the first clue to their mission.
Two hunters sat on a log, pale as milk. At their feet lay a pile of fish—fresh, enormous fish from the ocean, not Casco Bay, far from their usual waters.
“We didn’t catch ’em,” one hunter whispered. “He gave them to us.”
“Who?” Parlock asked.
The hunter pointed shakily down the trail then back at Parlock. “You did.”
Parlock pressed his lips together. “Of course I did.”
Further down the path, they found a merchant’s cart overturned, three of its wheels splintered. The merchant looked up from where he was gathering cooking tools from the ground and let out a a shriek.
"What do you want? Please just leave me alone!"
Parlock waved a dismissive hand in annoyance. "I only want to know what happened here."
The merchant took a step back. "You happened. You offered to fix the wheel on my cart, then overturned it so you could touch the wheel. It's fixed alright but the others are broken and my wares are scattered."
"It wasn't me."
“He said his name was Parlock,” the merchant stammered. “He was tall, had your staff, your robe—everything! But... he wasn’t you. He didn’t walk like you. Didn’t sound right.”
“How so?” Parlock asked.
“He didn’t… breathe,” the merchant whispered.
A shepherd girl claimed that “Parlock” saved her lamb from a wolf, then scolded her for crying about it… though she insisted the scolding came from a mouth that didn’t really move.
A traveling minstrel swore he’d played cards with the sorcerer, only later realizing the man never blinked.
Every person described the same thing:
Parlock.
But wrong.
Like a drawing done by someone who had only heard rumors.
Parlock’s Worry
By midday, the real Parlock’s frown had grown so deep it threatened to swallow his beard.
Pennyboy hurried alongside him. “Master… what is it?”
Parlock hesitated for too long. That alone terrified Pennyboy.
“There are things in the Wychwood that mimic,” Parlock said finally. “Not to trick, but to learn. They study shapes and voices. They try to fill them.”
“Like children trying on clothes?”
“Like graves trying to absorb memories,” Parlock corrected.
Pennyboy’s stomach twisted.
“So this thing… has copied you?”
“Well enough so that it fooled half the valley,” Parlock said. “Which means it’s been watching me longer than I’d prefer.”
Pennyboy swallowed. “Why would it want to be you?”
Parlock didn’t answer.
The Clearing of Mirrors
They found “Parlock” near the heart of the woods.
He stood in a clearing littered with little pieces of polished metal hung from branches—shards of mirrors, spoons, kettle lids, even a breastplate polished to a shine. They spun slowly in the breeze, catching glints of light that seemed to hover unnervingly.
Pennyboy felt oddly sick. The reflections, the bits of light bouncing around, they created a feeling, an aura of greediness and longing.
The figure in the middle of the clearing had Parlock’s height, Parlock’s hat, Parlock’s patched robes.
But its face—
Its face looked painted on.
A smile drawn too wide, eyes set too far apart, skin stretched too smooth. A chill ran down Pennyboy's spine. How could anyone believe that was Parlock or even a human?
It turned toward them.
“Ah,” it said, in Parlock’s voice—but hollow, as if spoken down an empty well. “There you are. I expected you eventually.”
Pennyboy grabbed Parlock’s sleeve in terror. “Master—”
Parlock raised one hand. “Stay behind me.”
The mimic stepped closer.
“I have done good deeds,” it said proudly. “I caught fish. I saved animals. I helped people. I did what you do.”
“Not quite,” Parlock murmured.
“I did! I really tried,” the mimic said. The voice wavered, almost childlike.
Pennyboy felt a strange pity tightening in his chest. “Master… it doesn’t seem dangerous.”
Parlock kept his staff raised. “All things are dangerous when they want something.”
“What does it want?” Pennyboy whispered.
The mimic answered, loud and echoing. “Your place.”
The Sorcerer’s Stand
Parlock faced the mimic, and for the first time since Pennyboy had known him, looked weary.
“You cannot have my place,” Parlock said quietly. "And if you understood, you would not want it."
“I do understand. Give it to me,” the mimic insisted. “Give me your voice. Your steps. Your work. You do not cherish them. You leave pieces behind you. You forget things.”
Pennyboy stiffened—the spirit in the clearing... he had claimed Parlock forgot the deal he made with the woods. The lantern had left because Parlock spoke harshly to it. This mimic spoke some truth.
Parlock closed his eyes. “You misunderstand.”
The mimic tilted its head. “Teach me.”
“No.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Let me replace you.”
Parlock lifted his staff, the runes glowing bright gold.
“No.”
The mimic froze, trembling.
“You are not finished,” Parlock said. “You are a shape that wants to be filled, but you must fill yourself—not with stolen faces.”
The mimic shuddered.
“You’re incomplete,” Parlock whispered.
“So are you,” the mimic hissed.
Parlock flinched.
Pennyboy had never seen anyone strike Parlock with just a sentence before.
The Uncertain Ending
Parlock lowered his staff.
“I won’t destroy you,” he said softly. “But you cannot wear my face. Leave the shape. Find another one. Something that fits. Something that is you.”
The mimic trembled—then peeled Parlock’s likeness away like shedding a skin.
The patched robe dissolved.
The face melted to nothing.
The height collapsed inward.
What remained was a figure made of mist and memory: tall, thin, shifting, unfinished. It looked like a regular spirit and Pennyboy was no longer afraid of it.
It looked at Pennyboy—not with eyes, but with the idea of looking.
“Who are you?” Pennyboy whispered.
The mimic tilted its head and leaned forward towards him. Then spoke in Pennyboy’s voice.
“I don’t know.”
And with that, it drifted out of the clearing and away into the forest, dissolving among the trees as though it had never been—yet leaving behind the lingering impression of footsteps.
Parlock rested a hand on Pennyboy’s shoulder.
“Remember this,” he said. “In the Wychwood, even things that imitate us can become real… if we’re careless enough with ourselves.”
Pennyboy nodded, though his knees were shaking.
“Master?”
“Yes?”
“What if it chooses my shape next?”
Parlock smiled thinly. “Then you’ll have to convince it why it shouldn’t.”
This was not reassuring.
Behind them, a single mirror shard swung slowly, catching the last light of day—
and in it, for just a blink, Pennyboy thought he saw two reflections where there should have been one.