A Logical Magician

22

Yawning, Jack rolled over and fell out of bed. With a groan, he sat up and opened his eyes. As usual, it took a few seconds for them to focus on his surroundings. A row of sightless skulls stared back at him from a nearby shelf. Next to them stood several dozen corked beakers filled with unidentifiable potions, each cryptically labeled with a number. Beneath them, held captive in a fragile wire cage, were several large tarantulas. Shaking his head, Jack muttered, “This doesn’t look like Kansas, Toto.”

Wearily, he crawled back onto the edge of the cot and pulled on his clothes. The trouble with sleep these days, he reflected unhappily, is that I wake up more exhausted than when I retired.

His head hurt. It felt as if Indians had used his skull as a tom-tom. Frowning, he tried to concentrate on Megan’s latest attempt to contact him through dreams. After a minute, a single word emerged. “Beltane.” It sounded familiar, but he wasn’t sure where he had heard it before. But discovering its meaning wouldn’t be hard. Not with the company he was keeping these days.

When he stretched, his hands touched the roof of the trailer. The mobile home belonged to another one of Simon’s friends, an ugly old crone named Hazel. She had to be the witch Cassandra had mentioned earlier. By the time they reached the trailer camp last night, he wouldn’t have cared if she was a dragon. All that mattered was that Hazel had an extra bed he could use. Simon was quartered with his relatives somewhere else on the lot.

Still feeling hazy, he wandered forward, into the tiny combination kitchen-living room of the camper. His hostess stood in front of a small stove, humming to herself as she worked. Hazel fit perfectly in the camper’s cluttered quarters. A thin little old lady, a few inches over five feet tall, with wrinkled skin and stringy gray hair, she looked like she had stepped right out of Hansel and Gretel.

The witch was busily stirring a mysterious concoction in a huge pot. Small, unidentifiable black objects floated in a bubbling white glop the consistency of oatmeal. Warily, Jack approached the old woman.

“Morning,” she said, not turning. Her voice was surprisingly mellow for one so old. “Simon stopped in an hour ago to see if you were awake. He went out for the Sunday papers. Want some breakfast?”

Jack licked his lips, not sure how to answer. He was hungry, but Hazel was a witch. Swallowing his apprehension, he nodded. “Sure. What do you have?”

“How about some of this witch’s brew, dearie?” she asked. “I eat some every day. It’s honey nut oatmeal, with raisins thrown in for flavor.”

She chuckled. “Caught you by surprise, didn’t I? You thought maybe it was stewed lizard with toad tongues? I may be a witch, son, but I enjoy my creature comforts. Grab a couple of bowls from the cupboard, and let’s eat.”

Jack devoured two bowls of oatmeal along with several slices of cracked wheat bread and a glass of orange juice. “This cereal is delicious,” he declared, pushing himself away from the table. “I can’t eat another bite. Is it an old family recipe?”

“Probably,” said Hazel. “The Quaker family, that is. I buy the ready-made stuff. It tastes a lot better than anything I ever made. Don’t believe any of these folks who long for the ‘good old days.’ Preparing all your own meals from scratch was a pain in the ass. I know. I was there. Give me modern convenience food any time.”

Reaching over to the kitchen counter, Hazel pushed a button on the portable radio. Nothing happened. Grimacing, the witch shook the device, but it refused to make a sound. “Batteries must be dead. I’ll buy some later.”

A large black cat strolled over to the table and rubbed up against Jack’s leg. Without thinking, he bent over and scratched the animal’s neck.

“That feels great,” said the cat. “How about getting the back, too?”

Jack jerked his hand back in shock. Hazel grinned and pulled the animal onto her lap. Immediately, it started licking the remnants of oatmeal from the witch’s dish.

“Sylvester’s my familiar. When I was created, everybody got black cats. Toads and goats and interesting stuff came later. Like everybody here in the trailer camp, he’s magic.”

“So I noticed,” said Jack. He stared at the cat. For a second, the cat stared back, then returned to its cereal.

“How does he form the words?” asked Jack. “I didn’t think cats had the proper vocal cords for human speech.”

“They probably don’t,” said Hazel, “but who cares? Magic functions independent of science, Jack. The rules for one don’t apply for the other. Or, if we follow Arthur C. Clarke’s logic, maybe they’re actually the same and we’re just too damned primitive and ignorant to understand the common factors.”

“You read Clarke?” asked Jack, astonished.

“Of course,” said Hazel. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“I guess so,” said Jack. He winced as the throbbing in his head increased. “You happen to have any aspirin handy?”

“Headache?” asked Hazel.

“A killer,” replied Jack. “A Megan Ambrose special.”

Briefly, he related his experiences with dream communication. Hazel nodded knowingly as he described his problems remembering Merlin’s daughter’s messages.

“A perfect case for recipe number four,” said Sylvester, licking its paws.

“My thoughts exactly,” said Hazel. Rising from her chair, she bustled into the bedroom. She returned carrying one of the beakers Jack had noticed when he awoke.

Pouring a small amount of a vile yellow liquid into a cup, the witch handed it to Jack. “Drink this,” she commanded. “It’ll cure your headache in a flash.”

“What’s it made from?” Jack asked, staring at the fluid.

“You don’t want to know,” said Hazel. “Drink.”

Jack drank. The potion tasted terrible, but he forced himself to swallow every drop. Instantly, an invisible wave of fire engulfed his forehead. He blinked and it was gone. Along with his headache.

“Incredible,” he declared. “You could make millions selling bottles of that stuff.”

The witch smiled knowingly and recorked the beaker. “You mind your own business and save the world, Jack, and I’ll mind mine. The mass market isn’t ready yet for witch’s brew.”

“Hazel worked as a pharmacist once upon a time,” said Sylvester, hopping from the table to the floor. “Until they fired her.”

“Why?” asked Jack. “Practicing without a license?”

“Nonsense,” said the witch. “My credentials were perfect. Supernaturals have a talent for forging documents and manufacturing backgrounds. It’s a survival skill necessary to live hundreds of years among mankind. We’ve learned to blend in, not make waves.

“I slipped and stayed with the same company too long. During a cross-check of employee records, they discovered that according to their files, I was eighty years old. Damned do-gooders forced me to retire. They wanted me to enjoy my golden years.”

“Tough break,” said Jack. “Been out of work long?”

“Two decades next month,” replied Hazel, grinning. “I saved plenty and invested it wisely. After five centuries of struggling, I decided to take a few years off. Bought me this trailer and settled down in the country with Sylvester.”

“No desire to return to work?”

“I’ve been mulling over a few offers,” declared the witch. “With all this New Age mysticism around, it’s no big deal anymore claiming to be a witch. So, I’m not bound by the same constraints as most other supernaturals. Nobody takes me seriously, but they all want to hear what I have to say. In the past six months, I’ve lectured at three colleges, a half-dozen feminist rallies, and turned down an appearance on Oprah. It’s been a kick. Trouble is, most people involved in the revival are more interested in pagan ceremonies and getting naked than real magic. But, that’s pretty much the way it’s always been, even during the Middle Ages.”

Jack rose to his feet. “The word ‘Beltane’ mean anything to you, Hazel?”

The witch frowned. “It have something to do with a festival of sorts? The title sounds familiar, but I was never much one on ceremonies. I was a woods witch. Ask Simon. If anyone in camp knows the word’s significance, it’ll be him. He always does. Simon’s a know-it-all.”

“So I noticed,” said Jack. “He has the right answer, if you ask the right question. That’s the trick.”

“The newsstand isn’t far from here,” said Hazel. “I’m surprised he’s not back yet.”

“I’ll go outside and wait,” said Jack. “Besides, I want to stretch my legs. Thanks again for breakfast.”

“Always glad to help a mortal in need,” said Hazel, her bright eyes twinkling. “It’s my nature.”

The trailer camp consisted of nearly two dozen campers spread out over several acres of woodland. The owner of the grounds was a leprechaun named O’Malley, who Jack had yet to meet. According to Cassandra, the Irish faerie had cashed in his gold hoard years ago and invested the money in real estate. He lived in Illinois because it was one of the few states that still permitted blind land trusts. Rumor had it that O’Malley owned half the real estate in the Loop.

Fortunately, the faerie believed in sharing his good fortune with his fellow supernaturals. He maintained the trailer camp in Chicago’s far western suburbs for those of his kind who couldn’t afford any other lodging. Or who longed for the company of others like themselves. The ones with money, O’Malley charged a small rental fee; the others stayed for free.

Jack drifted idly through the campgrounds, letting the tensions of the last few days drain from him. The green grass, the huge old trees, and the cool spring breeze combined to form an incredibly restful setting. A child of the city, born and bred in concrete and steel surroundings, Jack had never fully grasped the lure of the outdoors. Now, for the first time, he felt in some small way he understood what Simon meant about needing the woods.

After roving aimlessly for twenty minutes, he stumbled across Cassandra in a small clearing, exercising with her walking staff. Mesmerized, he watched the black woman practice. She moved silently, with an inherent grace and speed that Jack found fascinating. The Amazon flowed from location to location, never resting in one spot more than a few seconds. She handled her wood staff with such incredible skill that it seemed like an extension of her body. Though her arms and legs glistened from a thin layer of sweat, she exhibited no other signs of physical distress. Watching her work, Jack had no doubt that she was the most beautiful and most deadly woman he had ever seen.

“Hey, Cassandra,” he called after a few minutes passed and she showed no signs of slowing down, “how about taking a break? I’m getting worn out from watching you.”

Twirling her staff around so fast that it blurred, Cassandra slammed the wood stick into the ground. It quivered for an instant, then stopped, one end embedded six inches into the soil. Smiling, the Amazon stepped over to Jack.

“Sorry. I truthfully didn’t notice you. When I’m practicing, my mind is totally focused on my art. Nothing distracts me.”

She smiled. “Feeling better this morning?”

“Much,” he replied. “This place is terrific. It’s so peaceful.”

Cassandra chuckled. “It’s great if peace is what you’re looking for.”

From the tone of her voice, it was quite clear that peace was not one of Cassandra’s top priorities. Her expression grew serious. “I want you to do me a favor, Jack.”

“Name it,” he replied. “You saved my life, remember? I’m in your debt. Ask away.”

“I’d like to join your party,” said Cassandra nervously. Voice trembling slightly, she continued. “You and Simon can’t defeat von Bern and the forces of night without help. There’s too many of them. While most of the supernaturals in this camp sympathize with your goals, they’re not fighters. Most of them prefer not to get involved. In many ways, they’ve adapted too well to modem life. Hazel, Sylvester and Simon are the exceptions, not the norms. Me, too. My kind believe in battling for the underdogs. I would help even the odds.”

Jack shrugged. “It sounds like a wonderful idea to me. I’m not proud. If you’re crazy enough to make the offer, don’t expect me to turn you down.” He paused. “Obviously, you thought otherwise. How come?”

Cassandra smiled gently, her eyes misting noticeably. “I’ve lived an awful long time, Jack Collins. Legends of the Amazons date back to the time of Troy, and thus, so do I. For three thousand years, I’ve burned with the constant desire to fight. A true warrior maid, I live for battle.

“Most of those centuries were spent living on my own. There weren’t a large number of Amazons originally, and we were created with an insidious weakness that rendered many of us vulnerable to the ravages of time. I suspect I may be the last of my kind alive. And being a true Amazon in a man’s world is no fun. No fun at all.”

Cassandra wrenched her staff out of the ground. “The notion of equality between the sexes never existed before this era, Jack. Men, especially fighting men, have always had a hard time accepting a woman who fought as well, if not better, than themselves. You can’t imagine how many famous heroes rejected offers similar to the one I made to you. You truly can’t imagine. Thousands of innocents suffered and died because their ‘saviors’ were too proud to accept the aid of a woman. I appreciate your trust in me. You won’t be sorry.”

“That’s the least…” began Jack, only to be interrupted by a loud voice from the woods.

“Hey,” called Simon, emerging from the trees, “guess who’s back from the 7-Eleven? I heard you were looking for me.”

Sighing, Jack turned to the changeling. Interrupting meaningful conversations defined Simon’s talent. Jack shook his head, wondering what Cassandra meant by “an insidious weakness.” From the Amazon’s tone of voice, he felt certain it was not a subject she would broach willingly. He made a mental note to put the question to Simon when they were alone. In the meantime, another more urgent query required his attention.

“The word ‘Beltane’ strike any chords in that storehouse of knowledge inside your head?” Jack asked the changeling. “I think it’s vital to our mission.”

“Beltane,” repeated Simon, his eyes glazing over, “is the name of the ancient Celtic festival of fire held on the eve of May first to welcome the advent of summer. Its origins are lost in the sands of prehistory. It survives in a much different form today as May Day. As does the winter festival, Samhain, now celebrated as Halloween.

“The Celts believed that along with Samhain, Beltane was a day when Beings of Terrible Power walked the Earth. The Druids considered it sacred. On May Day Eve, the priests sacrificed hundreds, burning them alive in wicker cages to satisfy the hunger of their gods.”

“Human sacrifices?” said Jack, blood draining from his face. “I don’t think I like what I’m hearing. It’s only four days until May first. Is it possible that’s what von Bern is planning? On May Eve, he intends to sacrifice the women he kidnapped to the ancient demigod pulling his strings.”

“The demon Gods of antiquity thirst for the souls of the living,” declared Simon. “If von Bern handles the ritual correctly, it would impart to his master incredible power.” The faerie’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Godlike power.”

“Perhaps provide the monster with enough energy to destroy civilization,” said Jack. “I’m convinced. We’ve got to find von Bern’s headquarters and stop this mad scheme before it’s too late. For all humanity.”

“That’s not going to be easy,” said Simon. “Particularly considering the headline on today’s paper.”

“What are you talking about?’ Jack asked. He frowned as Simon handed him the front section of the Sunday newspaper.

His eyes bulged as he stared at the bold print. Drug War on Campus! Beneath the headline, in smaller type, the story proclaimed, “College Drug Lord Vanishes, Millions in Narcotics Found in His Apartment!”

Jack’s picture filled the rest of the page.

“I see what you mean,” he said, his hands shaking, as he returned the section to Simon.