The Conjure Book

by A. A. Attanasio

  Jeoffry stared at her with unblinking conviction. “Destroying Trick E before he kills any more pregnant mothers would be a triumph of kindness, kind Jane.”

  Jane contemplated this somberly. Revenge upon the spirit that had killed her mother seemed appealing. But the strangeness of what was happening gripped her, and for a moment she had to ask herself again if she really was awake or immersed in some bizarre nightmare. Dizziness jangled through her. With both hands, she pressed against the floor, and the solidity of the hard wood steadied her.

  At that moment, when she accepted that she was fully awake and that these surreal events actually were happening to her, she felt a special calmness unfold across her mind. It reminded her of those times when she had found herself abruptly swinging by a rope in the dark chute of some cavern, scared for an instant after her footing gave out or the rope slipped, until she remembered her training and her attention coolly focused on the task at hand. This is for real, she thought. And something Jeoffry had said echoed inside her with the strength of a conviction: This is my destiny.

  Jeoffry recognized the change of expression in the teenager’s face. He placed a paw upon her knee and cleared his throat respectfully. “The time for action is at hand. Do I correctly perceive, Miss Jane, that you are now committed to the fearless life of a witch?”

  “Yes, Jeoffry.” She faced him squarely and with a determined gaze. “I’m ready to learn everything you can teach me.”

  “Excellent! Most excellent, miss!” In his excitement, Jeoffry pawed at Jane’s skirt. “We shall confront Trick E together and end his evil days. You will avenge your mother’s death — and I and Hyssop Joan will conclude our ghostly exile and at last find our way to the Twilight.”

  “Ouch!” Jane pulled away. “Hey, watch those claws.”

  “I beg your pardon.” Jeoffry hopped about. “I’m giddy as a kitten!”

  “Steady thyself!” Hyssop Joan’s voice rang out harshly from the computer, and the cold stare of her silver eyes once again filled the monitor. “The wild enormities of thy glee trample our pride and sit upon the neck of our ambition.”

  Jane stood up, impressed that the witch could turn the computer on at will. Once she thought about it, she realized that this magical old woman who could materialize her ghost in study hall and draw a photo-perfect image of herself with chalk dust would have no problem manipulating electricity and switches. Jane approached the computer screen with awe. “I want to become a witch.”

  “Aye, and so thou shalt!” The crone showed her little seed-corn teeth in a crinkly smile. “I confess, dearest Jane, though thou art the argument of all my prayers, taint and tincture of doubt spoiled my hope of thee.”

  “The Old Broomstick thought I was daft to recruit you,” Jeoffry pronounced from between Jane’s ankles. “Wads of stuff about how you hadn’t the punch, else Trick E would’ve — how did she put it, that hag-o’-my-heart? Ah, yes: ‘inter thee with the angels by now.’ But that’s precisely your strength, I said. Didn’t I, old straw? Jane lacks the gift, said I. And that’s the brainy part of Jeoffry’s scheme. No gift, thus no suspicion equals a fatal surprise for the damnable Trick E.”

  “If I don’t have the gift,” Jane asked, “then how come the conjure book worked for me and I aced my exams?”

  “Ruder heads than thine may own the rank of Solomon with conjure book in hand.”

  “In other words, curious youth, the conjure book serves anyone with the wit to follow directions.” Jeoffry sprang onto the desk. “When dealing with the demonic Trick E, you shall need exceedingly more protection than the conjure book can afford. A witch with the gift would have the remarkable cunning to marshal all the necessary strength for her own defenses. But you, poor lass, you will have to trust to the combined experience of an aged witch and her reliable familiar. Are you prepared to accept our guidance with neither question nor hesitation?”

  “I’m ready to do whatever it takes.” Jane stared directly into the crone’s sunken eyes. “I’m doing this for my mother. And for the sister I never had.”

  “And for thyself.” The witch lifted her hairy chin. “No faith can be thrust upon thee and hold fast lest it have memory in thine own heart.”

  “Meaning to say, miss…”

  “I know what she means,” Jane interrupted Jeoffry. “It’s up to me to be a real witch. Nobody can do it for me.”

  Loving What We Cannot See

  Antiques furnished the living room of Bosky Glen — antiques that had clearly not been selected as decor but had simply accumulated over the centuries: a mammoth grandfather clock, padded chairs of maroon leather and brass studs, a tassel-fringed sofa, two wooden Indians holding cigars, and a giant globe whose continents had unfamiliar contours. Tapestry rugs, arranged willy-nilly under the ponderous furniture, covered the floor. And though sunlight gushed through the frilly lace curtains, the room smelled of rainy weather.

  In a window bay with high spires of tinted glass that belonged in a church, Ethan Riggs had propped himself among satin cushions and sat reading the Sunday newspaper. “What’s with your hair?” he asked his daughter when she strode into the living room with the white Manx following sprightly at her barefoot heels.

  “Just trying something new,” Jane answered nonchalantly. She executed a slow pirouette. “You like it?”

  Ethan nodded and gave a silent whistle of amazement as he studied the intricate braids that pulled her hair back behind her neck in a mass of artistic knots the likes of which he’d never before seen. “It’s different,” he acknowledged, and then quickly added, “But pretty. Must have taken a long time.”

  In fact, braiding her hair in small strands and then plaiting the braids in tight coils had taken half an hour, more time than she had ever spent on her hair. But Hyssop Joan had insisted on it. “Such hex knots of thine own hair,” the witch had informed, “conceal thy thoughts to spirits and deny Trick E all ominous prognostics of thee.”

  And Jeoffry had agreed, “Best to keep ourselves free of old Trick E’s treasons and stratagems until we are prepared to strike.”

  And so, she had woven her hair as instructed, guided by Hyssop Joan’s image in the bathroom mirror. “It does look different,” she admitted.

  “A lot about you is different, Jane,” her father observed, glancing over the top of the newspaper. “I can count on one hand the times you’ve worn dresses. I didn’t realize you’d brought any with you from Buford. And isn’t it getting too chill to walk around barefoot?”

  “It’s refreshing.”

  “But aren’t you the one who told me it’s more sensible to wear shoes and pants, since you’re always riding your bike all over the place?” He put down the newspaper. “Now that I think about it, I’ve never known you to spend so much time indoors — let alone fixing up your hair.”

  “People change.” She sat on a wicker ottoman in front of the window bay. “I’m different now. In a few months, I’m going to be fourteen.”

  A discordant clatter of pots rang out from the kitchen.

  “Maybe you should go in there and give Mrs. Babcock a hand with dinner.” He returned to the newspaper. “When I finish catching up on the news, I’ll be raking leaves in the yard if you’re looking for something more strenuous to do.”

  “I think Mrs. B needs me more. She uses too much salt if I’m not there. But first…” She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “I want to talk with you — about mother.”

  Ethan’s coppery eyebrows raised a notch. “What about her?”

  “Was she pregnant when she died?”

  The expression of surprise and pain on her father’s face made Jane wish she’d never asked. But she had wanted to know for sure.

  “How…” he began to inquire, then fell silent.

  “It was just an intuition I had, a feeling,” she blurted. The cat, who had cuddled up on the sofa, opened his eyes to give her a telling stare. “I wanted to know if it was true.”

  “She was in her first trimest
er,” Ethan recalled softly, an injured look in his eyes. “I’ve often wondered if it was a boy or a girl.”

  She sighed. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “It’s not like you,” her father admitted. His face looked older than Jane remembered, and he stared at her with a careful almost sad attentiveness. “But then, you are a teen now, and you’re probably thinking about your mother in new ways.”

  “Do you believe we’ll ever see her again?”

  Ethan tucked in his chin with disbelief. “Is this the same girl who said that heaven is just a make-believe place?”

  ”I was just a kid then.” Annoyance flashed briefly in Jane’s eyes. “I’m older now and more open-minded.”

  “Okay.” He put the newspaper down on his lap and crossed his arms. Jane recognized the horizontal crease that appeared above his nose. That was a sign he was about to get serious. He would probably launch into one of his thoughtful accounts on the mysterious nature of reality and how little was actually known by science, and she stopped him. “I mean, in your heart, do you believe we’ll ever see mother again?”

  “In my heart…” The crease above his nose disappeared, and he nodded. “In my heart, yes — I believe we’ll see her again.”

  Jane looked at her father very carefully. “So, you think it’s possible that there is an afterlife?”

  He answered with a faint smile, “I guess that is what I’m saying.”

  “Then, maybe someone who was dead could come back and meet with us?”

  “I honestly don’t see how that could happen.” His face grew grim. “Why are you asking me these odd questions?”

  “I have been thinking about mother.” She lowered her gaze and noticed that she had bunched the fabric of her dress in her fists. She relaxed her hands. “I’d like to see her again.”

  “Jane…” He shifted his weight among the cushions as he brought forward an uncomfortable thought. “I know you’re unhappy coming here and leaving your mother behind in Buford...”

  “It’s not that.” Her matter-of-fact tone stopped him — and made the cat sit up very straight on the sofa. “I’ve been thinking about how little is known by science, like you’ve said. There’s a whole lot more to reality that’s unknown than is known. Right?”

  “I’ll buy that.”

  “Okay then, maybe it’s possible that the dead can return for a while and talk with us.”

  “Like in a séance? Or with a Ouija board? Or tarot cards? Jane, I thought you understood all those supernatural pursuits are nonsense, mumbo jumbo, silly superstitions.”

  “Not a séance, father. I mean, really come back. Maybe we don’t understand what it means to be dead — or even alive. Maybe there’s real magic in the world — magic that works — that can make cats talk and that can teach us stuff we didn’t know and that can even bring back the dead.”

  “Wow! I think you scared Lester.” Ethan nodded toward where the cat had leaped upon the back of the sofa and was pacing back and forth excitedly as if trying to get her attention. “If, in fact, cats could talk, I think Lester would say your imagination is so wild it’s practically an endangered species!” His eyes narrowed mirthfully. “We should tag and catalogue it before letting it go.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She bowed her head morosely. “I was just wondering.”

  “With an imagination that wild, we might need a tranquilizer gun to get you back to reality.” He laughed, then reached out and chucked his daughter under the chin. “What inspired this soaring flight of fancy, Jane? This isn’t at all like you.”

  Jane meekly replied, “I think I studied too hard for that science test.” She cast a reassuring glance at the cat and then faced her father with thoughtful clarity. “It got me wondering, there must be a whole lot more to the world than what we know or even what we think we know.”

  “Or maybe you’re just a little annoyed at me for going away and leaving you alone in this new place for so long?” His eyebrows lifted higher, both contrite and inquisitive. “You think that’s it?”

  A crash of pots clanged from the kitchen. “Jane!” Mrs. Babcock called in a gently peeved tone. “Lester needs to be fed. Will you take care of him, please?”

  Jane looked about and noticed that the cat had slipped away. She moved to get up, and her father raised his chin to indicate he had something more to say.

  “You know, you’re right about science.” The newspaper crackled as he eased forward to make eye contact. His stare drifted up to her hair, where it lingered. “Science is only good for some things, Jane. It doesn’t help us with the big mysteries, such as whether God exists — or where we go when we die.” His eyes met hers. “But science has taught us enough about reality for us to be sure that cats can’t talk — and the dead don’t come back, not in séances or in person. That doesn’t mean that when the people we love die we have to stop loving them. Loving what we cannot see, that’s our special gift as people, as human beings. Does that make sense?” He gave her a kindly smile. “Or are we going to have to talk this over with the cat?”

  She returned his smile and headed for the kitchen.

  “Are you completely daft?” Jeoffry whispered in her ear when she bent to empty a can of cat food into his bowl. “Why the deuce did you have to be so explicit with dear old Dad?”

  “Did you say something, dearie?” Mrs. Babcock asked from where she sat at the table snapping green beans.

  “Just wondering if it would be okay for me to step outside and rake some leaves while you make dinner?”

  Jeoffry followed her out. “I think it would be judicious to refrain from further discussions about chatty cats with your pater.”

  “I’m sorry.” At a majestic oak wearing trousers of moss, Jane paused. “I just want all this to make sense. I’ve always discussed things with my father, things that didn’t make sense, and he helps me.”

  “Well, we shan’t be able to help you at all if you break our not-so-little secret.” Jeoffry sharpened his claws against the oak’s rough bark. “The rule of secrecy is abominably strict, and even should you think it’s strictly abominable, there are no exceptions. One yip of the truth from you, and ye old Joan and I are — poof! — vanished. The pages of yon conjure book will never separate for you, and you’ll suffer the most ghastly bad luck until you return it whence you found it. Am I clear?”

  “As the empty sky over our heads.” Jane lifted her face to a heaven blue as a baby’s blanket and kicked through leaf drifts into the shabby garden.

  A Beastly Debate

  After dinner and cleanup, Jane went to her room and found Jeoffry sitting at her desk in front of the computer, using his paw to push around the mouse. On the monitor, a movie clip from a television website displayed a teenage witch and her talking cat.

  “Have you ever seen such sheer fiddle-faddle?” Jeoffry batted the mouse, and the clip paused. “What poignant anguish to find a caricature of oneself bandied about in the electronic theater as an object of ridicule. I chafe to see the ancient tradition of witch and feline familiar so ludicrously portrayed. Tush, Jane! The vulgar taste for mocking Wicca simply tweaks my whiskers. Poo. And poo!”

  “Forget about that silly stuff, Jeoffry.” Jane unwrapped the conjure book from its protective plastic bag. Its foul stench had diminished, and it actually smelled now like an interesting blue-veined cheese. “We have serious witchcraft to do if we’re going to bag Trick E.” She shooed the cat off her chair and sat down at her desk. “I have gotten this right, haven’t I? Before I can see my mother, I have to befriend you by confronting your enemy.”

  “All the while holding the secret close,” the cat reminded from where he had nestled comfortably on her bed. “You’ve been playing loose and fast with that first and most important condition, young miss. Old Chin Hairs would be infernally irritated if she got wind of your frivolous regard for our confidence.”

  “Well, she doesn’t have to know,” Jane was saying as the movie clip on the computer monitor vanished and
Hyssop Joan’s cadaverous face appeared.

  “Know?” the witch queried. “What wouldst I know?”

  “Ah, Lady Hyssop!” Jeoffry lifted his backside and pressed his chest to the bed while stretching his front legs. “We were just now reviewing the responsibilities that constitute a full-fledged witch.”

  “Still reviewing?” The hag’s eyes tightened in their sockets. “Make a conscience of doing, girl, not reviewing!”

  “Precisely my advice to the young thing.” Jeoffry strolled to the edge of the bed. “The time is upon us for action. We must destroy Trick E.”

  “Can’t we just put a spell on him and turn him into a rock or something?” Jane gazed apprehensively into the cat’s tranquil blue eyes. “Do we have to destroy him? Is that really the only way for me to befriend you, Jeoffry? It sounds dangerous.”

  “Indeed, it is!” Jeoffry replied at once. “Why else would I need your help? Trick E is determined to annihilate me. Or at least he will be so determined when he discovers I’m about again. And, remember, he killed your mother.”

  Anger had been twisting in her since she first heard this cruel accusation. And after her father confirmed that her mother had indeed been pregnant when she had died, that twisting anger knotted even tighter. Now, to be reminded again — as if she could ever forget — made that knot of anger hurt her stomach. “I haven’t forgotten.” The conjure book in her hand felt suddenly heavy, and she placed it on the desk. “It’s just that, if anything happens to me, my father — he…” Jane turned to the computer screen and appealed to the witch, “Well, he’ll be all alone. I can’t do that to him.”

  “We shall take pains to protect thee, Jane,” the crone promised. “Yet, for friendship of a familiar, all is not sweet. Thee must take some risk to receive some good.”

  “The sun still shines, timid girl.” Jeoffry vaulted from the bed to the desk and sat beside the keyboard. “I am willing to compromise regarding the fate of our nemesis. No need to slay the ignominious Trick E. All we need do is detain him, keep him at bay, put him in shackles, impound, incarcerate and imprison his beastly wickedness. Do unto him as he did unto Joan. Keep him locked up for centuries underground, while we merrily enter the Twilight.”