The Magicians Read online

  I looked around the room and noticed my jacket lying on the bed. Of course. Girls always leave hairs on coats. Sometimes makeup, too. But always hairs.

  I picked up the coat. There were hairs. Some of them were short and blond; they were mine. One was long and red. I rolled it into a ball between my fingers and was about to throw it away when I had a second thought. I straightened it carefully, slipped it into a hotel envelope, and put the envelope in my inside coat pocket. I patted it. I had La Voisin in there, and it felt good. I fought back the feeling; power was not my aim. Finally I found a hair that was dark and about the right length.

  I held it thoughtfully. After a few moments I raised it to my nose, but it had no odor. It looked like Ariel's, but was I sure? Could I do a better job this time? Was there any danger to Ariel if I muffed it again? I decided that there wasn't; if there was any danger, she would have protected herself against it. Otherwise, what was the use of being a witch? The worst that could happen, I decided, would be the summoning of some other girl, Catherine La Voisin, for instance. I shivered. The worst was bad enough.

  This time my preparations were more thorough. I got a cake of soap from the bathroom and started to work on it with my penknife. I'm no artist, but soap is a forgiving material and in just a few minutes I had a surprisingly good model of a reclining nude. It didn't look like Ariel, of course, but I had an answer for that. I moistened the top of the figure's head, coiled the hair by drawing it between thumbnail and fingernail, and stuck the hair to the damp soap.

  I sat at the table going over the section in the manuscript labeled “Teleportation” until I thought I knew it by heart. I knelt on the floor and drew a chalk circle on the floor, placed the figurine inside the circle, and chalked an analysis situ equation around it.

  I stood up and compared what I had done with the instructions. Everything checked. “X is for Ariel,” I muttered. “Y is the circled spot in this room.” I recited the equation aloud, trying to concentrate not only on the equation but on the identities involved. I closed my eyes, the way I always used to do when I wanted to focus on something I had to learn. “Wherever you are, Ariel, come to me. Come to this spot. Appear in this circle. Ariel, come to me...."

  Air fanned my face. I opened my eyes. Standing in the circle was a pair of small, bare white feet. I heard a gasp. My eyes traveled up a pair of shapely legs and then to a face I knew. It was Ariel, all right. All of her and not much more besides. Her eyes were wide and blue and startled. My eyes, no doubt, were startled, too, because it was obvious that Ariel had just stepped out of a bath or shower.

  The “not much more” was a towel she had draped hastily in front of her. She let out her breath. It sounded like relief, but it might have been anger. I sank back into the chair, speechless and suddenly weak but oddly satisfied that my earlier impressions of her figure had been vindicated in a way that I would never have thought of, and sooner than I could have imagined.

  I thought about a gust of air, and the wind whistled past my head and tried to whip the towel aside. Ariel clutched at it with both hands, frowning, looking annoyed. But her annoyance was sabotaged by a wispy smile that tried to turn up the corners of her mouth. It was a nice mouth, and I wished I could make it smile more broadly. “That's very naughty,” she said.

  And she stooped gracefully, as if she had practiced the delicate maneuver with the towel for hours, picked up the soap figurine, muttered a few words, and disappeared, towel, figurine, and all.

  I found my voice after it was too late. “Ariel, Ariel,” I called after her. “Where can I find you? Where—?"

  But it was no use. My words vanished. She was gone. The circle was empty. And with her she had taken my last hope of getting the answers I needed.

  I felt a little better about myself and the magic business, but I wasn't proud of the way I reacted to opportunity. Now I would have to wait until tomorrow to accomplish anything. And tomorrow might be too late. Who knew what dark things waited for me in the night?

  Fifteen minutes later I remembered the handkerchief. I pulled it out of my pocket, remembering how it had wiped away her tears as we sat on the stairs that led nowhere. But I found myself staring at orange smears. All my ventures into magic had been bungled, one way or another. It would be just my luck to summon the carnivorous Catherine La Voisin, complete with mammary glands, Amatory Masses, and poison.

  But I had summoned Ariel once, I told myself with growing determination. I could do it again. I could. I knew I could.

  The circle and the equation still were chalked on the floor. They had worked before. I saw no reason they wouldn't serve a second time. Perhaps they even retained some residual connection. I dropped the handkerchief in the center of the circle, took the glass of water that still remained on the desk beside the aborted highball, and sprinkled the handkerchief with water from my fingertips.

  “Ariel, Ariel,” I said, “by the tears you shed into this handkerchief, come now to claim it, come here to me to claim your tears again...."

  This time I was not surprised when Ariel appeared within the circle. I blinked and she was there. That was the way it seemed to work in the magic world; things either were or weren't—there was nothing in between, no fading in or out. It was a completely black and white system; like a computer switch, it was either on or off. I decided to think about it like that—as if it was a computer. Maybe it would help my results.

  What I was surprised about was Ariel's attire. She was more modestly clad in a nightgown—but not much. Her hair was brushed and shiny around her shoulders, and her black gown was lacy and revealing. I took a deep, quick breath. Perfume. She was very desirable to me at that moment. Almost beautiful.

  But I was bothered by a couple of questions. The nightgown appeared impractical for everyday use, and I didn't think that most girls put on perfume when they went to bed alone. Then I chided myself for my suspicions.

  Ariel put on a frown. “I don't know how you've become adept so quickly, Gabriel, but this sort of thing has got to stop. It's disconcerting, to say the least, being whisked around constantly, not knowing whether you will be here or there the next moment. Besides, what will people say? What about my uncle? What about the house detective?"

  I had to laugh. I couldn't help it. There was witchcraft in the Crystal Room, possession and werewolves, magic and murder, and the nice witch in the black lace nightgown was worried about house detectives and indiscretion.

  Her frown twisted as she tried to keep a straight face, and then she was laughing, too. It was the kind of magical moment one wishes would never stop, and then I noticed that she was looking down at her feet. My laughter died, and I jumped to my feet.

  “Wait!” I said. “Don't go away! I've got to talk to you! There are questions you have to answer for me!"

  “Well,” she said, “I'm not going to talk while I'm standing in the middle of the room. Let me out."

  “Let you out?” I repeated blankly.

  She pointed down at her feet, stamping one impatiently. “The circle,” she said. “Don't you know anything? I can't get out until it's broken."

  I rubbed out a chalked arc with the sole of my shoe, and she brushed past me in a delicate cloud of black lace and fragrance. I breathed deeply and turned toward her, but she was looking back toward the circle, her eyes on the handkerchief with which I had summoned her. Before she could move, I leaned over, picked up the handkerchief, and started to stuff it into my pocket.

  She held out her hand, snapping her fingers meaningfully, the way a person might do to a dog who has brought back the thrown stick but now is reluctant to release it. I resented it, but guilt made me pull out the square of linen and hand it to her. I looked away as she spread the handkerchief flat and stared at the orange smears. She frowned for a moment and then her face melted into tears.

  “Oh,” she wailed, turning blindly toward the bed. “You've been with that redheaded witch, kissing her, making love to her! You've deserted and gone over to their side!”
She fell on the bed, sobbing. I couldn't tell whether it was rage or sorrow.

  “But—but—” I tried to get out. “I can explain it. I didn't do anything. I didn't have anything to do with it, as a matter of fact. She backed me into a corner and—"

  “Oh, it's always the woman,” she got out between sobs. “The man's never to blame,” she added, inconsistently. And then to compound the confusion, she said, “If you could only see that poisonous vampire as she really is, you wouldn't get within ten feet of her."

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and patted her shaking shoulder. It was a nice shoulder, and I liked patting it. I would have liked to pat something else, but I decided to be content with a shoulder.

  “I wouldn't get within ten feet of her anyway,” I said, shuddering. “Once is too much. Besides, she isn't my type."

  She moved her shoulder away from my hand. “Don't touch me,” she said savagely. And then she added, more softly, “What is your type?"

  I thought about it. As the words came out they were as much a revelation to me as they were to her. “A girl with dark hair,” I said, “and blue eyes, not too tall, about your size and shape—"

  She sat up, brushing away her tears with the back of her hand, like any urchin. If I could have kept my eyes off the nightgown and kept from remembering what the towel had failed to conceal, I would have thought she looked like a little girl. But there was no chance of that kind of mistake.

  Her eyes were bright and blue, suddenly undimmed by tears. “Really?"

  I nodded. “You bet!” I said.

  There must have been conviction in my voice. She smiled. “Did she really back you into a corner?"

  “So help me Hermes!” I said. Hermes Trismegistus, the legendary Egyptian founder of magic, was a name I had run across in my research; his legendary Emerald Tablets were reputed to be even more effective than the Key of Solomon, and his followers among magicians were known as hermetic philosophers. Ariel looked impressed by my learning. “Tell me. What's happened since the session this afternoon? What is Uriel going to do?"

  “He has decided to stay and fight. He's going to help in any way he can. He swore to me that he would strip Solomon of his powers. ‘I created this monster,’ he said, ‘and I will destroy it.’ The werewolf and the little girl were terrible mistakes. For Solomon, that is. The greatest danger the magician runs is pride; he must continually be humble or, like Doctor Faustus, he is lost."

  Now it was my turn to be impressed. Doctor Faustus, indeed! “I don't quite understand,” I said.

  “If that attempt to kill Uriel hadn't been so obvious,” she explained patiently, “or if the mistreatment of the young man and the little girl had not been so gross, I don't think Uriel would ever have done anything about the situation. You've got to understand and not expect too much of him. He's just a mild little man who wouldn't hurt anything. When he saw trouble heading his way, he always went around the block to avoid it. As long as he could convince himself that things weren't too bad, he was willing to let them go along any way they would. All he wants to do is to continue his research and let other people use it as they will. But now he's made up his mind."

  “Uriel?” I said dubiously.

  “He's the best of the lot,” Ariel said. “None of the others can touch him."

  “Not even Solomon?"

  “Not even Solomon,” she said positively.

  “Nevertheless,” I said, “there's just the two of you? You and Uriel? That's all?"

  She nodded.

  “Tough odds,” I said slowly.

  “And Uriel's not well,” she said. “He scoffs at the idea of the Mass of St. Secaire. ‘Superstition!’ he says. But he knows that he could do something similar if he wanted to. But he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to use the Art for evil purposes, and in his heart he can't believe that anyone else would either. So he's tried to protect himself with counterspells but they're weakened by lack of conviction."

  “Well,” I said, “now there's three of us."

  I was rewarded with a glance of pure gratitude. It was enough for any man. “Thank you—Gabriel,” she said. “But what about you? Did you—did you have any luck finding out Solomon's name?"

  I shook my head regretfully. “All I found was this,” I said. I pulled the airline ticket out of my coat pocket. “And I don't have any real reason to believe that it was Solomon's."

  She took the ticket, felt it, smelled it, looked it over carefully, and handed it back. “It feels right. There's an aura of residual psychic force, but it doesn't have to be Solomon's. But it feels right. In any case, keep it! I don't know what good it will do, but it might fit in with something else."

  Suddenly she stiffened and was still. I looked at her. She was staring at something across the room, like a cat looking at creatures no one else can see. But when I turned I saw that she was looking at the back of the mirror I had leaned against the wall.

  I walked to the wall and started to turn the mirror around so that she could look at it. “I stepped on it when I came into the room. It gave me the oddest feeling."

  She gave me a sharp glance. “I'll bet it did,” she said. And then before I could turn the mirror more than halfway, “Careful! That's enough! I've heard of black mirrors, but I never saw one. Someone wants to get rid of you."

  “Oh,” I said, and shrugged. “I imagine it was just another warning. The sensation stopped as soon as I turned on the light."

  “Don't believe it,” she said, her voice shaky. “You were either very strong or very lucky. In the black mirror, time and space are meaningless. A few seconds is like an eternity. You could have gone mad. Or some say that if the mirror is broken while you're trapped, you'll die. Or just disappear, trapped in that dark world forever. And that may be worse."

  I shivered. I was doing a lot of that lately, and I thought, I should have worn a sweater. Or my shockproof persona. This was not my kind of danger. I could have faced a dozen bullets and not felt half so cold.

  “But how did they work it?” she went on, frowning. “Do they know your name?” I shook my head. Ariel snapped her fingers. “That witch, La Voisin! When she kissed you, did she run her fingers through your hair?"

  “Why, yes,” I said slowly. “Come to think of it. I guess she did. So what?"

  “You poor unsuspecting males,” she said, shaking her head in sorrow for the whole other sex. “Did you think she was overcome with desire for you?"

  “Well,” I said, a bit offended, “as a matter of fact—” But she was up and coming toward me. I watched her warily.

  “This is what she did,” Ariel said and put her face up and raised her arms and pulled my head down to hers. Our lips met. There was nothing electric about it, I'll have to confess that, but it was sweet and satisfying. Maybe better than electricity. I felt my pulse begin to pound. Her hand moved tenderly up the back of my neck into my hair. “M-m-m,” she said, her lips half-parted.

  Finally she pulled away, her eyes glazed and distant. Then, as my eyes focused again, I saw her eyes snap back to the here and now. “Oh, dear,” she said. She held out her hand to me. “Look!"

  I looked. Several of my blond hairs had come away in her hand. I winced. The redheaded witch had something that belonged to me, that gave her power over me. God knew what she was going to do with it. If she hadn't already done it. Then I thought of something. “We came out even, then,” I said. “I have one of hers."

  Her eyes narrowed and her other hand reached out. “Let me have it!” she said eagerly.

  I got the envelope from my coat and handed it to her. With the envelope held tightly in her left hand, she stooped and picked up the piece of chalk where I had left it on the floor. She stepped into the circle on the rug, bent and replaced the arc I had rubbed out with my shoe, and disappeared.

  “Hey,” I yelled. “Wait! I still don't know where to find you—"

  That's me. Always too late.

  Chapter 8

  Underneath all the tales there d
oes lie something different from the tales. How different? In this—that the thing which is invoked is a thing of a different nature, however it may put on a human appearance or indulge in its servants their human appetites. It is cold, it is hungry, it is violent, it is illusory. The warm blood of children and the intercourse at the Sabbath do not satisfy it. It wants something more and other; it wants “obedience,” it wants “souls,” and yet it pines for matter. It never was, and yet it always is.

  - Charles Williams, Witchcraft

  I'm not much of a dreamer. Oh, I dream like everybody else, but as dreams they're pretty ordinary: dread of being late for a class, libidinous longings for some girl or other of the moment or of the distant past, fear of some unseen menace or of something terrible about to happen ... nothing that would interest a discriminating psychoanalyst. Nothing lavish and multicolored and meaningful.

  But my recent experiences must have programmed my unconscious for a real Sandman Production. Not much after I had gone to sleep, as I calculated time in my dreaming condition, I found myself high above an evening landscape, looking down upon a scene that seemed strangely antique. A countryside was below, a farming community it seemed, but the fields were small as if they were intended for tilling by a man and an animal, or a man alone, and the fields were separated by rows of small, gnarled trees. Next to each small field, black now with the crops all gathered in for the year, was a small cottage with a thatched roof. They, in turn, were clustered around a more stately house with more extensive grounds, virtually a mansion, I supposed.

  Unlike most dreams, which tend to be blurred around the edges, often in black and white, and seldom with more than one sensory stimulus besides sight, in this dream everything was sharply focused and touched the full sensorium. The air that rushed through my nose and into my lungs was crisp and cold and clean, uncontaminated by pollutants other than wood smoke curling from fireplaces below. I knew how the straw felt on the thatched roofs of the cottages and the packed dirt that formed the floors, and I could hear the tolling of bells from the steeple of a village church, whether to sound the hour or to call to worship I did not know.