by Dante Graves
Chapter 9: The Moon
“Hey cut me, I am such a sick man.”
Paw, “Pansy”
Zinnober returned to the circus after Greg. He already knew what he would say to Lazarus. Greg liked to walk to local bars, perhaps to start a fight. At first, Zinno was tempted to tell some contrived story about Greg enjoying the strippers, figuring that Martha would hear about it and dump the magician. But he resisted the urge and gave up this idea. Everyone knew there was only Martha for Greg, and only Greg for Martha. Nobody would believe such absurdity, and if Greg learned who had invented the fable, even Bernardius would be unable to reason with him.
Zinno’s story seemed plausible to Lazarus, but apparently he was expecting to hear something more shocking. The old man asked Zaches what had happened to Greg’s clothes. Zinno replied that Greg had drunk too much and gone too far with some fire trick that he was performing in a local bar, and some compassionate member of the audience had lent him some clothes. After withstanding the old man’s interrogation, Zinno went to the archivist Pietro’s tent.
Most of the residents of the circus appreciated the benefits of civilization, and if conditions allowed, they moved into their own trailers. But not Pietro. The archivist’s tent was the second largest after the big top. No one trailer could contain all of Pietro’s archives, which included the records of his predecessors, grimoires, and directories, and it was the sacred duty of any archivist to maintain their archives, keep order, and help protect the denizens of the circus.
Zinno rang the bell that hung at the entrance of the tent, and the archivist pushed aside the heavy curtain of thick fabric that served as a door. Judging by Pietro’s astonished look, he was not expecting a guest, but he invited Zinno to enter, maintaining his usual joyful and benevolent appearance. Zaches went inside, and for a moment he felt as if he had fallen somewhere under the ground. The sun shone on the street, but not one beam penetrated through the thick layers of tent fabric into Pietro’s shelter and storage area. It was so dim in the archivist’s tent that for a moment Zinno was almost blinded by the darkness. The air was dry and cool. Entries had to be protected from light and heat, and the archivist had fanatically created all the necessary conditions for this. He didn’t use lamps or lanterns or anything that could cause a fire. He used special crystals that radiated light. He left them for a day in the sun or, on cloudy days, gave them to Greg, who imbued them with the light of his magical fire.
When Zinno’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he began to distinguish these crystals, which were spread out here and there on tables, offering unblinking white and yellow light. The inside of the tent was more like a medieval library such as Zinno had seen in low-budget fantasy films when he lived on his own. Rows of shelves bulged from the weight of books resting on them, and maps and anatomical charts of impossible creatures were lying on the tables.
“What brings you here, Zinno?” Pietro asked. There was no impatience in voice, only kindness. The archivist always astonished Zinno. He never got annoyed and was always ready to help with advice, though only his books and manuscripts held meaning for him. Even now, talking to Zaches, Pietro scurried from rack to rack, looking through various records, sometimes jotting something down. This short but extremely obese person was kind of floating in the space of his habitation. His battered gold-embroidered robe dragged behind him across the floor with a slight rustling sound. “I need a favor,” murmured Zaches.
“Of course, you do! You clearly did not come to talk about the weather.” Pietro wasn’t looking at Zaches. The dwarf always worried a bit about the archivist trying to avoid looking at Zinno in the eye. Pietro was the only human in the circus, and to him Zinnober looked like a handsome man. But now, talking to the archivist, he could stop thinking that he could see his real image. But Pietro did not look at him, and this unnerved Zinno.
“I need a talisman,” Zaches said, his voice almost hoarse with emotion.
Pietro looked at Zinno. The archivist’s gaze was fixed, but he did not express any suspicion. He thoughtfully readjusted his small round glasses on his small round nose. “For summoning?”
“Yes, for summoning.”
“As you know, I don’t craft such things for no reason. Only for Bernardius. I will have to report your request.”
“No need, Pietro. I want to call the person to whom you report everything.”
“Even so, Zinno, if something has happened, I need to put it in the archives. I need to know why you need it. And I have to tell Lazarus.”
“I suppose, he decides who should know.” The sharpness in his own voice surprised Zaches. But with the goal so close, he could not control his emotions. “I’m sorry. I hope this will help you cope with the need for silence.” From behind his shirt, Zaches took a handful of photos and set them on the table. The photographs were of women Zinnober had known before agreeing to a painful exile in the circus. They had allowed him to photograph them as he requested, and they boldly showed all that a woman can show. He had lusted after them, and it spurred their desire.
In the circus, money meant nothing, but other items had value. These photographs had value for Pietro, and Zinno paid the archivist for small favors with them. Zaches had already spent almost two-thirds of the photos. Spending the rest meant remaining without the pleasure of Pietro’s bliss-inducing concoctions, but it was surely worth it, he assured himself.
“Well, Zinno, I won’t say anything to Lazarus. But if he asks, I will not be silent.”
“Let it be so. I need a talisman.”
“Good. I’ll make you a crowned talisman.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means you don’t have to prepare the ritual of summoning. Nothing to do but activate the talisman and report to a demon whatever you want. Only one thing is needed.” The archivist’s plump hand flicked out and pulled a knife from somewhere under his robe. “Do not worry, I will not hurt you.” Pietro’s chubby cheeks quivered as he laughed. “You’ll do it yourself.” The archivist’s smile grew wider.
“What? Why?”
“If you want to summon a demon voluntarily, you have to make a sacrifice with your own hand.”
“We need some special knife?”
“No, any will do.”
“Then I’ll do it with mine.” Zaches pulled a knife from behind his shirt. Its blade glistened even in the dim light of the archivist’s tent.
“I thought Lazarus forbade you to carry a weapon,” said Pietro.
“And Lazarus forbids you to provide any services,” retorted Zaches, and the archivist just shrugged.
“Blood should be collected here.” Pietro handed the dwarf a roughly processed small crock with signs and symbols carved on it.
“What is it?”
“A small copy of Solomon’s jar, a dolium for summoning.”
“And these signs—that’s Latin?”
The archivist sighed and shook his head. “No. It is an ancient language, or higher language, as we call it. A language spoken by people before the construction of the Tower of Babel. It is used in goetia. Only a few hundred people in the world know it. Now, if we’re done with your education, it’s time to start.”
Zaches cut his palm with a knife. His blood was as red as the artificial blood used in movies. The dwarf put the jar under his palm, and to his surprise, the blood did not spread over the entire palm but gathered in a trickle and began to flow into the jar’s mouth. It seemed to be sucking Zinno’s blood. Enchanted with the view, Zinnober removed his hand from the dolium, and the trickle of blood hung in the air horizontally, flowing from his hand and into the neck of the jug. The sight absorbed Zaches, until the world had shrunk to his palm, the jug, and the blood between them. All his senses, except one, left him. Zaches felt as if his whole being flowed into the dolium, not only his blood, but also his soul.
Pietro shouted something in a strange language, the trickle of blood trailed off, and consciousness returned to Zaches. For a moment it seemed to him
as if he had returned to his body from somewhere far away, and while he was gone, his body had shrunk so that now he could barely fit in it. He felt as if his elbows, knees, and nose couldn’t squeeze into his physical form, that his back was bent even more as it tried to get back to its original place. Pietro’s voice spoke to him, returning him to reality.
“Solomon’s jar is a dangerous thing. Watching him, some fall into a trance. And many of these unlucky fellows can’t return. I’m sorry, I forgot to warn you.” The archivist’s voice was full of sincere repentance. While Zaches rolled his shoulders and stretched his arms and legs, as if trying to get used to his body again, Pietro made a strange manipulation with the jar. He threw into it some rotten, sallow threads and poured in some powder, every action accompanied by a throaty murmur. The archivist’s voice surprised Zaches. He was accustomed to the soft, melodic intonations of this fat bookworm, but now his voice was low and rough, more like barking or croaking. When he was finished, Pietro corked the jug with a visible effort. Sweat beaded on his flushed forehead.
“Here you go. Do not break it, and do not give it to anyone.”
Zaches wanted to say that the warnings were unnecessary, but he stopped when he saw how serious Pietro was. Zinnober took the jar from the archivist’s hands and was surprised at how heavy it was. The jar had a little blood inside, and whatever Pietro had put in it wasn’t that heavy, yet it was difficult for Zinno to hold the dolium in his crooked hands.
“How should I use this?”
“Just open it in a convenient location at a convenient time and add your fresh blood. A few drops is enough, you don’t have to cut your hand open again”
“That’s all?”
“Yes. I would advise you to do it rather far from the circus. Summoning a demon is a very, you know, noisy process, and I don’t think you want to attract any attention.”
“And if something goes wrong? How can I protect myself from a demon?”
“From that one?” Pietro seemed perplexed. “You can’t. You have to trust him. But believe me, he’s not some petty demon who escaped from the underworld to kill nuns and poison the water with gucks. If you’re polite, you’ll save your life.”
Zinnober left the archivist excited and scared. If all went according to his plan, he would be able to get rid of his ugliness. And Greg. And then Martha would be his. Zinno held the jar with both hands, and sometimes it seemed that the dolium pulsated. The dwarf even felt a wave coming from his hands to his shoulders. Whenever Zaches looked at the jar, he saw only its clay surface, speckled with marks. But when he tried to discern them, the strange symbols suddenly turned into insults, filthy and humiliating. These words told him he was wretched and narrow-souled, called him to Hell, and promised eternal punishment.
Zaches preferred not to look at the jar. Tonight, he would summon Astaroth and tell him about Greg’s murder. And then … then the demon would reward him.
