The Conjure Book

by A. A. Attanasio

  Bravely, Jane stepped into her room and shut the door behind. “Don’t say a word,” she warned Jeoffry in a trembly voice. “Just sit there for a minute like a cat. Okay? Don’t answer that.”

  Jeoffry lay down on the sill with front paws tucked under his chest and watched her silently.

  “Thank you.” Jane edged a little farther into the room but stayed near the door. “Now, I want you to understand — Jeoffry — I’m not a witch. I’m a scientist — or I’m going to be when I grow up — and I’m conducting an experiment. I’m following the scientific method. That means, I start with a hypothesis — that’s an educated guess — and then, by experimentation and observation, I gather data — facts — facts that have obviously disproved my original hypothesis — that the conjure book is nonsense.” She put a hand to her brow, trying to steady the spinning brain inside her skull. Am I dreaming? “Today, I’ve observed the ghost of a witch — and now ... a talking cat! So, I guess I’m ready for a new hypothesis. Do you understand?” She braced herself. “You may speak.”

  “Thank you, miss.” Jeoffry’s cat mouth moved in eerie synchrony with his words. “I am well aware of the scientific method. The concept first appeared in Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics, where it referred exclusively to mathematics. Centuries later, John Locke extended the idea to all the sciences and clearly states in his Essay Concerning Human Understanding: ‘Human industry may advance useful philosophy in physical things, but scientifical analysis of our nonmaterial experience will always remain out of our reach.’ Do you understand, miss?”

  Jane stared agog at the talking cat. Slowly, she shook her head.

  “In ten simple words: There are some things that cannot be understood by science.” A bird whistled from a nearby tree, and though Jeoffry’s right ear turned eagerly in that direction, his body did not stir. “The scientific method is all well and good for experimentation and observation of physical things — such as falling apples. But the methods of science are useless for understanding spirits. And I and our doting patron Hyssop Joan, whom you met today, are spirits. That’s rather the short and long of it, Jane. So, what do you say? Shall we put aside all this noise about science and get down to the business of witchcraft?”

  The Business of Witchcraft

  Jane tossed the conjure book onto her bed and approached the white Manx nervously. “Witchcraft?” she asked creeping closer by small steps. “You want to talk to me about real witchcraft?”

  “Young miss, please soberly consider the source,” Jeoffry said in a slightly frosty tone. “Would a cat, albeit a tailless, white-furred and considerably overweight but otherwise rather dignified cat, be talking with you about anything other than the craft of witches? Would you rather we discuss the plight of herring fisheries in the changing economy of global warming, another favorite subject of talkative cats?”

  Jane didn’t bother to answer. As soon as she was within arm’s reach of the cat, she raced forward and pushed the animal out the open window.

  With a loud “Rrau-u-u-u!” and a noisy clatter of branches, Jeoffry fell into the shrubbery below.

  Jane slammed shut both windows and fell back on her bed. Her hands shook, and she had to hug her pillow tight to calm herself. “This can’t be happening.” She wished her father were home. He would know what to do. She couldn’t call him, not with news like this: He would think she’d gone crazy and would abandon his consulting project to get home quickly. She had to get help from closer by.

  The force of that resolve sat her up as she realized what her next step had to be. She had to show the conjure book to someone she could trust. Like Mrs. Babcock. After all, Lester was her cat.

  She grabbed the conjure book and jumped out of bed. The very next instant, her enthusiasm withered. At her bedroom door, she heard claws scratching!

  “Go away!” she called through the door.

  Silence ensued. She waited for more scratching, and there was none. At last, she opened the door a crack.

  Jeoffry, a dead leaf snagged in his ruffled coat, stood on his hind legs, front paws pressed against the door. His furry white face stared up at her with blue eyes full of hurt. “That was frightfully rude behavior, miss. I could have been seriously injured.”

  Jane slammed the door. “Leave me alone.”

  A muted voice called to her, “Is that how your mother taught you to behave?”

  “I don’t have a mother,” she shot back. “Now, get lost.”

  “Do let me in,” Jeoffry pleaded. “I could show you how to use the grimoire to find your mother.”

  “You can’t find my mother!” Jane practically growled at the doorknob. “She’s dead.”

  “That’s no problem for a witch,” the cat replied without missing a beat. “If it would please you, young miss, you can see her again. Converse with her as well if you need some maternal cheer. Find out how she’s carrying on in the afterlife and all that.”

  Jane’s heart knocked loudly in her chest, and for a moment all she could hear was a dull thunder inside her. Before she knew what she was doing, her hand reached out and turned the doorknob.

  Jeoffry sped into the room. “Ah, miss, I declare you’ve made a choice equal in both wisdom and daring. Now, if you’ll just close the door before the last of the Babcocks overhears our private chat, I’ll get on with your education as a witch.”

  “You said I could see and speak with my mother again,” Jane said to the cat as he leaped onto the bed and began cleaning his tousled pelt. “Were you telling the truth?”

  The cat stopped licking his fur and regarded the teenager with a hard stare. “You insult me, miss. Jeoffry of the West Woods is no liar. Exaggeration I find distasteful. And lying — that renders me positively ill. Of what use to a witch is a familiar who cannot be trusted?”

  “So, when can I see her?”

  “When you become a full-fledged witch.”

  Jane stared fixedly at the cat’s moving lips. “This is too weird!”

  “The truth sometimes has that quality, miss.” Jeoffry continued nonchalantly cleaning his coat. “May I assume that you cherish the possibility of seeing your mother again?”

  Jane nodded slowly. “You said I have to become some kind of witch?”

  “A full-fledged witch,” Jeoffry confirmed. “Only a full-fledged witch possesses the power to summon the dead.”

  “Is she going to look — you know ... dead?”

  “Not at all, miss.” Jeoffry lay back to groom his underbelly. “The dead are not as gory as popular imagination depicts. They are spirits, you understand. And spirit is far more faithful to beauty than flesh. Fear not, Jane. Your mother shall appear to you as she did in life, entirely whole in image and mind.”

  Jane stared at the conjure book in her hand. “Can this be real?”

  “For a full-fledged witch, certainly, miss.”

  “Okay.” Jane thumped a knuckle against the conjure book. “Okay. What’s a full-fledged witch? Is it going to take me years and years to become one? Am I going to be like some warty old hag before I can see my mother again?”

  “With my help, young lady, you shall attain the rank in no time at all.” Jeoffry lifted a back leg to reach his tailless flank. “The truth is, I have an incentive in speeding you along.”

  “I hope this doesn’t involve doing anything nasty.” Jane’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’m not going to sacrifice animals or drink any kind of blood or magic potions.”

  “Certainly not. Please know, miss, that a fully fledged witch is a witch who has attained mastery of Wicca.”

  “Wicca?”

  Jeoffry held up a paw. “From the Old English word ‘wic,’ which means ‘filled with vitality.’ In other words, alive.”

  Jane frowned. “So, witchcraft is the craft of people who know how to live?”

  “Young astute reasoner, you grasp the gist.” Jeoffry paused to lick his paw and began cleaning behind his ear. “Witches possess the wisdom to utilize their vitality for working mag
ic.”

  The stink of the conjure book in her hand began to nauseate Jane, and she crossed the room, placed the book on her desk, and opened a window.

  “Oh, my!” The fur at the back of Jeoffry’s neck fluffed with fright. “You’re not contemplating my taking another excursion out the window, are you?”

  “Don’t be a scaredy cat.” Jane pulled her chair from the desk and sat near the door. Now that she had gotten used to Jeoffry talking, he hardly seemed frightening. “Just tell me how I can see my mother again. What does that have to do with — what’s that word again? Wic? Is that like the wick of a candle?”

  “Rather not.” Jeoffry relaxed and curled up on the bed. “The word is wic, with no terminal k. It means alive in a very special sense. A magical sense. One cannot always tell from the outside if something is wic. Take, for example, a winter branch. It appears dead, but if it is wic it will bend between your fingers, not break. So it is with witches. Witches can bend flexibly under difficult circumstances that would break ordinary people. Yet, no one would know just by looking at them. From the outside, a witch appears no different from anyone else. And that is the first requirement that you must fulfill if you are to see your mother again. Hold the secret close. That’s the most important requirement. You must tell no one you are a witch. Not your friends, your teachers, the estimable Mrs. Babcock — or your father. Are you listening to me, Jane?”

  “You’re a talking cat,” Jane crossed her arms impatiently. “You’ve got my full attention.”

  “Good. Because this first requirement is truly the most important. Spirits have only so much power to share. We must stay focused. Should you reveal the secret of our presence to the wider world, we lose our focus and diffuse — whoosh! — into nothing, naught, nil, and nix. And wouldn’t you know that this is where most aspiring witches fail? Only extraordinary people can keep secrets.”

  “I can keep a secret,” Jane asserted. “So, what are the other requirements?”

  “I admire your zeal, young aspiring Jane.” Lying on the bed with head erect and both front paws forward, Jeoffry looked something like a miniature sphinx. “Since times most ancient, there have been two chief requirements for any witch desirous of communing with the dead. Hold the secret close — and befriend a familiar.”

  Jane leaned forward in her chair. “You’re making this up!”

  “I have no desire to delude you, miss. Becoming a full-fledged witch is not as easy as it may sound. But I am certain that you shall succeed, with my aid, of course.” Jeoffry sat up proudly. “I am entirely at your service, intrepid Jane, and will remain faithfully at your side throughout.”

  “Why?” Jane leaned forward suspiciously. “Why are you helping me?”

  “You did employ the conjure book over a dead bird for the purpose of understanding the grimoire itself?” Jeoffry waited until she nodded before continuing. “Well, there you have it. I serve the conjure book — and it serves you.”

  “Then, you’re sort of like a genie?”

  “Hardly as powerful. But, in the tradition of genies, I have my own self-interest at heart. Should you succeed in attaining the rank of a full-fledged witch, which I most earnestly wish for you, then I and the author of this grimoire, my most sincerely contrite and profoundly grateful mistress, Hyssop Joan, shall at last be freed of the miserable curse that has kept her imprisoned in the earth for nearly four centuries.”

  “That’s why the witch’s ghost appeared in study hall.” Jane nodded with understanding. “She needs my help.”

  “Quite.” Jeoffry licked at his bib. “May I, with a light heart, assume that you accept this mutually advantageous arrangement?”

  Jane sat back and crossed her arms. “Why was Hyssop Joan cursed? Who cursed her?”

  Jeoffry shook his head sadly. “I’m grieved to admit that in her mortal life — despite all my best efforts to guide her in the ways of love and goodness — our dear Wicca Joan was, alas, a wicked Joan. She burned with a high-minded ambition to spread the ancient knowledge of Wicca across the New World. But fanatical immigrants from the Old World who despised witchcraft thwarted her time and again. Bitter frustration filled her mind with scornful thoughts, and she dared use her magic for vengeful purposes. You know, the usual dire mischief against enemies — blighting crops, souring milk, drying up wells, inspiring nightmares, and befogging the minds of clerics so that their sermons came forth rather twisted from their original intent.”

  “That doesn’t sound so wicked,” Jane said. “I mean, four hundred years locked up underground seems sort of harsh just for turning milk sour.”

  “Harsh but deserved,” Jeoffry admitted unhappily. “Blighting the crops, the milk and the wells led to famine. Livestock died. People suffered. Nightmares she inflicted drove several already half-hinged souls to despair and thence to hopelessly unwise actions that resulted in doom for them and their families. Oh and the deranged sermons — well, many otherwise faithful souls lost sight of the good after hearing their pastors blithering obscenities from the pulpit and thus spent the remainder of their lives in moral darkness. Though our spiteful Joan never actually murdered anyone with her own hands, the ultimate results of her magic were murderous.”

  “Who punished her?”

  “Her own rancid heart, gentle Jane. You see, when witches die, their spirits and the spirits of their familiars leave this world for the Twilight — with a capital T. The Twilight with a capital T is a pastoral paradise much extolled by the poets — a lovely place of bliss and cavorting creatures. Access to the capital T, however, is available only to those whose hearts touch the world kindly.” Jeoffry rolled onto his back and gazed at her upside down. “Hence, worthy apprentice, we are obliged to make you a witch of admirable kindness. It’s our ticket to Wicca heaven. There you have it! Well, then, what do you say, wise child? Shall one hand wash the other? Shall both backs be scratched?”

  Jane stuck out her lower lip thoughtfully. “What if I say no?”

  “I am aghast at the thought, miss.” Jeoffry spun upright. “That would be a legitimate exercise of your free will. One can lead a witch to the broomstick but one can’t make her fly.” The cat’s whiskers drooped sadly. “If you should decide you’d rather not train as a witch to see your mother again, then you must return the conjure book to the iron box where you found it. Otherwise, the rather desperate ghost of Hyssop Joan will continue haunting you — a skill she’s honed very close to perfection.”

  Digital Witch

  Thus began Jane Rigg’s grooming as a witch, an education that included dressing the part, which meant wearing no metal (to disrupt the electrical flow of wic), no buckles, zippers, metal buttons or grommets, and thereafter she wore sneakers and skirts with elastic waistbands and even snapped off the metal ends of her pencils. She also began to go about the house barefoot (to better receive the electrical energy of the earth). She drew above her heart a tiny five-pointed star (what Jeoffry called a pentagram, which he said symbolized the four elements of earth, water, air, and fire — and the fifth element, the quintessence, spirit) and she did this in green ink, because the familiar informed her that green comes from the middle of the rainbow and thus represents the middle of everything, the heart of reality, the truth.

  To get rid of the stink from the conjure book, Jane wrapped the old grimoire in a plastic bag and buried it in the garden, under the gazebo. While she spent a few days pondering if she really wanted to be a witch, she kept the conjure book hidden so she wouldn’t see any more of that horrid ghost — Hyssop Joan. Jeoffry, for his part, played the role of Lester very well, and Mrs. Babcock remained none the wiser.

  ∞

  The day that Jane’s father returned from his consultation, Sheryl and Alfred arrived at Bosky Glen on their bicycles for a homework session and met him getting out of a taxi. Dr. Ethan Riggs was a tall, thin man with glittering stubble on his cheeks and straight brown hair the sun had crayoned yellow.

  Jane flew into his arms, and they spun around u
nder the red spruce trees at the front of the house like two happy kids. He had brought her gifts from his trip — rock samples, naturally: knobby chunks of pink coral from the Gulf of Mexico, where he had been searching for oil. She wanted to know all about his trip. But he chose instead to introduce himself to her friends, who were awkwardly standing astride their bikes wondering if they should quietly leave.

  Mrs. Babcock had homemade apple cider and chewy cranberry cookies waiting in the kitchen, and everyone sat around the table eating and asking excited questions about Dr. Riggs’ work.

  Jane was proud to share him. He had a knack for putting people at ease. Having traveled to the Philippines in his college days to study Mount Mayon, the most perfectly shaped volcano in the world, he remembered enough Tagalog, the Philippines’ national language, to make Sheryl giggle.

  Alfred and he chatted about the importance of rocks in comic book history, from kryptonite to alien-infested meteors. Even Mrs. Babcock was charmed when he produced from his suitcase a small rack of test tubes that he filled with water and used as miniature vases for a few flowering herbs plucked from the window box.

  Later, when Mrs. Babcock retired for a nap, Sheryl and Alfred went upstairs with their textbooks to study and left Jane alone with her father. Jane was relieved she had buried the conjure book, because she felt certain that Alfred would poke around her room even though Sheryl would try to stop him.

  Much as Jane wanted to tell her father everything about the unbelievable events that had transpired during his absence, she restrained herself. Jeoffry lay curled under the sunny window, eyes closed but with both ears turned her way.

  For several days, Jane had debated whether she would violate the secrecy of witches and confide in her father. The hope of seeing and speaking with her mother kept Jane quiet. If a cat could talk, why couldn’t the dead return?