13
Never Traffic with Spirits, Ma’am
The last of the light died away as the colors of the sunset bled across the ocean. As the first star rose, I went to where Mephisto sat huddled under a sail tarp, staring out into the darkness.
“It’s Wednesday,” I said. “Let’s take a look at the Ouija board.”
As Mephisto rose groggily to his feet, I called good-naturedly, hoping that if I did not make an issue of our earlier argument, Mab would forget it. “Are you coming, Mab?”
He did not stir. Nor had he moved, not one quarter of an inch, not one hair, since our argument more than an hour before. He stood beside the binnacle, facing out toward the sea, shrouded in the night’s gloom. Seeing him so motionless, I was struck by the flimsiness of his human disguise. No man could stand as motionless as he on a rocking sailboat. He looked like a man, but in times of turmoil, the inhumanity of his true nature revealed itself.
I ordered the Aerie Spirits to keep the ship on a steady course, and Mephisto and I climbed down the hatch. The cabin was of teak and brightly polished brass and smelled of linseed oil and disinfectant. Large wooden leaves, attached to a rectangular board that was sunk through the floor and secured to the keel, had been unfolded to form the chart table. Lanterns were fastened to the port and starboard bulkheads.
We set up the chart table and laid out the Ouija board. I used a compass to align the axis of the board with north, while Mephisto lit four tall bayberry candles and used melted wax to stick them to the rounded corners of the chart table. Then, we sat down on the bunks, facing each other, shook out our wrists, and each placed two fingers on the planchette.
Our attempt failed miserably. We could not agree on what questions to ask, and Mephisto kept pushing the planchette about the board instead of waiting for the spirits to guide it. Frustrated, I doused the candles and folded up the board. After saying goodnight to Mephisto, I climbed into my bunk and prayed; however, my Lady had no wisdom for me tonight. Closing my eyes, I drifted off into sleep.
I stood by the ocean on a stormy night. Hurricane winds beat the shore, as strong as those Ariel stirred up to force Ferdinand and his father onto our island so long ago. Only this time, the winds blew Ferdinand away from me. At least he looked like Ferdinand, though as is the way with dreams, I felt certain it was actually someone else. He called to me with outstretched arms; however, the wind ripped his words away before they reached my ears.
The seeming Ferdinand refused to be daunted. He struggled toward me, and I toward him. My hair whipped about in the roaring winds. We drew close, almost touching. He bent his head, his lips near mine.
A lightning bolt struck the ground between our feet. A tremendous crash rent the sky and the air smelled of ozone. He was tossed back, sprawling across the sand. The lightning bolt arched its neck and brought its spiral horn down to hover just above his heart. The figure with Ferdinand’s face scrambled backwards.
An enormous wave crashed between us, drowning the beach. The land where he stood receded from me. He ran to the forward tip of his landmass, screaming through the roar of the wind. Secure behind my wall of lightning, I could not hear him.
As the windblown figure of Ferdinand dwindled, there came a momentary lull in the storm. His words carried across the distance. “She’s not a guard, she’s a jailer!” he called. “Look, it is you who are imprisoned, not I!”
Now, I stood upon an island besieged by angry waters on every side. The island was no more than ten feet across. Upon it, I was alone but for a windswept oak. Girded about the island was a low railing of lightning, similar to the fence that girded the unicorn’s enclosure in medieval tapestries. Here and there, among the posts and cross rails of electricity, I could make out the proud head and horn of unicorns facing the storm.
I woke, my heart pounding as I lay shivering in my bunk. Pale starlight came through the porthole above me. The dream seemed hauntingly real, and that sensation awoke my suspicion. I stirred to go find Mab, then stopped, as I recalled our recent argument. Softly, I swore. I needed Mab, and dream interpretation was not the sort of skill I could force with the flute.
Yet, the mere idea of allowing any spirit to roam free, even a spirit as well-mannered as Mab, left me feeling sick to my stomach. I had walked through the aftermath of too many supernatural battles, seen too many shattered towns, and too many broken, bleeding children, their lives destroyed by brawling sylphs or warring oreads or unrestrained djinn, to believe mankind could live in peace with unbound spirits.
In my youth, before Father started Prospero, Inc., earthquakes, tidal waves, tornadoes, and vast forest fires—the outward manifestations of spirit violence—were far more common and destructive than they are today. Those disasters, however, were nothing when compared to the magnitude of the catastrophes that took place before King Solomon bound the Four Lords of the Elements. Modern treatises do not correctly portray the magnitude of past natural disasters. Few chroniclers survived to describe the incidents. Where they did, their works have since been edited by the Orbis Suleimani. Scientists cannot agree on what destroyed the dinosaurs, but Mab could tell you.
Now, here was Mab, carrying to the extreme his affectation of having the feelings and rights of mankind. His pretensions infuriated me. I wanted to pick up the flute and dance him around the deck like a puppet to remind him of his true nature. Yet, I knew if I did, he would never forgive me.
As I wondered again why Father had given Mab that body of clay, an answer occurred to me. It was so astounding I cried out, oblivious of the sleeping Mephisto in the bunk across from mine.
Father had promised, when he first freed Ariel from the pine, that he would let the Aerie Ones go at the end of a millennium—half of which had already passed. Yet, Father did not want them free to strafe mankind again. Only recently, a tussle between Aerie Spirits and watery ones resulted in the flattening of houses in Florida and the destruction of levees in Louisiana, and that was while they were bound!
If Father wanted to keep his power in the world of spirits, he could not break his word. He needed to find a way to free the Aerie Ones, and yet keep them from harming mankind. His two options were: bind them anew, or teach them self-discipline! Creatures with self-discipline need not be bound by magicians. They could rule themselves by following the guidance of their conscience.
Only two ranks of beings acted with discipline: angels and men. Angels looked directly to God to set their course, and so could not be truly said to have self-discipline. That left men. Could Father have given earthly bodies to a few Aerie Ones as part of an experiment to determine whether they could learn self-control? If Mab could learn to rule himself, he could safely go free.
I could not free Mab, now, without destroying the flute and freeing all the Aerie Ones. Nor would I maim Mephisto to placate him. Yet I needed him. Not only did his notebook contain all the clues to our current adventure, but he was also the demonologist and the thaumaturge. He had recognized both the figurine and the Irish Setter as supernatural far before Mephisto or I would have. Nor would I have wanted to try my hand at disenchanting the Unicorn Hunter’s chameleon cloak. Theurgy is my specialty, not thaumaturgy.
Then there were Mab’s mundane detective skills. He knew how to check with credit bureaus and find people’s bank account numbers. I still did not know the whereabouts of Erasmus, Titus, or Ulysses. I doubted I could find them without Mab’s help.
And finally, there was the fact that I liked him. He made a pleasant companion. I prayed to my Lady again, this time asking specifically for guidance in dealing with Mab. For a long time, I received no response. Undaunted, I maintained my vigil. When an answer finally came, I picked up the wooden figurine Mephisto had carved and climbed the ladder to the deck.
The dark form in trench coat and fedora stood motionless beside the helm, silhouetted by the moonlight. I padded forward quietly and pressed the wooden figurine into his hands. As his fingers curled about it, I spoke the words that had come to me—though they stuck in my throat.
“I am sorry, Mab. I apologize.”
Mab turned toward me slowly, his face obscured under the shadow of his hat.
“Words aren’t enough, Miss Miranda. What are you planning to do about it?”
How dare he speak back to me in such a fashion! Mab had worked with me long enough to know how rarely I apologized. That should have been enough for him. I wished I had brought the flute with me. A few well-chosen toots, and he would be curbing his manners!
I listened for my Lady again, but Her words made me balk. I had never hesitated to obey my Lady before—but surely there must be some mistake. Perhaps I had misunderstood. I dared to ask a second time, but the answer remained the same.
Obediently, I spoke them. “Whatever punishment you feel is just, Mab. What would you have me do to Mephisto?”
Whatever Mab had expected, this was not it. He cocked his head, taken aback. The moonlight now fell upon part of his face. A flash of bitterness crossed his craggy features, and his mouth opened as if he meant to make a quick retort. Apparently, he wisely thought better of it, for he shut his mouth and, screwing up his face, scratched his stubble.
“I guess we can’t really kill the nut,” he said at last. The coldness had drained out of his voice. “But he is a danger, ma’am! And not just to me. He probably alerted Osae the Red to our position by pulling out that cloak, and he definitely caused the barghest attack when he tore open the crate.
“Okay. Just see that he doesn’t do any more carving while I’m around, and when we get back to the mainland, he goes! You don’t have to kick him out the second we touch down. I mean it’s all right with me if you get him an apartment or leave him with a brother or something. But he goes. No more staff stuff.”
“Very well,” I said, although my heart was heavy.
Still, I was relieved he had not asked me to cut off Mephisto’s hand.
Only the faintest moonlight shone through the portholes. Outside, we could hear the creak of the rigging, and the pounding of the waves against the hull. I sat on my bunk, a white lace dressing gown secured tightly about me. Beside me, Mab sat hunched, gazing intently at the curling calligraphy of the antique Ouija board. Across from us, a yawning Mephisto blinked owlishly in Hello Kitty pajamas.
Mab pulled out a silver cigar lighter and held it up to the first candle. Then, he lowered it again, turning it between his fingers.
“Ma’am, I’d like to go on record as objecting to this procedure. I realize you humans think of this Ouija board as a toy, but magic is never a game, ma’am. It’s a deadly serious business, as in: if you don’t take it seriously, someone will soon be dead. Mortals should never traffic with spirits, ma’am.”
“I appreciate your candor, Mab. Now, let’s get started.”
“But what about all the salt you spilled on the floor, Mr. Bodyguard? Won’t that protect us?” asked Mephisto.
“Bah! Table salt is good against your run-of-the-mill spirit—if you don’t invite them to cross! But this board acts like an automatic invitation. As soon as I light the candles, it will invite every ambient spirit within leagues to pop over and offer us their opinion. Compels ’em to tell the truth, within certain limits, but that’s about all the protection it offers. Stinking way to do business, if you ask me.”
“Then, why did you waste the salt? Or did you just pour it for fun?” my brother asked. He peered under the table and presumably poked his toe at the salt circle Mab had drawn upon the deck. Mab slapped his arm.
“Cut that out! What little good it might do will be undone if you break the circle! As to what protection it offers?” Mab shrugged. “Well, it’s about as effective as locking the barn door while blasting a hole in the back wall of the horse’s stall. If, on the off chance, it should turn out the horse can’t squeeze through the hole, at least he won’t get out by the front door.”
“It was Theo who suggested . . . ” I began.
“Mr. Theo also suggested that using magic damned the soul, ma’am. He would not be participating were he here tonight. Good man, your brother.”
“Thank you, Mab. Your concerns are noted,” I replied crisply. “Do either of you have any questions you want asked?”
“Let’s ask what God eats for lunch,” suggested Mephisto.
Mab glowered at Mephisto. “This is a serious matter, chump! And if I catch you pushing the planchette, I’m taking off some part of your anatomy. Besides, everyone knows what gods eat—nectar and ambrosia.”
“Gentlemen, please! We only have a few minutes of Wednesday left. If neither of you have any pressing questions, I will begin by asking whether my dream tonight was normal or a visit from an incubus.”
“What dream?” Mab asked sharply.
“I had a dream. There was something odd about it.”
Mephisto giggled. “Oh, Miranda, you’re such a dopey-head! Just because you dream about sex doesn’t mean there’s an incubus haunting you.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, Mephisto, but I did not dream about . . . intimate relations.” I was glad the darkness hid my face.
Mephisto cocked his head to one side. “Then what made you think it was an inkie?”
“The Unicorn came to defend me.”
My brother’s mouth formed a soundless “O.”
Mab swore. “Geesh! Okay, let’s get cracking. Remember—ordinary humans may play with this board, but they don’t have enchanted garbage hanging off their persons by the bucket load. So, as soon as I light these candles, everyone shuts up. Miss Miranda will ask the questions, and even then, only when her hand is touching the planchette. She will start with “Yes” and “No” questions, and only move on to more elaborate answers once communication has been established. If anyone else has to say something, put out the candles first. Or better yet, write it down. Here’s a paper and pencil.” Mab ripped a page from his notebook, pulled an extra stubby pencil from his trench coat pocket, and handed them both to Mephisto. “Ready?”
When Mephisto and I nodded, Mab lit the candles. The three of us shook out our wrists and each rested two fingers on the planchette.
I closed my eyes, preparing. The bunk rolled beneath me as the sailboat skipped from wave to wave. The pleasant aroma of bayberry and burning wick drifted through the cabin. In the distance, a bell buoy clanged.
Opening my eyes, I asked, “Was I visited by the incubus Seir of the Shadows in my dream tonight?”
Immediately, the planchette wiggled and shot across the board to cover the “YES.”
Mab pounced on the candles, extinguishing their fires, and plunging the cabin into darkness.
“You pushed it!” came Mab’s accusing growl.
“I did not,” Mephisto objected hotly. To my eyes, he was but a faint shape in the murk. “Why would I want Miranda to believe a dopey thing like that?”
“Gentlemen!” I commanded. “Time grows short. Let’s try again.”
“You might want to make your questions simpler, ma’am,” Mab said to me as he prepared to light the candles again. “If you had gotten a ‘No,’ you would not know if that meant ‘There was no incubus,’ or ‘The incubus was not Seir of the Shadows.’”
“True. However, we are short on time. A ‘Yes’ answers both questions at once. I can always ask the simpler version if we get a ‘No.’ Shall we continue?”
Mab shrugged and relit the candles. We put our fingers on the planchette again. I asked the same question. The planchette moved under my fingers, traveling rapidly to cover the “YES.”
A chill traveled down my spine. So, it had been a demon! How disturbing. And how nasty of Seir to appear as Ferdinand!
It was one thing to suspect a dream of being more than it seemed, but it was quite another to discover it was true. I felt uncomfortable, as if my most private sanctum had been invaded. I wondered what precautions could be taken to protect against future incursions. I wished I could ask Theo, but perhaps, Mab would know.
Still shaken, I moved on to the next question.
“Can Seir appear out of any shadow, anywhere?”
The planchette trembled, then began sliding across the board.
NO.
Mab scribbled furiously with his left hand, having put his right hand on the planchette. It took me a moment to decipher his loopy scrawl.
“Only where he is invited?”
YES.
Mab scribbled down two more questions. I read them in order.
“Is a vocal invitation sufficient?”
YES.
“Is just saying his name, without intending it to be an invocation, sufficient?”
NO.
Mab breathed an audible sigh of relief. I gave him a reassuring smile before I realized he probably could not see me in the near darkness. Meanwhile, Mephisto leaned over and began scribbling on the paper. Unlike Mab and me, he had put his left hand on the planchette, so he wrote with ease.
His note read: “Does line of sight act as an invitation?”
The board answered, YES.
So, if he could see us in the distance, he could step out of a shadow beside us. Eerie and disturbing, but point to Mephisto for thinking of it.
Taking a deep breath, I asked, “Is the man who introduced himself to us as Ferdinand Di Napoli a shapechanger?”
The planchette hesitated. In the silence, my heart seemed to be thumping loudly. Was this pause a suspicious sign? Or, was it just that the name of Ferdinand Di Napoli was not as familiar to these spirits as the Three Shadowed Ones?
Eventually, it moved again. NO.
That was a relief! I decided to leave YES/NO questions and move on to more chancy territory.
“Where has he been the last several hundred years?” I asked.
The pause was shorter this time. Then, the planchette began moving, pausing here and there atop the handsome letters on the quaint antique board. Mab scribbled quickly, noting the pauses. The letters it hovered over spelled out:
I-N—H-E-L-L
Having moved beyond YES/NO queries, I asked another question that set my heart hammering.
“Where is my father?”
The answer was the same: I-N—H-E-L-L.
This only confirmed what I already suspected, yet it was all I could do to keep from exclaiming out loud. Mab’s fingers went rigid on the planchette, and Mephisto gasped. The candles flickered. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. I pushed on quickly.
“Is he alive?”
YES.
My mouth had gone dry. I let out the breath I had not even realized I had been holding.
“How did my father come to be in Hell?”
T-H-E—T-H-R-E-E—S-H-A-D-O-W-E-D—O-N-E-S—C-A-P-T-U-R-E-D—H-I-M—B-A-E-L-O-R—O-S-A-E—S-E-I-R.
“Who holds him now?”
T-O-R-T-U-R-E-R-S—F-R-O-M—T-H-E—T-O-W-E-R—O-F—P-A-I-N.
“What was Prospero doing when he was captured?”
A pause then.
T-H-E—S-E-C-R-E-T-S—O-F—D-R-E-A-D—P-R-O-S-P-E-R-O—A-R-E—U-N-K-N-O-W-N—T-O—U-S.
I shifted nervously on the bunk. I had forgotten how disturbing séances were. The air hummed with tension and the feeling of unseen presences. While I found the company of Aerie Ones soothing, these lesser spirits made me distinctly uncomfortable. I began to recall why it was that I had chosen to run the business side of things and leave the actual practice of magic to Father and Erasmus.
“What is one plus one?” I asked suspiciously.
TWO.
“Hmm.” I burned to ask: “What happened to the mind of my brother Mephisto?” and “Why does he turn into a giant black being that looks disturbingly like a demon?” However, I did not know how Mephisto would react. If he objected or cried out, the results could be deadly. Reluctantly, I postponed the investigation of those questions.
I already knew the board could not answer my most burning question: “What is needed to become a Sibyl?” In past séances, years ago, I had asked the question numerous times in a myriad of formats. The spirits moving the planchette were not privy to Eurynome’s secrets.
I returned to the subject of the Three Shadowed Ones.
“What can you tell us about Baelor of the Baleful Eye?”
H-E—R-E-A-D-S—M-I-N-D-S.
“What are the limits on his power?”
E-Y-E—C-O-N-T-A-C-T—O-R—T-O-U-C-H.
As Mab scribbled down a question, I felt another chill travel down my spine. Suddenly, I wanted to put out the candles and climb back into my bunk. Mab was right. Humans were not meant to meddle with magic. I reached toward the candles.
Mab handed me his question. It was one he had asked earlier. After our recent spat, I was hesitant to disappoint him. I glanced up at the brass clock. It read five minutes to midnight. What could another five minutes hurt? I read the question aloud.
“Where did Ferdinand Di Napoli emerge from Hell into the daylit world?”
The planchette hesitated for a long time. Finally, it began moving slowly across the board, spelling out:
E-L-G-I-N—I-L.
I stifled a gasp, but Mephisto was not so reserved. He blurted out: “Isn’t that where Gregor is buried?”
The planchette began moving, jerking and pausing about the Ouija board. Like children listening to a ghost story, we awaited its answer; our breath held, the hair on the nape of our necks rising as the planchette spelled out:
N-O—L-O-N-G-E-R.