The Face in the Frost

1

1

Several centuries (or so) ago, in a country whose name doesn't matter, there was a tall, skinny, straggly-bearded old wizard named Prospero, and not the one you are thinking of, either. He lived in a huge, ridiculous, doodad-coveted, trash-filled two-story horror of a house that stumbled, staggered, and dribbled right up to the edge of a great shadowy forest of elms and oaks and maples. It was a house whose gutter spouts were worked into the shape of whistling sphinxes and screaming bearded faces; a house whose white wooden porch was decorated with carved bears, monkeys, toads, and fat women in togas holding sheaves of grain; a house whose steep gray-slate roof was capped with a glass-enclosed, twisty-copper-columned observatory. On the artichoke dome was a weather vane shaped like a dancing of the observatory was a weather vane shaped like a dancing hippopotamus,– as the wind changed, it blew through the nostrils of the hippo's hollow head, making a whiny snarfling sound that fortunately could not be heard unless you f were up on the roof fixing slates.

Inside the house were such things as trouble antique dealers' dreams: a brass St. Bernard with a clock in its side, and a red tongue that went in and out with the ticks as the tail wagged; a five-foot iron statue of a tastefully draped lady playing a violin (the statue was labeled "Inspiration"), mahogany chests covered with leering cherub faces and tiger mouths that bit you if you put your finger in the wrong place; a cherrywood bedstead with a bassoon carved into one of the fat head posts, so that it could be played as you lay in bed and meditated,– and much more junk and deep closets crammed with things that peered out of the darkness off the edges of shelves, frightening the wits out of the wizard as he poked around looking for jars of mandrake root or dwarf hair in aspic. In the long, high living room-heated by a wide-mouthed green-stone fireplace-were the usual paraphernalia of a practicing wizard: alembics, spiraling copper coils, alcohol lamps-all burping, sputtering, and glurping as red, blue, purple, and green liquids boiled, dripped, or just slurched uncertainly in their containers. On a shelf over the experiment table was the inevitable skull, which the wizard put there to remind him of death, though it usually reminded him that he needed to go to the dentist. One wall of the room was lined with bookshelves, and on them you could find titles such as Six Centuries of English Spells, Nameless Horrors and What to Do About Them, An Answer for Night-Hags, and, of course, the dreaded Krankenhammer of Stefan Schimpf, the mad cobbler of Mainz.

The four long casement windows on the east wall of the living room opened onto Prospero's forest-bordered garden, an unpruned tangle of forsythia, rose, and lilac bushes split up by a few matted green paths. In the middle of the garden was a small clearing with stone benches and wicker lawn chairs; this park had a fountain, in the center of which a potbellied marble satyr stared mindlessly into an empty cup, as water gushed out of his ears. On summer mornings, Prospero would often sit in this weedy jungle, memorizing spells and watching the birds as they circled in confusion around the gables, pinnacles, and gargoyles that stared out in all directions from his improbable home.

But, on a hot, oppressive morning one August, Prospero stayed in bed till almost noon. He was not playing the bassoon, but he was thinking, lying there on his back with his hands folded on his chest. Finally, with an effort, he got up and went to the window, opened it, and stood looking down at the ground for quite some time. With a little shrug, he turned away, and was poking around in a bureau drawer when a voice snapped at him:

"Do you think the roof will fall in on us today? Did the frost hurt your stinkweed?"

That was the magic mirror, a competent, but somewhat sarcastic mirror in a heavy gilt frame When the magician was not trying to get something out of it, it was given to tuneless humming and crabby remarks.

"I don't know what you're talking about," growled Prospero as he hunted for his toothbrush.

"You know very well what I mean' said the mirror in an unpleasant tone. "What's all this staring at the ceiling and thinking? Have you discovered a cure for mangy eyebrows?"

"I may discover a cure for talkative pieces of plate glass," said the wizard, grinding his teeth.

"Boorish threats," said the mirror. "By the way, if you step over here now, you can view Aurungabad, as seen from the ruins of the palace of Aurungzebe."

"How nice," muttered Prospero, and he disappeared into the bathroom with a balding toothbrush clenched in his fist.

A little later, as Prospero was soaking in a large porcelain tub with eagle-claw legs, the mirror began to sing:

"O-over-head the moon is SCREEEEAMING,

Whi-ite as turnips on the Rhine..."

Most of the time, the mirror's singing voice might have been compared with that of a tubercular reed organ; but, when it hit high notes, Prospero thought of children with long nails scraping on blackboards. So, it was not surprising that the wizard soon emerged from the bathroom, wet and dripping and wrapped in a yellow-damask towel that looked like a Byzantine cope.

"All right," he said quietly. "Let's see what we can see."

The wizard peered deep into the fathomless depths of the murky mirror, and when the swirling mists cleared, he found himself watching a 1943 game between the Chicago Cubs and the New York Giants. The Cubs were behind 16-00 in the eighth inning.

Prospero stood silently watching for a few seconds. Then, with an evil grin, he produced from behind his back a large cake of soap. "Now watch it, whiskers," said the mirror, alarmed. "Don't you dare...Ak Hoog! Glph...Hphfmnphpph!"

Prospero scribbled wildly on the mirror with the cake of soap, signed his name with a flourish, and went downstairs, chuckling.

But, not even his victory over the cranky mirror could help Prospero to shake off the uncertain fear that hung in the still, heavy air of that August day. Something was coming, and he would have given his hat to know what it was. In the meantime, he fribbled away the day with mindless tasks like cleaning the ash pit of the fireplace and raising the ghosts of flowers. From a square bottle marked "Essential Salts," Prospero poured a few green crystals into a white ceramic dish; when he had mumbled some words over the bowl, a pink and green cloud began to ascend from the shimmering translucent pebbles. Before long, a definite shape appeared.

"Carnations," said the wizard disgustedly. "Phooey."

He fanned at the uninteresting specter until it blew out the window in a long sickly streamer of colored smoke. Then, with a distracted air, he walked to a carved lectern that held a large, unlabeled folio volume. It was a thick, dog-eared brown leather cover and its blue-ruled book in a cracked brown leather cover and its blue-ruled pages were filled with the wizards florid script; on some pages were pentacles, pentagrams, and doodles, these latter being usually pictures of bearded patriarchs, pharaohs, and King Louis XI of France, who, as far as Prospero was concerned, looked like Cyrano de Bergerac with a lumpy Roman nose.

On some pages were spells set to music: the curious words, split up into syllables, wandered through bars of badly drawn square notes. He selected one of these incantations and began to chant in a loud, wailing voice. All the clocks in the house suddenly went off at once, though it was only three-twenty; the copper pots hanging in the kitchen clanged and whanged against each other,– and a couple of the wizards books fell off their shelves with a clump. But, nothing else happened. Prospero slammed the magic book shut and slumped into an overstuffed chair. He fumbled in his smoking stand for his pipe and tobacco.

"I learned that spell fifty years ago," he mumbled as he lit his pipe. "And, I still don't know what it's for."

Around six o'clock, a dark greenish storm-twilight descended, though the sun was not due to set for two hours. Prospero got up and walked out the back door into this unnatural dusk,– in the yard behind the house, no birds could be seen or heard,– the leaves of the trees hung like carved ornaments,-and even the splashing of the fountain was strangely muted. The slates of the roof were a flat gray, and the thick-piled clouds seemed to press down on the turreted house. Prospero went back inside and decided to prepare dinner for himself. He pottered about in the kitchen in an attempt at a cheerful manner, whistling bits of tunes like "Lilliburlero" and The Piper of Dundee." But, his whistling died away as he suddenly thought, with inexplicable dread, that he would have to go down into the cellar for a pitcher of ale. Now, a grown man-especially one who is a wizard-is not supposed to be afraid of going to the cellar at night. But, though he loved the strong brown ale that aged in oozing vats in his dark cool basement, Prospero would (this time) have just as soon done without.

"This is silly." he said to himself. "You are a coward and a lumphead." He lit a tall, twisty beeswax candle and grabbed a fat pewter pitcher from the nail where it hung.

The cellar way was dark and musty-smelling, and a damp breeze blew from a window that must have been left open. Prospero, moving along cautiously in the wavering yellow light, passed shelves of cobwebbed jelly jars and dusty overturned steins with inscriptions in strange blue letters. Overhead were the floor beams of the house, split logs with the furrowed black bark still on them. When he reached the great rounded shapes of the beer kegs, Prospero stuck the candle into a wooden wall socket and turned toward a heavy brassbound tan labeled "XXX Strong Ale." Setting the pitcher on a shelf just under the blocky wooden spigot, he turned the handle, and the ale gushed into the container with a tinny rising sound.

He looked absently around the cellar as he waited for the pitcher to fill, and suddenly, his eye was caught by the fluttering of an old cloak hanging on a wooden peg. And, in that instant, Prospero got the odd notion that the cloak was not his, and might not be a cloak at all. He stared intently at it as the fluttering of the garment became more agitated. And then, it turned to meet him. With empty flapping arms, it floated across the cellar floor, swaying in a sickening nightmare rhythm. Prospero clenched his fist and felt his pulse beating in his palms; he fought the rising fear as the cloak flapped nearer, for with all his heart, he did not want it close to him. As it closed the gap between them, all the spells against apparitions ran through his mind, but he had the queasy feeling that none of them would work. The thing was about six feet from him, its cold musty-cellar breath faintly brushing his face, when it simply stopped. The flapping arm dropped, and the gray cloak, or whatever it was, slumped into a ragged heap on the stone floor. Prospero stepped back nervously and stiffened as he felt a cold sensation. But, when he looked down, he laughed abruptly, since he had stepped into the spreading brown pool of ale that was now sloshing and frothing over the sides of the pitcher. He shut off the spigot and leaned, trembling, against the barrel, his forehead pressing the fragrant wet wood. When he looked again at the place on the floor where the cloak had fallen, he was not surprised to see that there was nothing lying on the rough candle lit stone. The peg where the cloak had first hung was not there either.

As soon as he felt able to walk, Prospero grabbed up the brimming pitcher, snatched the candle from its sconce, and dashed up the creaking wooden stairs. When he got back to the kitchen, he felt better, and, since ghostly cloaks should be common experience for a sorcerer, he felt a little ashamed. But, when he closed his eyes, the scene in the cellar came back with all its inexplicable terror.

"Well," said Prospero to himself, "the thing to do is to keep my eyes open and eat my dinner."

Which he did, though he had hardly gotten halfway through his meal of cold roast beef, ale, and Cheshire cheese when the heavy hanging storm broke over the house with a long, splitting, plate-rattling crash. The thunder did not frighten Prospero half so much as his reaction to it, which was to shove his chair back and look quickly over his shoulder. For the next hour, he was plagued by the strong, palpable feeling that someone was behind him. Even in his study, where he had pushed his big wing chair up against the paneled wall, he found that he could not read-the shadows that leaned out over the high-sided chair seemed more than shadows. He got up and went back to the kitchen, where he nervously finished his dinner as the rain swished and rattled at the diamond-paned window; he tried to play solitaire with an old oblong deck of tarot cards; and he finally settled in his wing chair again to read by the light of a squat, ruby-shaded oil lamp.

By nine o'clock, the storm had passed over and crickets were chirping in the wet grass outside. Prospero found himself still edgy, and he was reading the same sentence about wood trolls for the third time when the door­bell rang. The bell was a small, tinkling silver toy with a chain pull, but just then, it sounded like a rusty iron bourdon tolling in an empty church on a winter night. Prospero let the heavy volume he was holding slip to the floor with a loud dust-raising whump. He stared for several minutes at the half-open study door that led to the dark front hall. Finally, with a sudden resolute jerk, he stood up, crossed the room, and peered into the narrow vestibule. The linen-curtained square window in the front door threw a wavering yellow patch on the splintered floorboards, and the huddled shapes of picture frames, dressers, and coat trees leaned out from the walls. Staring intently at the blank yellow window, Prospero stepped into the hall and lurched into a massive mahogany coat tree. The tall spindled thing rocked on its warped base, and three or four umbrellas fell in the wizard's path with a swishing clatter. Shaken, but still relatively calm, he stepped over the scattered junk and got to the door, grasped the cold porcelain knob, and pulled. The swollen black door would not open at his first jerk, or at the second. On the third try, it rattled suddenly inward and the chilly night air, smelling of cut grass and rain-drenched lilacs, blew gently into the hall. From the blistered white porch ceiling hung a square yellow-palled lantern, and around it mosquitoes, moths, and other night insects flittered and ticked. The tiny doorbell was still trembling on its rusty hook. No one was there.

Prospero stood under the lamp, staring out into the moonless night. At first, he saw only vague shapes, some darker than others, but before long, he became aware of a small figure standing halfway down the flagstone walk. As Prospero watched, the figure raised a threatening arm and spoke in a deep voice:

"Kill them all!"

At this, Prospero did a strange thing. He began to smile. His long wrinkled face, which had been set in a tense frown, was now creased by a delighted grin.

"Kill who all?" he asked in an amused voice.

"All those blasted, pesty, nitty insects!" the figure roared. "If yellow light attracts moths the size of horse blankets, why don't you get a purple lamp or a green lamp? At least let me smash the one you have!"

Still grumping, the person on the walk came forward until he stood in the light. Prospero saw a short, burly, middle-aged man with a close-trimmed dark-red beard; the hair on his head was beginning to get gray, and it was hard to tell whether he was going bald or just wearing a badly overgrown ton­sure. The monkish aspect was also suggested by a mud-splashed brown robe, over which a shiny rain slicker was thrown. But, instead of sandals, the man wore scuffed brown walking boots. In one hand, he held a dripping sou'wester rain hat, and in the other, he held a long brass-tipped staff. A fat brown valise crouched at his feet, like an absurd and lumpy short-haired dog. It was Roger Bacon, one of Prospero's best friends and a pretty good sorcerer in his own right. He had been in the North Kingdom for the last three years, and before that, he had been in England for three years. But, you would have thought the two men had not seen each other in fifty years, the way they pounded each other on the back, bellowing wisecracks about falling hair and midriff bulge. When the welcoming uproar had subsided, Prospero stepped back and made a deep, comic bow.

"Welcome, noble friar! And, when did you return from the land of ice and mist?"

"Just tonight. A fishing boat put me ashore on, the coast, and I found my way here as well as I could, I got-"

Suddenly, Roger looked up, because some movement near the porch ceiling caught his eye. A huge gray moth, at least two hand spans across, came flapping down from the shadows. It went straight for Prospero, and before he could raise his hand, it had plastered itself against his face. Roger gave a sharp cry and rushed forward, shooing at the thing until it dropped to the floor with a light plop and an unpleasant rustling sound. But, before Roger could step on it, the moth rose, dived once at his head, ad then floated off into the night. The two men stared after it for a full minute, and when Roger turned to look at Prospero, he saw that his face was pale, even in the yellow light. And, his hands were trembling.

"Look here," said Roger in a worried voice. "I wish you'd tell me what's going on. You're not normally scared of insects, but then that was no ordinary moth. I've never seen one like it."

Prospero sighed and robbed at his face with both hands, "I'd tell you what was going on if I knew. I've never seen anything like it either. It smelled like a basement full of dusty newspapers. But, the smell isn't the worst thing about it."

"That's true," said Roger, looking up at the porch lamp. "It never came close to me and I was scared of it. Well, it's just more of what I felt when I got here two hours ago, and-"

Prospero stared at him. "Two hours ago! Why didn't you come in?"

Roger took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "As soon as I came through the gate, I knew that something else was here, something that had nothing to do with you or your spells. So, I poked around out here in the rain in hopes of catching the thing or at least finding out what it was."

"And, did you find anything?"

"No. Out by the fountain, I scared off something that might have been a dog, though it didn't look like one: It stood near the edge of the forest and stared at me for a moment, but when I threatened it with my staff, it ran away. There were sounds in the tall grass and in the bushes. All this in the wild rain, and your house all lit up. It was a bit like a dream I used to have as a child: I would be chased around and around the outside of my house by a tall, form­less dark creature; every window in the house was brightly lit and yet I couldn't go in. Of course, I could have come into your house if I had wanted to. But, I felt you were safe; the thing was outside."

"It had been inside," said Prospero grimly. And now, it was Roger Bacon's turn to stare.

Prospero decided right then that a little false courage was needed-other­wise the two of them would spend the rest of the night looking in closets and under tables.

"Come on inside," he said. "The ghastly grimling is gone, at least for the time being, and we have a lot of talking to catch up on. It's getting chilly, so why don't you start a fire, and I'll go downstairs-" He paused and laughed. He was not frightened now and he was genuinely amused at himself. Roger, naturally, still looked puzzled, "Never mind," Prospero went on, "I'll explain later. Anyway, as I was saying, I'll go downstairs and get a bottle of good red wine and some of that hundred-year-old brandy you had the last time you were here. And well see what we can do to that large Cheshire cheese in the kitchen. How does that sound?"

"Fine," said Roger, and he started to take off his heavy raincoat.

Before long, the two of them were comfortably planted in two large, sagging easy chairs drawn up before a warm fire, which sometimes burned bright sea green or deep cobalt blue because of salts that Prospero had thrown onto the logs. Between the chairs was a small octagonal table holding a dusty green wine bottle, a rapidly diminishing half wheel of cheese, and a plate of crackers. Roger Bacon had been telling about some of his more notable successes in England, and now, he began to tell, with equal delight, some stories about his more egregious failures.

"... and so, I went to work on a brazen head that was going to tell me how to encircle England with a wall of brass, to keep out marauding Danes and other riffraff. I think something went wrong when i didn't put enough yellow regulus of phosphorus in-or maybe there was too much astatine permanganate. Anyway, I got a head that was at least as talkative as your mirror ..."

"I heard that!" yelled a voice from upstairs.

"You be quiet," shouted Prospero over his shoulder. "Why don't you go watch late movies or something?"

There was silence upstairs, followed shortly by the muffled sound of bird imitations.

"Anyway," Roger went on, munching a piece of cheese, "the head did talk a lot, but unlike your mirror it was deaf as a ... as a ..."

"Brass post?" put in Prospero helpfully.

"Yes," muttered Roger, giving him a dirty look. "You might say so. Well, I asked it how to make a brass wall to encircle England, and it said 'Hah?' 'Brass wall,' I said, louder. 'В as in Bryophyta ..."

"Bryophyta?" Prospero asked.

"Yes," answered Roger testily, "mosses and liverworts."

"I hate liver," said Prospero.

"As well you might," said Roger in a quiet, despairing voice. "As well you might. But be that as it may, I spelled it out. R as in rotogravure process ..." He waited, but Prospero, who was biting down hard on his pipe to keep from laughing, did not interrupt."... A as in Anaxagoras, S as in Symplegades, and S as in Smead Jolley, the only baseball player in history to make four errors on a single played ball."

"And, what did the head say?"

"It said 'Umpf' or something like that, and then it started to rattle off a long formula, which I may have copied wrong. Or, maybe the head didn't know what it was talking about. At any rate, when I chanted the formula the next day, down by the seashore, I heard a sound like crumhorns and shawms, and behold! All of England was encircled with an eight-foot-high wall of Glass!"

"Class? Plain, ordinary glass?"

"Yes, and not very good glass at that. Paper-thin and full of bubbles and pocks. The first boatload of Vikings that came over after the wall went up turned around and went back, because it was a sunny day and the wall glittered wonderfully. But the next day, when they came back, it was cloudy. One of them gave the wall a little tap with an ax, and it went tinkle, tinkle, and now, there is a lot of broken glass on the beach. Not long after that, I was asked to leave."

Prospero could not think of anything adequate to say, so he suggested that they break out the brandy and cigars.

They talked on into the night, and the large candle in the corner, shaped like the head of a mournful monk, got sadder and sadder looking. But, as the candle got scowlier, the two men became more delighted and talkative, so that Prospero finally felt up to telling Roger about the cloak in the cellar. Roger listened with a concerned and sometimes frightened look on his face, and when the story was over, he put his brandy glass down and waited a bit before he spoke.

"You don't mention the moth, but I suppose that neither of us has to dot such a large i. Has anything else happened?"

Prospero nodded. "Last night I dreamed that I was still in bed, but wide awake, staring at something near the foot of my bed. I stared for a long while at the vague shape, and I gradually made out the form of an old man standing there. When he came forward into the moonlight, I could sec that he was watching me with a scornful smile-it was a cruel, cynical face, the arrogant face of a man who is secure in some superior power or knowledge. Without saying anything, he went to the window, which was bright with the light of a full moon. And then, he began to write on the windowpane with his index finger, and it seemed to me that each stroke of his finger cut into the glass like a diamond. For some reason, although the words glowed, with a silver light, I couldn't get any meaning out of the writing. I strained my eyes and stared, but it all seemed like nonsense. Then, the old man turned to me and said, 'Can you read what I have written?' When I said that I could not, he laughed a low, mocking laugh and his whole face contorted in a contemptuous sneer. That is unfortunate' he said, in a cold voice. 'You will suffer because of your ignorance.'

"At that point, I woke up. The room was bright with moonlight, but of course there were no words on the window and, as far as I could tell, there was no one in the room. So, I went back to sleep again, and I'm not sure how long I slept, but I was awakened by the sound of someone tapping on my window. It was a sharp, metallic sound, not like someone rapping with his knuckles, and I sat up with a start. When I looked at the window, which is not very far from my bed, I saw that there was a large bird outside on the sill. And, a second later I saw that it was not an ordinary bird. It was skeletal. The gray light was shining through its rib cage and its eye holes; it was pecking at the pane and clattering its horrible black wings against my window I was suddenly seized with the fear that it would break through the glass at any minute and get in, and I jumped out on the opposite side of the bed. I got hold of my staff, which was leaning against the wall near the bed, and I muttered some kind of charm, I forget what. It didn't work, but a minute or two later the bird gave an awful scraping cry and fell over backward, off the sill."

Roger opened his mouth to say something, but Prospero raised his hand.

"I know what you're going to say. But, the bird was not in a dream. I sat there on the edge of the bed for some time after the thing vanished, but I finally did get some sleep. The next morning-this morning–I looked to see if the bird had left any mark on the ground where it fell. It had. The grass was crushed down in one spot under my window. It wasn't a dream, and these things-the bird, the moth, and the cloak-are not just apparitions."

"I don't see what you mean."

"Roger, you know as well as I do that apparitions, evil or otherwise, are abroad in the world. You have put them down with incantations and so have I. But, these things were tangible-they were real in a way that a ghost is not. Have you ever gotten close enough to an apparition to try to touch it?"

Roger thought for a minute. "Well," he said, "I once had to put to rest the ghost of an old woman who was haunting a village south of here. She had been a witch, and her power to return came from a little wooden charm she had hidden under the floor of her house. I found it and decided to burn it in the town square-with the proper ceremonies, of course. When I set fire to the amulet, she appeared and rushed at me with her arms raised. She had long hooked nails and looked as though she wanted to scratch my eyes out."

"And, what did you feel? Did she touch you?"

"She passed right through me. There was a cold breath, but not much else."

"Exactly. But, these things could be felt and smelled. That evil gray cloak never touched me, but it must have been as palpable as the others. It had a dead smell about it, and it made a swishing sound as it moved across the floor. And, there was something else, something that you must have felt when the moth appeared. You said that you were scared by the moth, even though it didn't come near you. Do you know why you were scared?"

Roger looked nervously around the dark room.

"I felt that there was someone there. I felt the power of some incredibly hateful will, a human will that wanted to kill you. And just before the moth flew away, I felt the will grow fainter."

"Not quite ready," said Prospero with a sour smile "Whoever he is, he can't do what he wants to do just yet. If there is such a he, that is. We may be wrong about all this. Anyway, we ought to talk about something else. There's nothing more maddening than empty speculation."

Roger sat up in his chair. "Good Lord! I had forgotten all about the notes I brought you. On the book."

"Book?" said Prospero.

Roger looked at him in exasperation. "Yes, book! Remember? Just before I left for England you asked me to trace that book, the one written in the cipher that no one had been able to crack. Well, you were right. The book has been in England and may still be there, for all I know, though I couldn't locate it. It had been in several castle libraries and was mainly thought of as a curiosity. Most of the old scholars I talked to thought the book must be some kind of practical joke, an elaborate sport. It made its way from one library to another because people borrowed it and never returned it. Not that anyone tried to get it back. No one in England took the book seriously, as far as I know, except one monk at Glastonbury Abbey. He has been dead for about fifty years now, but I found his notebooks under a pile of old papers in the abbey's archives. When you read what he has written, you may think that he was a little crazy. But, I don't think so. Here, let me get the papers for you. I couldn't bring his actual notes, but I copied out everything pertaining to the book."

Roger got up and went to the hallway, where he fumbled about in his rain­coat for a while. When he came back, he was holding a bundle of rain-spotted foolscap sheets that were covered on both sides with his neat uncial script. Prospero refilled the brandy glasses, and he had just risen from his chair to look for his watch when a small marble clock high up on a dark shelf near the ceiling struck two, Not bong-bong, but clunk-clunk, since Prospero had stuffed the bells with paper to keep them from waking him up. When the muffled striking had finished, two wooden doors opened tn the front of the clock and a small brass cannon rolled out. The spring-action barrel fired two metal pellets which flew across the room into the open mouth of a bust of Aristotle. The philosopher's eyes blinked red twice as the pellets went down his throat. Gulp-gulp, ping-ping. Roger stood staring at the spectacle.

"I do not think, Prospero," he said, "that one should attribute a very high degree of reality to your house."

"That clock is altogether too real," said Prospero. "I think I will have to stuff Aristotle's mouth with paper."

"You might try not winding up the clock," said Roger.

"Oh, my no!" said Prospero, dead panning. "What would the clock think?"

The two men sat down again, in the easy chairs. Prospero had brought a large floor candelabrum from the other room, and he had placed it between the two chairs. Now, he began to read by the wavering shadowy light. He mumbled the first few lines of the first page to himself and looked up.

"This seems to be a very thorough description of the book. Is it from a catalogue of some sort?"

"Yes," said Roger. "The monk kept a descriptive list of all his books. Most of the entries are very brief and limited to standard descriptive terms, but this note is quite elaborate, and it certainly goes beyond the kind of thing you'd expect to find in a book list. The rest of the material you have there I copied from a diary he kept. I didn't include anything that did not pertain to the book. At first, there are just a few scattered notes, but later he writes about the book obsessively. You will see why."

"You do know how to arouse curiosity," said Prospero, smiling "Why don't I read this aloud? I hate long silences as much as you do, and we both enjoy being read to."

"Very well," said Roger, sitting back. "Anyway, I haven't read the thing since I was in the archives at Glastonbury. Read on."

Prospero began to read in a slow, matter-of-fact voice.

'"Item 1036. Small quarto volume in vellum-covered boards. No markings on back or front cover or on spine. Little sign of wear. Contains 73 parchment leaves. Writing on both sides of leaves. Colored drawings in margins, small woodcuts used for initial letters, and some full-page wood cuts. Curious dolphin cross on last page. Bookplate on inside front cover. This latter has been defaced by some crisscross slashes probably made with a pen, but I can make out the design, which is this:"' Prospero found himself looking at a macabre heraldic device.

"Even though it's my drawing of his drawing," said Roger, "it's probably accurate. And, it's familiar too, though I can't think why."

Prospero nodded. "I feel the same way. Well, let's go on. The book appears to be written in a cipher, though i cannot even make out the alpha­bet that is used. The writing is neat and flowing, and there seem to be words and word groups. There is something vaguely disturbing about the writing. The decorations are similarly odd and much more unsettling. The flowers drawn in the margins are minutely detailed, though they correspond to no flowers that I have ever seen, either in life or in my herb-books. Some flowers have men and women rising from them. Woodcuts used for initial letters are executed with skill. One shows a lighted window in a moonlit tower. A figure in the window, hunched over a lectern. A similar cut shows the scholar at his desk before an open book. A shadowed figure, presumably a friend, looks over his shoulder. One full-page woodcut shows (I imagine) the Witch of Endor. Certainly, there are "gods ascending from the earth." The witch's back is to us and she is thrown into silhouette by the light of a fire. She holds a rod. The spirits, which are crawling out of the fire, look like horribly emaciated men. Some are on their knees begging, some are trying to flee, and one is crawling toward the witch with a look that gave me a bad dream the other night. Another full-page cut shows a man who has apparently just been awakened. He is in a nightgown and he holds a candle. Again, the face is away from us, for he looks toward a large open window. The light, or some­thing about the drawing, is incredibly well done, making the window a terrifying black hole. Anything might crawl through it. Not that there are shapes in the window. It seems absolutely dark. I have contemplated burning this woodcut, but I cannot do it. Twice I have awakened at night to find myself in the situation of the figure in the picture. Without a candle, but in bright moonlight. Once I woke up and found that I was unfastening the latch on my bedroom window. I have never been a sleep walker before. God save me from a moonless night!'"

Prospero shuddered. "Even reading about this is horrible! Did anything happen to the poor man?"

"No... well, that is to say, he was not dragged off by dark creatures. But, he-oh, read on! The diary is next."

Prospero continued:

'"October 15: Found an interesting-looking book in the library today. I asked the abbot if he would let me have it for my own collection in my laboratory, and he said yes. It appears to be in a strange language, and it may deal with magic."'

'"November 28: I must find time to study that new book; I fear my lack of training in languages will hinder me.'"

'"January 21: I have been trying to unlock the cipher of this strange book. Having exhausted my supply of cryptographic manuals, I am sending to London for more. The writing looks as though it could be translated. That is, it is suggestive of some meaning.'"

'"February 3: The new books are no help. I am going to give up trying to interpret this piece of nonsense. It has taken up far too much of my time. After all, it may be in a language I do not know. But then, why does it seem so meaningful?'"

'"February 17: will give this damnable book one last try. To the devil with all manuals! I should be able to solve it with my native wits."'

'"February 18: I stayed up all night, and toward morning, when the letters were twisting and squirming before my eyes, I found that the first two lines made sense. Laudate Dominum! All that is required, it seems, is concentration. It seems to be the beginning of an incantation of some sort. This has been a bitter winter. Wolves were howling last night in a grove of trees a few hundred yards from the abbey. I could see their eyes as I stood in my window.'"

'"February 20: I have asked the abbot to excuse me from prayers for a few days, so that I might finish something that will, I am sure, be for the greater glory of God. He consented, but reluctantly, and made a needlessly unpleasant remark about my haggard appearance. He has not wrestled with Powers and Principalities.'"

'"March 13: It has taken incredible concentration, but I have finished the first incantation. I assume it to be complete, since the next line is indented and begins with an ornamental capital. Tonight, I will try the spell and see what it brings.'"

'"March 14: At first, I was horribly disappointed. I chanted the words, but nothing happened. However, I soon came to see that one has to want some­thing specific to happen. I decided that the best thing would be to close my eyes and see what image formed. I saw many things, but one picture kept recurring, the snowy field outside my window, and in the middle of it, one gray wolf. (No doubt this was the result of what I mentioned in my note of February 18.) I chanted the words again and went to my window. It was ten o'clock at night, a three-quarters-full moon was in the sky, and in the snow, I saw a wolf staring up at me. In that instant, I realized that I had made him, and that I could keep him there only by intense concentration The moment my brain began to grow tired, the wolf began to shimmer and fade into the snow. When I ran outside, I saw that the creature had left tracks. I have done what Tiresias, Simon Magus, Arbaces, and all the sibyls could not do."'

Prospero dropped the papers into his lap. The two men stared at each other for a long time.

"Well," said Prospero at last, "I thought we were changing the subject when we started to read this thing."

"So did I," said Roger. "Fool that I am I didn't notice the connection till you read it just now. This gives added significance to some things that happened later. Read on and you will see what I mean."

Prospero picked up the papers again.

'"March 15 : The wolf will not obey my commands, though I can hold him here for upwards of an hour, I must read more. The abbot will not allow me to have my meals brought here. I spoke to him sharply, and he accused me of experimenting with black magic. I said that he spoke without knowledge, and quoted Job to him. He stared at me in wonder, and, I think, in fear. I expected him to ask me to kneel and beg forgiveness, but he hurried away.'"

'"March 17: More success with the control of the wolf. I have translated three whole paragraphs now. The intense study is affecting my nerves, I constantly think that someone is plucking at my sleeve. When I turn around, there is no one there, And, last night I dreamed that something dead lay alongside me in my bed. I woke up in terror and thought I heard something strike the floor. When I went to the window, I saw the wolf. He had come unbidden; I do not know why.'"

'"March 20: Quarreled with the abbot again today. It seems very strange that he is opposed to what I am doing. Now that we speak of witchcraft, I wonder who his master is?"'

'"March 28: I cannot get beyond the third paragraph. Could it be that the rest of the book is untranslatable? I lack will power. Told the abbot that I would not obey his evil command.'"

'"April 7: It seems that the next paragraph is not an incantation at all, but a set of directives. Prerequisites for further action. I cannot believe that such demands need to be met, so I will simply continue to the next spell.'"

'"April 23: The words have fought me fiercely, but I am ready now. I think the "instructions" were interpolated by a madman."'

Here Roger interrupted. 'The next entry-the last one, as you see-has no date. The original page from the diary was torn out, crumpled, and thrown into the fire. Someone rescued it and stuck it back into the book, but the date was burned away."

Prospero read:

'"I have smashed my bottles and retorts, and I have given the book to an old fisherman-a foreigner, but a good man-who promised me that he would drop it into the deepest part of the sea. How can I tell what has happened? I spoke the words I had learned, and suddenly the whole room began to waver and drift like smoke. I felt as if I could put my hand through the table and the walls. I saw everything as through murky water. The floor pitched like a deck, but with difficulty I got to the window. The wolf was out there on the grass, closer than ever before, but beside him was a man in a monk's robe. The cowl was thrown back, but I could not see his features through the shimmering air. Then, his face grew impossibly large and came near, and I saw that it was mine-my face as it might be after a year in the grave. A voice, a dry insect voice, harsh and cracked, whispered, "Give me the book." I clutched the book to my chest and fell down to the floor, which was now like smoking, bubbling water. I could see through to the ground and there was no roof above me, and I was sinking with that awful rotted face hovering over me. I fainted, and when I awoke, the solid stone floor of my study was under me again. The book was there in my arms undamaged. What I did with it I have written above, and I swear to Cod that what I have written is true. The abbot has forgiven me, and I am to make a pilgrimage soon, quia peccavi nimis. I will take up my studies again when I feel able to.'"

Prospero sighed and folded up the notes, "Only one thing remains for me to ask, and I'm almost afraid to ask it," he said.

" I know what you mean," said Roger with a tense smile. "Yes, I did bring a sample of the book's script with me." He reached into his pocket and brought out a small wrinkled card. "This is in the monk's own handwriting. Is it the writing on your window?"

Prospero stared at the card, crumpled it slowly, and pressed his fist his eyes. Then, standing up suddenly, he threw the wad across the room. It dropped neatly into the trumpet mouth of a potbellied brass spittoon.

"Come on," said Prospero, as he pulled Roger to his feet. "Lets go out and sit in the back yard for a while."

Prospero and Roger went out the back door into a cool night filled with lightning bugs that flashed their tiny pulsing lamps in every comer of the gar­den. A great willow hung in ghostly silver near the faintly trickling fountain, and Prospero's favorite apple tree stretched one long awkward branch up to touch the eaves of the house. The sharp smell of black dirt mingled with the green smell of wet leaves, and a light milky mist lay on the grass. The two weary, but still talkative wizards, sat in a pair of fan-backed wicker chairs and pitched pebbles at the drunken satyr in the fountain. They talked about wars, enchantments, and obscure facts until the sky above the forest began to be fringed with pale blue. Eventually, they collected enough strength to get up and go inside. Prospero took Roger to one of the many spare bedrooms, where the two of them shook out a set of slightly musty sheets and made up the canopied oak bed. On the way back to his room, guttering candle in hand, Prospero noticed that the great ruby-paned iron lamp that hung at the head of the stairs was flickering and laboring as if it had been thrust into a musty cave or a long unopened room. He cast a sharp look down the dark stairs and stood dead still, listening. Crickets and frogs, and far off a restless dog. The light began to burn more brightly, so he blew out his candle and went to bed.