23
The Scrying Pool of Naughty and Nice
We lay hidden in a snow bank as the High Council came across the moonlit snow. Arrayed in their finery, they rode in single file, each upon a long-maned sable horse draped with bells. Their cloaks of state flowed over the rumps of their steeds, trailing along the snow behind them. The cloaks were mirrored, like pools of ice, reflecting the pale arctic moonlight, each with its own touch of subtle color tinting the silver: royal purple for the elf king, followed by gold, black, flame red, white, green, scarlet, and indigo. Each lord wore a crown: gems for Ivaldi Goldenarm, the craftsman, whom earth elementals served; jagged spears of ice for Valendur the Dark, lord of water spirits; flickering flames for Vandel Spitfire; white swan wings for Carbonel, lord of beasts; a hoop of living wood bursting with roses and ivy leaves for Delling, the Forest lord; a cruel crown fashioned from edged dagger blades and curving tines for the warlord Aundelair; and a diadem of iridescent pearls for the sorcerer-scholar Fincunir. The elf king alone went crownless. No circlet could pass over his towering antlers.
The snow insulated us a bit, but I still shivered. There was a knot in my stomach, which I tried to attribute to the cold. Drawing the hood of my borrowed fur coat closer about my face, I peered down the line of the procession again, searching for a cloak of deep blue and a crown of stars, but I could not find them.
Beside me, Mab stirred and muttered, “Hey! Where’s our elf?”
“Our elf?’” I asked, though I knew exactly whom he meant.
“Astreus, the Lord of the Winds. The elf who represents us Aerie Ones on the High Council.”
“I was just wondering the same thing,” I observed.
Mab’s eyes narrowed. He shot me a suspicious look. “Wait a second . . . that elf you danced with, the one Mephisto wanted you to marry . . . You don’t mean it was . . . ”
Mephisto interrupted him. “Hey, Miranda, where’s your elf? I don’t see him.”
I sighed.
After the stately procession passed, we crept back to the main house by a circuitous route, so as not to draw attention to ourselves. Mephisto wandered off to swim in the sauna-pool, while Mab and I gathered steaming mugs of hot cocoa laced with mint liqueur, and followed Father Christmas down the narrow cedar-paneled halls to the scriery.
The scriery opened off the hall, a dark room lit only by the silver light shining out from the large black marble basin. The light reflected off tiny crystal chips set into the ceiling. These “stars” formed unrecognizable patterns, until I leaned over and looked into the waters of the basin. There, the concave surface altered the shape of the patterns overhead so they formed the familiar constellations. Staring into the pool, I experienced the illusion that I was looking up at the dome of the night sky.
Father Christmas lifted his holly staff and tapped it three times lightly on the floor. In his deep booming voice, he said, “Ask what you will.”
“Is there anything we should be wary of?” asked Mab.
Santa shook his head. “My pool can show you no evil things. This pool sees with my authority. The secrets of adults are not mine to reveal. Its waters will only show you children.”
“So we don’t have to worry about accidentally looking, say, into the depths of Hell or the Unendurable Citadel?” Mab said.
“No. No earthly scrying pool will show you the Underworld. For that, you would need Merlin’s crystal sphere.”
“Good thing Mephisto destroyed it!” I murmured emphatically.
“Ah . . . about that sphere, ma’am . . . ” Mab began.
Father Christmas’s deep voice interrupted him. “Look where you will. I would stay and assist you, but I am needed elsewhere to prepare for the feast.” Smiling, he drew the door closed, leaving us alone in the semi-darkness.
Stepping up to the side of the pool, I looked into its star-studded waters and said, “Show me the children of Titus Prospero.”
Ripples of light spread from one star fleck, filling the pool and obscuring the rest of the night sky. In the center of the spreading ripples, an image appeared. It grew until it filled the entire surface. Two boys of about nine and eleven years sat in what appeared to be a large library, perhaps in a mansion. The older one read a book. Large round glasses gave his thin face an owlish appearance. The younger one looked more athletic, reminding me, with a pang, of a youthful Theo. His slumped shoulders betrayed his boredom. He bounced a ball against the wooden floor.
The older boy glanced at the younger. When he spoke, a sweet inhuman voice, issued from out of the empty air beside Mab and me, repeating the words he spoke. The crystal pristine voice spoke rapidly, though unhurriedly, in order to faithfully convey the boy’s rambling, rushed chatter.
“Typhon, must you make so much noise with that ball? Because if you must, then that’s okay, but I am trying to read here. I just got to the part where the hero is trying to save the pig from the man with the antlers, only you are making a such a racket I can’t hear myself think, much less read. So I would be much happier if you were quiet. You could read a book, too, you know. Maybe one on sports? You seem to like sports. I read a good one once, The History of Sportsmanship. It’s on the shelf behind you. Or, maybe you could dribble your ball downstairs?”
The younger boy ignored him and continued to dribble his ball on the library floor. He looked petulant and lonely.
“Or not,” said the older boy, sighing and continuing to read.
“Interesting. They look very much like us,” I said. “Wonder where they are?”
“Ask the pool to pull back the image,” said Mab.
I threw Mab an uncertain glance, but gave it a try. “Pool, pull the image back and show us the outside of the house,” I commanded.
It worked. Mab grinned smugly. The image now showed an old Southern plantation house flanked by sycamores dripping with Spanish moss.
“I know that place,” I said, surprised. “That’s Logistilla’s house in Georgia! She didn’t breathe a word about this when we questioned her about the family. I wonder if Titus is staying there as well. Pool, show us who else lives in the house.” But either no one else did, or they were adults, for the image did not move.
“Guess it wouldn’t work to try and trick it by claiming Titus never really grew up or something,” Mab said thoughtfully.
“No. Maybe with Mephisto, but not with Titus. He’s the most stolid of us. But at least we know where his children are. We can send an Aerie One to spy the place out, and see if Titus is there, too,” I finished, though I doubted it. Why would he have stopped sending me cards if he were merely in Georgia?
Just for the heck of it, I commanded, “Show me Prospero.” Again, the image remained fixed on the red mansion and the dripping moss. “Show me Titus Prospero’s children again.”
The image returned to the two boys. I bent over the water, examining the room. The library was multi-level, with more books visible on a balcony above. To one side, on a raised dais, stood the most intricate doll house I had ever seen. As tall as the older child, it stood open, displaying to the viewer the interior of a toy mansion with twin wings.
“How strange! Mab, do you see that toy house? What do you make of it?”
Mab leaned forward, peering into the scrying pool. “Huh! That’s Prospero’s Mansion, ma’am. That’s your house!” Mab bent even closer, his nose just above the water. “Looks just like it, ma’am, down to the last detail . . . except a few of the toy doorways are made of ivory. I can see the little statues in the Great Hall! There’s the lesser hall, the library, Mr. Prospero’s study, and that underground corridor that runs to the Vault, and the Wintergarden. And, look! At the top! There’s the eyrie! Hey, they’ve even got my cot in there!” He frowned and scribbled something in his notebook, muttering, “Better ward it again next time I’m at the mansion.”
“Why would Titus’s children have a doll house that looked exactly like Father’s house, down to the furniture and furnishings?” I asked slowly. “That seems . . . ”
“Occultish?” Mab drawled. “Yeah, I was thinkin’ the same thing.”
“So, if this is Logistilla’s place . . . ” My voice trailed off.
“You think that’s Logistilla’s voodoo house? I don’t like it, ma’am. Specially not after that devil stench I smelled at her place.” He frowned, his gaze fixed on the doll house. “We still don’t know how that incubus got into the mansion.”
I shivered and began chafing my arms. “We haven’t found Titus, but we’ve learned some interesting things nonetheless. I guess that’s all we’re going to see here, unless there are other children in our family I do not know about.”
The image shifted again. This time, it showed a group of dark-haired children playing in the street. As I watched, a man dressed in jeans and a blue shirt called to one of the children to come home. Apparently, the pool showed adults if they happened to pass close to children. Mab and I leaned closer.
“Why is the pool showing us this scene? Who is this boy? . . . Hey! I recognize that man! Mab, where have we seen him before?”
“I think . . . ” Mab peered closer. “I know! He was one of the workmen at the Lincoln Memorial. He was the young guy hanging around with the fellow Harebrain nicknamed Mr. Mustache.”
I leaned closer, examining the brass ring on the workman’s hand. Gasping, I grabbed Mab’s shoulder. “Oh, Mab! We are such fools! Look at the symbol on his ring! That wasn’t the Star of David those masons were wearing! It was—”
“The Seal of Solomon,” Mab finished. His voice trembled slightly. “Ma’am, those guys aren’t Freemasons. They’re Orbis Suleimani!”
“No wonder they followed us down to the Caribbean!” I whispered, releasing Mab to pace about the room. “The Orbis Suleimani are devoted to removing all traces of magic from Mankind. If they heard us talking at the monument . . . That man in the motorboat! Mr. Mustache!”
Mab’s face was grim. “If he was one of them, he might not have been sent by the Three Shadowed Ones after all.”
“Oh dear, and I had been congratulating myself for taking him out so cleverly.” I shivered suddenly. “I hope he survived the crash . . . unless the Orbis Suleimani is in cahoots with the Three Shadowed Ones, which could be the case if Cornelius has gone bad.” I froze. “Ferdinand! He was with us in DC. He’s probably in danger, too! Do you think the pool was trying to warn us?”
“I wouldn’t burst your buttons, ma’am. If they haven’t gotten him by now, he’s probably safe. Either way, there’s no point in our running off half-cocked to look for him.”
“Still, perhaps, we should leave immediately, as you suggested. Without waiting for dinner, I mean.”
“Glad to hear you talking sense, ma’am,” Mab agreed, adding under his breath, “Even if I don’t much care for the cause.”
In the end, we stayed for the feast. We did inquire about leaving, only to discover a terrible blizzard raged outside. Even the reindeer with the nose-light refused to guide us through this storm. I offered to dispel the blizzard with my flute, but our host asked that it be allowed to run its course as he had already requested it to hold off until after Christmas Eve. As this left us with no way to depart before the weather cleared, our choice was to sit in our rooms or attend the feast.
The feast was not until late in the evening, so Mab and I decided to join Mephisto in the sauna-pool. I do not approve of the modern swimming suits—they reveal more flesh than they cover, but an elf maid had provided me with a proper bathing outfit, one that covered the shoulders and thighs while leaving the limbs free to enjoy the water. They had even gone to the trouble of providing me with one in emerald green. Garbed in this, and toting the huge shaggy lime-colored towel that I found folded beside my new swimsuit, I hurried down to join the men.
I walked into the steam-filled chamber and breathed in the moist sandalwood-scented air. It was like nothing I had seen elsewhere. The room was like a sauna, with cedar walls and ceiling, but much larger than any public sauna I knew. Hot rocks, over which water poured occasionally, formed a ring around a medium-sized swimming pool, filling the chamber with steam. Its heated waters bubbled from the pressure of air jets. The setup looked simple enough, but whether or not it required magic to keep up the thick steamy atmosphere, I could not tell.
The water was very warm. I luxuriated in the hot bubbling water, floating pleasantly in its relaxing warmth. Nearby, Mab, dressed in a pair of black bathing shorts, hung just beneath the surface with only his eyes and nose above the water. Farther along, Mephisto played with a large colorful beach ball. He leapt and splashed about, trying to interest us in his games, but Mab and I were both content merely to soak up the warmth.
As he floated, Mab pulled out his new Space Pen and began scribbling happily upon the pages of his waterproof notebook, underneath the water. I closed my eyes and breathed in the cedar-scented air, thinking back upon previous Christmases spent in exotic places, or with my family, in happier days. Christmas, to me, brought to mind the ringing of bells, exchanging presents, scrumptious feasts, and, in the earlier days, attending Mass. In later years, my siblings became less religious, and we stopped going as a family, though Father never missed attending church on Christmas Day—not until this year, anyway.
Even after Father retired, we still spent Christmas together. I would fly out to Prospero’s Island to collect him, and we would attend mass in Notre Dame, or the Sistine chapel, or at one of the great Protestant Churches. We had talked about spending this next Christmas at the Duomo in Milan. Neither of us had been home in ages. It was to have been a special outing, just the two of us.
How terribly sad to know that while I basked in warmth and luxury, my father suffered the torments of Hell.
I splashed my face with hot water, so as to conceal any tell-tale tears, and recalled another Christmas when I had feared I would not see Father, though that occasion came to a happy conclusion. It had been a cold December, about forty years after our raid on the Vatican. After barely escaping the Roundheads with our lives, we had fled England. Returning ten years later, we found Cromwell dead, and the nation ruled by tolerant King Charles II. Father and Erasmus quickly made themselves useful to the new regime, and we were again the darlings of a British court.
Christmas of 1666, however, promised to be a lonely one, as only Mephisto, Erasmus, Logistilla, and I were home. Father and the rest of our brothers had left months before, chasing yet another meager hope of curing Cornelius’s blindness by visiting some hot bath or holy relic. They had been expected for weeks, but there had been no sign or word.
The four of us who remained were an incongruous lot; yet, as the holidays approached, our spirits rose. Carolers knocked at our door, singing “As It Fell on a Holie Eve” and “Angels, From the Realms of Glory.” We filled their hands with coins and steaming mugs of a strong ale called “nog,” for everyone believed it was bad luck to send carolers away empty-handed. We had no Christmas tree—that tradition had not yet been brought over from Germany—but we did have a nativity scene Mephisto had carved many years before. Mary and Joseph were a bit the worse for wear when we first took them out, but after Erasmus gave them a fresh coat of paint and a touch of gilt, they looked quite festive.
After the others returned from church, we gathered in our finery for Christmas supper. Ribbons were newly in fashion, and Logistilla dripped from crown to sole with brightly colored “ribands of the finest satin.” Erasmus and Mephisto (who no longer showed any concern for what he wore and thus had been clothed by Erasmus) were dressed in the new “English style” made popular by the king, who hoped to rival the French as an instigator of fashion. I thought they looked quite handsome in their long black cassocks lined with pink-and-white silk, though Logistilla insisted they looked like giant magpies. Less concerned with the dictates of fashion myself, I wore a gown of severe dark green with a falling lace collar of the sort popular during the reign of the current king’s grandfather.
Just as we sat down to our Christmas supper, the door burst opened and in came Father, along with Theo, Titus, Cornelius, and Gregor. Returning from the Continent, they were decked out in the latest French style, wearing long justaucorps and handsome dark periwigs of wavy curls, except for Gregor, who wore his cardinal’s robes, despite the danger to Catholics in England. Entering the house, they swept off Cavalier hats festooned with jaunty ostrich feathers—much like the one Mephisto had just received, which might have been what recalled this scene to me—and came forward, smiling, to embrace us.
Titus burst into laughter when he saw Mephisto’s and Erasmus’s attire, and informed them that the French king had recently taken to dressing his footmen and servants in this “English” manner. That was the last time I saw either Erasmus or Mephisto wear their magpie coats. There was much anger against the French king for this slight, especially among the English noblemen, who muttered that such indignity would incite even a stone to seek revenge. Yet, soon the whole court, including King Charles himself, were again garbed as French fashion dictated.
We all sat down together around our Christmas dinner, though what was to have been a large feast for four looked somewhat meager when shared among nine. Still, despite Cornelius’s most recent disappointment, there was an air of festivity and joy.
“You missed a horrendous fire,” Erasmus explained as Father began carving the shoulder of mutton. “Near all the city was destroyed. I did hear it called the new Great Fire of London.”
“’Twas worse than the fire of 1212?” asked Father.
“Over thirteen thousand houses lost. True, some of these fell to the Duke of York’s gunpowder. Buckingham claims York was overzealous in his efforts to stop the conflagration, but the number remains.”
Theo whistled. “How many killed?”
“Six!” Erasmus grinned.
Father’s white bushy eyebrows shot up. “All those houses lost and only six souls died? Surely, the Hand of God rested upon London.”
“Or the hand of Prospero!” Erasmus chuckled. “Mephisto and I ensnared the Sovereign of the Salamanders early the first day. Lacking our staffs, we had not the strength to compel him to stop his inferno, but we offered what we could. We promised if his minions curbed their taste for the living, restricting their diet to inanimate materials and beasts, we would reward him with a droplet of Water of Life. He did as we requested, and we paid the toll.” The laughter drained out of Erasmus’s face. “Sir, if we had but had our staffs! Thousands of men are destitute, camped in tents at St. George’s Fields, and Moorfields, or as far out as Highgate. All of which could have been avoided.”
“In their despair, many have turned to dishonest means. Our prisons are frightfully overcrowded,” huffed Logistilla, who often visited the prisons as part of her charity work.
“And this after the Black Death claimed nearly twenty thousand souls only last year.” Gregor bowed his head in prayer. “O Accursed City! The men of England suffer for the sins of their libertine Protestant king!”
Father looked up from his mince pie, frowning. “From whence came the Water of Life you proffered this monster?”
“From my personal reserve. I mind not forgoing one year’s drop in return for the lives saved,” replied Erasmus.
“Would not Miranda help you?” Father voice rose sharply. I opened my mouth to explain that my brothers had never approached me, but Erasmus cut me off with a snort of derision.
“That miser? A lamentable proposition, sir! She would rather all Londoners cook than waste one drop of her pearly riches! She would not even come out and help us.”
Again, I wanted to object—the day Father departed, he had asked me to mind the house, and so I had done so. As I opened my mouth to explain, however, Theo threw me a pleading glance, indicating he would be grateful if Christmas dinner did not turn into a quarrel. I was so happy to have him home! As a favor to him, I held my tongue.
We ate, accompanied by animated descriptions of the travelers’ adventures. The fare was excellent, and every time one of us raised an empty glass, a wine bottle would float up and fill it, as Aerie Ones rushed to do our bidding. Logistilla was commended by all for her choice of dishes, Mephisto roused himself from his morose stupor—his malady was much worse in those days—to juggle jam tarts for our amusement, and even Gregor allowed himself a smile.
As the last dish was being cleared away, Cornelius spoke up in his soft voice.
“Father, I would speak.”
Father held up his hand, and the rest of us fell silent. Cornelius stood. The dusty-blue silk covering his eyes matched the shade of his justaucorps. “All this rushing to and fro, pursuing will-o-the-wisps, achieves nothing but to raise and dash our expectations. By the Grace of God was I blinded, and only by the Grace of God will my sight be restored. Let us abandon our attempts to find a cure and turn our efforts to more useful ends.”
He sat down. The rest of us gaped at him in astonishment. Curing Cornelius’s blindness had been our main effort for four decades, that and Mephisto’s madness. We were not sure how to respond.
Father finally broke the silence. “This news brings me sorrow, and yet I think it wise. I would reward you for your noble sacrifice. What gift do you desire? Name it!”
“Nothing for myself.” He bowed his head. “Grant this boon instead to Erasmus.”
A furrow formed between Father’s brow, but he said only, “As you wish.”
Erasmus laughed. “You know already what I desire. Our staffs! Had they been with us, instead of moldering away at our mansion in Scotland, we could have forced the salamanders to retreat. We could have saved the London we have known and loved these many years!”
“So be it.” Father inclined his head gravely. “I retain the right to collect them again when I deem fit, but they shall be yours for a time.”
We children gave a resounding cheer, and finished our Christmas feast in high spirits. As it turned out, Father would only let us keep the staffs for a decade before he collected them again, but we did not know this at the time. So the rest of the evening rang with comradery and good cheer.
In retrospect, the memory of this joyful Christmas was accompanied by a sense of bittersweet sorrow. At all Christmases after this one, either one of us was not present or some members of the family were feuding. The year 1666 was the last happy Christmas we all spent together.
The door at the far end of the sauna opened, dispelling the ghosts of Christmas past. Three tall dark-haired men strode into the chamber. As my gaze penetrated the obscuring steam, I sat up, startled. We were being joined by three of the lords of the High Council: the elf lords Vandel, Carbonel, and Delling.
The stately elves did not glance in our direction. They spoke to each other in their soft lilting tongue while they unbelted their long black robes and let them drop to the floor, revealing lithe golden bodies which were . . . entirely unclad.
I glanced away and kept my eyes averted until the elven lords were safely immersed in the water at the far side of the pool. Mab had inched closer to me, as had a subdued Mephisto. The three of us huddled on the drowned steps set into the pool wall and wondered whether the elven lords realized we were present.
I peered through the steam to get a better look at the wet elves. Lord Vandel’s back was to me. Along his golden shoulder blades ran identical scars, the shape of upside down teardrops. As Lord Carbonel fell back to dunk his head beneath the water and rose again, shaking a spray of drops from his long hair with catlike grace, I saw a similar set of scars marred his otherwise perfect back.
“Mab,” I whispered softly, “those scars. What are they?”
Mab looked, then turned away, grief-stricken. “That’s where their wings were cut off, ma’am . . . when they fell.”