A Fateful Encounter
April 1, 1939
Giovanni Zatara was late. His show in Angouleme had gone on longer than anticipated. The audience had been so receptive, that Zatara couldn't say no to an encore. The fans were always right. Thus, he hurried out into the French countryside, his hand on his top hat, keeping it fixed to his head in spite of the steep wind. This was a meeting at which punctuality was crucial.
Zatara's latest tour had gone well. His shows were sold out, the crowds pleasant. He enjoyed crisscrossing Europe, soaking in the food, the drinks, the people. America was his home, but it was here in France that he felt the pangs of loss from his self-imposed exile. Italy, the motherland, was gone, at least as far as he was concerned. Zatara would not live under the boot of a dictator.
There was at the same time an understanding that the continent lived below the shadow of a darkening storm. War. That was on everyone's minds, even if to say so was to draw unpleasant looks. Bloodshed would be here soon. Maybe that was why everyone flocked to see Zatara. They needed a little magic, before the world gave way to madness.
He found the circle of trees, all bent sideways, as though they were bowing to one another. Zatara took his position.
"Tel su nigeb," he said. The trees shuddered and stood straight, before bowing in the opposite direction. As they took their positions, lines of yellow and blue light slithered along the ground, splicing together into an intricate pattern around Zatara. He chanted his incantation three more times.
The wind stopped. Little explosions of sensation danced down his fingers. The air took on a glow similar to the ground, as three other points shimmered. Figures appeared within the circle.
The first was a man in a brown trench coat, a hat tipped low over stern eyes. In his right hand was a black and white circle, the symbol of the Seven. Doctor Occult.
The second was a figure clad in blue and gold, a shining helm atop their head. A cape billowed behind them. The new Doctor Fate.
The last to appear was a pale man in a blue suit, with a cloak that covered his shoulders. His hat shaded his features, pure white eyes cut through the shadow. A bronze medallion hung from his neck. The Phantom Stranger.
The Stranger considered his companions before launching into speech.
"Only the most dire of circumstances bring us together. Toil and trouble abound once again."
"Speak clearly," said Doctor Fate, raising a hand in a proud display. Zatara could hear a thinner, man's voice below the mystical bellow of the helm.
"Indeed. We have little time for idle chatter," said Doctor Occult. "Such a display could draw undo attention."
The Phantom Stranger assented.
"The world spins ever closer to chaos, as you no doubt have noticed," he said, nodding to Doctor Fate. "We stand on the edge of an abyss, one push away from catastrophe. There is no doubt that our enemies understand the opportunity this presents."
"They will have to get through me first," said Doctor Fate.
"That may be true," said Doctor Occult, "but your new host is untested."
"He will be enough," said the doctor.
Zatara was compelled to speak up. "Chaos may be close, but what can we do to intervene? Are we not at the whim of the tides of magic?"
Doctor Occult agreed. He and Zatara were mortal practitioners, skilled, but ultimately human. Their companions operated on a plane far above what they could hope to understand. Doctor Fate the avatar of a Lord of Order. The Phantom Stranger something less tangible still.
"There is much we cannot foresee, but we may avoid trouble yet to come with the necessary precautions," said the Phantom Stranger. "The Spectre walks the Earth once more."
Zatara knew it to be true. He suspected all those sufficiently attuned to their particular power understood that such a terrible force existed alongside them.
"The Earth has survived their presence before," said Fate.
"Yet, now, in this crisis to come, the Spectre poses too great a risk. Lessened though they are" said the Stranger.
"What would you propose?" asked Doctor Occult.
"Banishment. To cast them back to the planes beyond," said the Stranger.
They were all silent. To risk such an act was to arouse the Spectre's wrath if they failed.
"If the Phantom Stranger errs on the side of intervention, then it is truly dire," said Zatara. "We must perform the ritual."
"Agreed," echoed his companions.
"I shall initiate the ceremony. Doctor Occult, if you could provide a focal point. Doctor Fate, stabilize the spell. And Zatara. You shall shape it to our needs," said the Phantom Stranger.
Doctor Occult raised the Symbol of the Seven. It floated between them, more solid than before. The Phantom Stranger pointed a finger and began to chant in a lost tongue. The golden light poured from Doctor Fate, enveloping the circle. Zatara took up his part of the spell.
"Hsinab eht ertcepS, Hsinab eht ertcepS, Hsinab eht ertcepS."
The circle expanded. The golden light spun around them, the Symbol of the Seven bursting with energy. Zatara could see a ghostly form in the distance. One that began to writhe and struggle, as it was pulled away from its host. He felt a pressure on his temple, but he maintained his chant.
The others leaned into their magic. Bit by bit they were casting away the Spectre. It was as though they wrestled with an immense creature, one that buckled and fought every step of the way. The chant surged in volume, the glow blinding.
"No," whispered the Phantom Stranger.
The glow disappeared. The chant halted. The circle collapsed. Four became three. Their target free.
"What happened?" said Zatara.
"The Stranger… He's gone," replied Doctor Occult.
"What, what does that mean?" said Doctor Fate. This time there was no mistaking the voice of the man behind the helmet, full of fear and doubt.
They were stunned.
"It means we're on our own," said Zatara.
Madame Xanadu placed the coin on the altar. Etched into its metal plating was the concerned face of the Phantom Stranger, captured in a moment of confusion.
"It is done," she said. "That took considerable resources, so much so that it will take me decades to recoup."
"Only through the repayment of this debt will you have that opportunity at all," said her employer.
"I ask that I am left out of this conflict," said Xanadu.
"Go on. Live your petty existence. You may yet survive."
Xanadu took her leave of the temple.
A green hand took the coin, tracing its features. Wotan held it to the light. The mighty Phantom Stranger, caged at last. This would do nicely. Doctor Fate was unprepared. His peers lowly pretenders, unworthy of the title of mage.
It was time to return to the deserts of North Africa. There was a dig site, tainted by mortal hands, one that held the key that would forever shift the balance of power. Wotan grinned. The conditions were just right.