Solomon's Stone

Chapter I.

When Montague Stark had explained what he was going to do, he added: "You understand, folks, I'm sure this won't work or I wouldn't try it." He looked up from where he squatted on the uncovered floor, drawing circles with a compass improvised from a pushpin, a piece of chalk, and a string."If it did, we'd probably set the house on fire at least. Prosper, what's the trick for inscribing a pentagon in a circle?"

"Let me think," said Prosper Nash. He closed his eyes and mentally thumbed the pages of a plane geometry text that he had studied ten years previously. At last he opined: "Lay off two-thirds of the radius along the arc, ten times running. That's not exact but it ought to do. He's not going to bring a steel tape along to measure your diagrams, is he?"

Stark laughed, "The pentacles in the grimoires are mostly pretty irregular, so ours ought to do." He set about ruling off a five-pointed star in the larger of the two circles. He added a number of astronomical symbols and Hebrew letters to the resulting figure, inscribed an equilateral triangle in the other circle, and put three small circles inside the triangle."Alice, may I use your coffee table?"

"I'm not sure mother would like it—" said his hostess nervously.

"Aw come on, I won't hurt it!" Without waiting for further objections, Stark placed the low circular table at one end of the room, in line with the two large circles on the floor.

On the table he put a square of white artist's paper board on which was drawn another complex symbol: a pentagram with Hebrew letters, planetary symbols, keys, daggers, and other gadgets hither and thither about it. He set up a small brass tripod on the square of paper, and lit the incense in the little pot that dangled from the apex of the tripod, commenting: "This pentacle's supposed to be drawn on the skin of a ewe lamb sacrificed in the dark of the moon or something, but I figure a good clean drawing sheet ought to do. The reason those old birds killed their own lambs was to make sure of getting a sheet of genuine virgin parchment.

"Prosper, you light the candles.. Bob, unwrap Gus and put him on the floor here. For gossakes be careful of him; the museum wants him back."

A rustle of paper heralded the unveiling of Gus, who was the skull of a Bannock Indian. Prosper Nash and Robert Lanby obeyed meekly. The uninhibited Stark had always had the psychological bulge on them, despite his short tubby unimpressiveness.

Prosper Nash often wondered why this should be, knowing that he surpassed Stark in stature and looks, especially now that his glossy-black mustache had come to full flower. Of course he could see why Bob Lanby should let Monty Stark dominate him; Nash had always considered Bob a twerp, especially since the blue-eyed but unresponsive Alice—

The candles shone out. Monty Stark got into his new bathrobe, blue with orange piping for Friday, the day of amusing or amorous experiments. Nash smiled a little as he thought that to Monty "amusing" and "amorous" were practically synonyms; to him they were distinct but not incompatible; to poor Alice and Bob they were apt to be violently antithetical—

Stark glanced toward the kitchen door, behind which Bill Averoff supposedly lurked, ready at the proper stage of the proceedings to pop out with a deep "Good evening, everybody!" and scare the living pants off all but Montague Allen Stark.

At this moment, however, Bill was writing a note:

"Dear Mr. Stark:

I just looked out the window and seen a fare alongside of my hack. I been waiting longer than I expected and I can't afford to pass up the good fares you get on Haloeen so I got to go. I am sorry.

Yours truly, William Averoff.

Being a fundamentally honest man, Averoff placed on the note the dollar bill that Stark had given him for his part in the performance, weighted note and bill with the salt shaker, and stole out the service entrance of Alice Woodson's apartment.

When he arrived at the street level, the prospective fare had vanished. Averoff settled into his taxicab and opened the Western pulp that he kept on the front seat. His hero, Arizona Blake, was just shooting his way out of the fourth gambling hell when another fare arrived.

Bill Averoff cast a regretful glance up toward the windows of Miss Woodson's apartment—good-looking dame, but snooty—and drove off. He knew and liked the three boys he had brought across town from their Y, and would have been glad to be the one to drive them home later. But you had to live.

Meanwhile Montague Stark continued his essay into amateur sorcery, unaware that his star actor had departed. He placed the box containing Godiva, the toad, in the center of the circle of evocation. Occasional faint thumps and slight movements of the box implied that Godiva had not yet become reconciled to her close quarters.

The room by now reeked with the mixture of agalloch and storax burning in the censer on the coffee table; the two candles on the periphery of the circle of evocation sent up slow stalactites of gray smoke.

Stark pinned to the front of his bathrobe a diamond pin in the form of a Star of David, borrowed from the young daughter of a Jewish friend, and hung a copper medal around his neck. He put on his head a homemade diadem of twisted copper wire, and picked up his brother-in-law's little cross-hilted cadet sword.

"Ready?" he asked.

Alice Woodson put out the light.

Stark cocked his head to read from the typed sheet in his left hand by the doubtful light of the candles. The appellation started off with a long sentence in Hebrew which nobody, Stark included, understood.

His three hearers leaned forward, tense with the synthetic excitement that is conjured up by spook movies and Halloween stunts. Prosper Nash reflected that probably everybody had suppressed desires to be and do strange things, but that Monty Stark was the only person he knew who went ahead and did something about it.

Monty had wanted to be an archaeologist and had ended up as a high school teacher of history. Still, when he acquired a hobby like this craze for magic, he went into it wholeheartedly, which was no doubt why he had so much fun. He, Prosper Nash, sometimes day-dreamed of himself as a dashing cavalier instead of a competent but unglamorous C. P. A. with a good memory for detail. But there didn't seem to be much he could do toward realizing that fancy, nearsighted as he was—

Monty Stark ended his Hebrew and started in on his Latin, his voice rising a little. The air was unpleasantly thick.

Nash wondered about the suppressed desires of the other two. Little Bob Lanby displayed none except to be a depressingly good boy and a good chess player. And, as an afterthought, to marry Alice. The cool Alice, he supposed, would like to be a nun.

Stark at last got to the English, or at least to a passage containing some English words. His voice rose higher and louder: "Hemen-Etan! Hemen-Etan! Hemen-Etan! El Ati Titeip Aozia Hyn Teu Minosel Achadon vai vaa Eie Aaa Eie Exe A El El El A Hi! Hau! Hau! Hau! Hau! Va! Va! Va! Va! Chavajoth! Aie Saraie, aie Saraie, aie Saraie! By Elohim, Archima, Rabur, Batbas over Abrac, flowing down, coming from above Aheor upon Aberer Chavajoth! Chavajoth! Chavajoth! I command thee, Bechard, by the Key of Solomon and the great name Shemhamphoras! By Adonai Elohim, Adonai Jehova, Adonai Sa-baoth, Metraton On Alga Adonai Mathon, the Pythonic Word, the Mystery of the Salamander, the Assembly of Sylphs, the Grotto of Gnomes, the demons of the heaven of Gad, Almousin, Gibor, Jehoshua, Evam, Zariatnatmik: Come, Bechard! Come, Bechard! Come, Bechard!"

"Good evening!"

Stark, Nash, Lanby and Alice Woodson all jumped at the words and at the appearance in the "trap"—the circle-and-pentagram figure between the circle of evocation, on which Stark stood, and the coffee-table altar—of a figure. Then they relaxed; Nash and Lanby thought they recognized Bill Averoff's deep tones. Alice thought it was just another of Monty's gags—

"Swell, Bill," said Montague Stark; then, voice changing a little toward puzzlement: "But— where'd you get the costume?"

"Costume?"

There was an uncomfortable silence with the realization that the voice was not Averoff's after all.

Alice Woodson, who was nearest to the light switch, snapped the top light on. She waited a good twenty seconds before screaming.

The visitor was not only not a New York hacky, but was rather evidently not human at all, though its shape and size were those of a man. It cast no shadow and wore no garments, unless what appeared to be its skin was actually a tight one-piece green rubber coverall. No zipper, however, could be discerned. The pupils of its eyes, instead of pits of blackness as with people, were apertures through which inner light winked out into the room.

"Well?"

"You're—not—Bill—Averoff," said Stark at last in a small, still voice.

"No, I regret. Why should I be? I am Bechard. You called me, did you not, gentleman?"

"I—suppose I did."

"Then," said the apparition stiffly, "I am yours to com— No, wait!" It slowly turned its head this way and that, surveying the room and the various props that Stark had set out: the altar, Gus and Godiva, and so forth.

Its regard came to rest on the pentacle on which it stood. As it looked down it apparently realized its lack of shadow, for a shadow appeared at once."Regret," it muttered.

Then it glared back at Stark, and said in a new, harsh tone:."Did you not know, gentleman, that we of the Gothic Sept are not commanded by the pentagram?"

"N-n-no."

"It is so, I regret. We are not commanded by it, though we must respect it. Demons of the Apollinian Sept are commanded by the pentagram, as those of the Magian Sept are by the hexagram and those of the Sinic by the diskelion."

Prosper Nash had held his breath as long as he could. He now let it out with a whoof and broke in: "What are you commanded by, then?"

The thing's rubbery mouth widened into a black slit wherein no teeth were visible."Ha-ha," it, growled earnestly."For me to tell you would be funny, would it not, gentlemen? Almost as funny as invoking Bechard the Hail-maker to perform buffooneries for your frivolous amusement. I regret, but we Bechards are demons of intelligence. Let us settle our business before any of you mundane souls conceive more clevernesses. You, sir, the sorcerer who does not know his pentacles— what are your name and station?"

"What d'you wanna know for?" asked Stark quickly, a drop of sweat glistening on his forehead.

"To determine," replied Bechard blandly, "whose mundane body I shall possess."

"You mean we're gonna be possessed by devils?"

"Demons, not devils. And only one. Come now, gentleman, your profession?"

"Teacher," gulped Stark."But look here—"

"You?" the demon turned to Lanby.

"I... I'm a clerk at the Y. M. C. A. —"

"Exorcism! You are a regular churchgoer?"

"Well... yes—"

"I do not want you. Regret the strain of leading your regular life would be too severe. You with the mustache and glasses?"

"Accountant," said Prosper Nash."Say, don't you think you ought to tell us more? What's it like to be possessed? Do you go nuts?"

"Not at all," said Bechard."What an idea! You must be thinking of the crude old days before we were organized. Today we demons know how to handle a mundane body so that even its best friends never guess. Probably at least one of your friends is possessed without your knowing it. The young lady?"

"I take care of my mother," said Alice.

Bechard was silent, then said: "I choose the teacher—"

"But," cried Nash, "if you take Monty's body, what happens to him?"

Bechard smiled his toothless facial gesture."His mundane soul, displaced from his mundane body, will naturally be forced up to the astral plane, where it will inhabit his astral body."

"His what?"

"If you will cease your interruptions I shall explain. He will learn what the astral plane is when he arrives. On that plane is the Shamir, which will transport both his mundane soul and his astral body back to this plane—"

"What the devil is the Shamir?" Nash interrupted again.

"Oh, ignorant generation! The Shamir is the Stone of Sages; the Star of Truth. In plain language, it is a gem once owned by Solomon son of David, on whom be peace." Bechard stepped toward Stark.

Montague shrank back, crying: "You can't do this to me!"

"Oh, yes I can, my esteemed Monty."

"What's the idea?"

"The idea, gentleman, is that the demoniac plane is a very dull place. Since we have been organized, those of each Sept are all exactly alike. It is in its way perfect; we consume neither food nor drink. We have no sex. When a Bechard or a Baphomet is afforded an opportunity to inhabit a mundane body and experience its joys and sorrows, he seizes the chance with avidity. But I am not selfish. The Shamir will return you body and soul to the mundane plane, at which time I will give you back your mundane body in exchange for the astral one. Now, esteemed sir, close your eyes and relax—"

"Begone!" yelled Stark, holding his sword out hilt up to make a cross, and fingering the Star of David."By Jakin and Boaz, the Wheel of Ezekiel, the Pentacle of Pythagoras—"

Bechard glided swiftly toward the terrified sorcerer, but recoiled as Stark defiantly thrust the symbols at him. After three tries, Bechard changed his tactics."Come, sir," he wheedled, "the astral plane is a very interesting place. And you will be allowed to return as soon as—"

"Nor on your life!" shrieked Stark.

"Regret that you are so stubborn," said Bechard, raising his voice above Bob Lanby's prayers."I shall have to take the young gentlewoman's mundane body, then, though I fear her astral self will prove a less effective means of finding the Shamir' than would yours. But—"

Prosper Nash did the quickest thinking of which he was capable. He jumped up and skidded across the floor, snatched up the sheet of artist's board—sending the tripod clattering to the floor— and bounded back to where Alice shrank against the wall. He thrust the pentacle into her hands.

"No you don't!" he told Bechard."You said yourself you had to respect the pentagram!"

"You are an interfering young gentleman!" rasped Bechard."I regret. I think you will find the Shamir—"

"Hey! Wait! Let's talk this over. You can't steal my body just because I protected a girl—"

"Can and will. Relax, my good sir, and the process will be less painful. You must return in ten days with Solomon's Stone, or I shall be forced to chastise your delinquency."

"But how am I to find this damned rock? And how—"

"There are those on the astral plane who can tell you more than I. Here we go!"

Nash tensed every muscle and felt frantically in his pockets for something bearing a symbol wherewith to thwart the demon. A star—something with a star—hell, the pentagram appeared on the flags of a dozen nations, not to mention States of the Union, societies, political parties—

Bechard was right in front of him, gliding now without moving his green legs, between Nash and the "trap." Nash remembered the bills in his wallet; they almost certainly bore stars—

Too late!

Prosper Nash felt a tremendous shock, as if a destroyer had dropped a depth bomb on him. While his mind strove to keep a grip on his body, he could feel that body being pulled out of his mental clutches—going—going—gone!

He was moving with great speed—or falling; it was like an express-elevator plunge, only more so.

Then he fetched up against something, or into something; shot home into place with an almost audible clank, like a key into the right lock, or a sword into its scabbard—

He was sitting on a bench; at least the body he had clicked into was sitting on a bench, of dark wood worn shiny without benefit of varnish, by the seats of many pairs of pants.

The bench was in a room; low-ceilinged, dimly lit. Oil lamps shone on rows of bottles. There were others in the room—

Keep your head, J. Prosper. Let's take a look at this astral body of ours first.

Astral body? Sounds silly, but that's what the demon said. Maybe demons are silly.

Prosper Nash bent the head of his new body to look at himself. The first things he saw were his hands—bigger than the hands of his other, mundane, body, with a ring in which was set a huge star sapphire.

Beyond the hands he observed with some horror that lace cuffs from a concealed shirt were turned back over the sleeves of his coat. A roll of the eyes showed that a lace collar sprouted out of the collar of his jacket and lay across his shoulders. He was in a black velvet suit with knee pants.

Little Lord Fauntleroy!

Not quite. The pants disappeared into high boots with wide floppy tops, and a strap across each instep with a gleaming buckle. He bent an ankle to observe that the footgear had high heels like those of a Texan boot.

He tensed the muscles of his right arm, and discreetly pinched the biceps and deltoid with the fingers of his left. Hm-m-m, nice! No wonder Bechard was so willing to take an astral body in exchange for a mundane one!

So far the astral body appeared to have the usual number of everything, and to be substantially if somewhat eccentrically dressed. Maybe the astral plane went in for that sort of thing. The other customers in the dramshop were also costumed rather than merely clad.

Nash put his elbow on the table and started to rest his chin on his fist. He got another shock: he had a goatee, a little inverted isosceles triangle of whisker extending from his lower lip to the point of his chin. He quickly ran his hand around his face. The mustache, which in his mundane body had been a close-cut Anthony Eden affair, now ended in a pair of inch-long waxed spikes. And his hair came down to his shoulders.

So he'd wanted to be a dashing cavalier, eh? Well, he was one, all right, all right. Did that mean he had to act like a cavalier? How was a cavalier supposed to act?

How, indeed?