Demons

by Gardner Dozois

  All the Ramoth Bay sailboats are centerboard, because the bay is too shallow for keels. The place we had overturned, however, was too deep for us to stand on the bottom. There was nothing to do but hold on, wave, yell, and hope for rescue.

  Soon the two young men at the club came out in a motorboat and hauled us aboard. They threw some tackle around the mast of the Psyche and had her right side up in a jiffy. One of them got aboard, struck the sails, and bailed out most of the water.

  This took nearly an hour, while Denise and I huddled shivering in the motorboat. I do not think the young men had much sympathy for us. At last we returned to the pier, towing the Psyche.

  It was still early afternoon by the time we were dried, changed, and fed. I took a nap and, as I more or less expected, had another visit from Habib al-Lajashi. The jinn looked grave.

  "Mr. Newbury," he said, "I know of your troubles with the boat."

  "Ibn-Musa's doing?

  "Of course. Now I must tell you that Mr. Maniu has ordered ibn-Musa at all costs to destroy you."

  "You mean to kill me? Murder me?"

  "That is what is meaning by 'destroy.' "

  "What for? If he wants me to quit his damned game, why doesn't he say so? I have all the purple pterodactyls I need."

  "You are not understanding the psychology of Mr. Maniu. He has many ideas that would seem to you strange. I understand them better, because many mortals have ideas like that in my part of the world. With him it is a matter of what he calls his honor, never to let another get the better of him. You have wounded his—how do you say—your wife would know the French expression—"

  "Amour-propre?"

  "That is it. When someone does that to him, he never forgives them. It does no good to give him back his prizes, or to let him win them back, or to throw his rings for a month without scoring, he has a—what is that Italian word?"

  "A vendetta?"

  "Thank you, sir; a vendetta against you."

  "I guess ibn-Musa really tried to drown us this morning. Luckily, we're both good swimmers. Well, Habib, what can you do for me?"

  "Not much, I fear. Ibn-Musa can, by a slight adjustment of the material factors on this plane, bring all kinds of bad luck on you. You step into the street just once without noticing the speeding car; or you neglect a little cut and get the blood poisoning."

  "It's up to you to get me out of this, old boy," I said. "After all, you got me into it, in a way."

  Al-Lajashi shrugged. "I will do what I can, since you command. But I guarantee nothing."

  "Look," I said, "suppose I promised to give you the ring, once I'm home free. Would that make a difference?"

  Al-Lajashi pondered, lifting his hat to scratch between his horns. "If you will solemnly promise this thing, I do know one method that might work. It is risky, not only to you but also to me. But I am willing if you are."

  "Don't see that I have much choice," I said. "Go ahead. I have to trust you, but you have impressed me as a pretty honest jinn."

  Al-Lajashi smiled. "You are a shrewd judge of character, Mr. Newbury; but in your business you have to be. Very well, I am starting this project at once. I cannot explain the method, but do not be surprised at anything."

  "I won't be," I said.

  I was not, however, prepared for the frightful shriek that came from the beach, around three or four a.m. that night. It woke up Denise, too. We looked out but could see nothing.

  We finally got back to sleep. I do not remember my dreams, save that they were much less pleasant than having cozy chats with Habib al-Lajashi.

  Next morning, the night's events had receded into a vaguely-recalled bad dream. After breakfast, we put on our bathing suits for our morning's beaching.

  There was Maniu, lying under a mound of sand with his head and arms sticking out. He seemed to be asleep. He had buried himself below high-tide mark, and the incoming tide would soon wash over his mound.

  "Somebody ought to wake him up," I said, "before he gets a lungful of Atlantic Ocean."

  "How pale he looks!" said Denise. "With all the sun he has been getting, one would think—"

  She stopped with a terrible shriek. I had glanced away towards I a couple of kids flying kites. When I looked back, Maniu's head was rolling gently down the slope of his mound.

  The head had been set, like a macabre grave marker, on the mound, which covered the decapitated rest of him. A wave of the incoming tide had lapped up to it and set it rolling.

  Just how this happened was never established. The police rounded up the motorcycle gang. The tracks of their vehicles were found on the beach, and there were other bits of circumstantial evidence, but not enough for conviction.

  I did not see al-Lajashi for several days. When he paid another visit, I did not wait for him to ask for the ring. I tore it off and tossed it to him before he could speak.

  "Take it away," I said, "and yourself with it."

  "Oh, thank you, sir! Kattar khayrak! You are my liberator! In the name of the Prophet, on whom be peace, I love you! I—"

  "I'm flattered and all that. But if you really want to express your gratitude, Habib, you will scram. I want nothing more to do with the jann."

  Then I really woke up. There was no jinn; only my darling in the other bed. The ring, however, had gone.

  I drew a long breath. Denise stirred. Well, I thought, this is as good a time as any to prove my manhood again. At my age, one should not pass up a chance.

  Goslin Day

  by

  Avram Davidson

  In Yiddish gozlin means thief or swindler—a non-professional gonif. But what about goslins (with an s) that flicker-snicker and nimblesnitch and create havoc with pious people on hotsticky days, that swim in dusty mirrors and wait for propitious moments to escape through the cracks and swindle, thieve, and connive?

  Kabbalah is the mystical dark side of rationalistic Jewish thought, and in Kabbalistic lore, the manipulation of Hebrew words and numbers—numerology, gematria, noutricon, anagrams, acrostics—became magical tools to divine the secret names of angels and demons, and thus gain limited power over them. The Kabbalistic sorcerer has access to whole pantheons of angels and demons, to intervening worlds such as Yetzirah—where the ten orders of angels can be found—and the dead, imperfect worlds that are the sources of evil. God created these imperfect worlds, so Kabbalists tell, and then destroyed them—but not completely, for God's works could not be totally destroyed, only changed.

  And if from one of those dead worlds come goslins, why then, naturally enough, it must be goslin day. . . .

  For many years now Avram Davidson has been one of the most eloquent and individual voices in science fiction and fantasy, and there are few writers in any literary field who can hope to match his wit, his erudition, or the stylish elegance of his prose. His recent series of stories about bizarre exploits of Doctor Engelbert Esterhazy (collected in his World Fantasy Award-winning The Enquiries of Doctor Esterhazy) and the strange adventures of Jack Limekiller (as yet uncollected, alas), for instance, are Davidson at the very height of his considerable powers, and rank among the best work of the seventies. Davidson has won the Hugo, the Edgar, and the World Fantasy Award. His books include the renowned The Phoenix and the Mirror, Masters of the Maze, Rogue Dragon, Peregrine: Primus, Rork!, Clash of Star Kings, and the collections The Best of Avram Davidson, Or All the Seas With Oysters, and The Redward Edward Papers. His most recent books are Peregrine: Secundus, a novel; Collected Fantasies, a collection; and, as editor, the anthology Magic for Sale. Upcoming is a new novel, Vergil In Averno, the sequel to The Phoenix and the Mirror.

  It was a goslin day, no doubt about it; of course it can happen that goslin things can occur, say, once a day for many days. But this day was a goslin day. From the hour when, properly speaking, the ass brays in his stall, but here instead the kat kvells on the rooftop—to the hour when the cock crows on his roost, but here instead the garbageman bangs on his can—even that early, Faroly realized that it w
as going to be a goslin day (night? let be night: It was evening, and [after that] it was morning: one day. Yes or no?). In the warbled agony of the shriek-scream Faroly had recognized an element present which was more than the usual ketzelkat expression of its painpleasure syndrome. In the agglutinative obscenities which interrupted the bang-crashes of the yuckels emptying eggshells orangerinds cof-feegrounds there was (this morning, different from all other mornings) something unlike their mere usual brute pleasure in waking the dead. Faroly sighed. His wife and child were still asleep. He saw the dimlight already creeping in, sat up, reached for the glass and saucer and poured water over his nails, began to whisper his preliminary prayers, already concentrating on his Intention in the name Unity: but aware, aware, aware, the hotsticky feeling in the air, the swimmy looks in the dusty corners of windows, mirrors; something a tension, here a twitch. Notgood not-good.

  In short: a goslin day.

  Faroly decided to seek an expert opinion, went to Crown Heights to consult the kabbalist. Kaplánovics.

  Rabbaness Kaplánovics was at the store, schauming off the soup with an enormous spoon, gestured with a free elbow toward an inner room. There sat the sage, the sharp one, the teacher of our teachers, on his head his beaver hat neatly brushed, on his feet and legs his boots brightly polished, in between garments well and clean without a fleck or stain as befits a disciple of the wise. He and Faroly shook hands, greeted, blessed the Name. Kaplánovics pushed across several sheets of paper covered with an exquisitely neat calligraphy.

  "Already there," the kabbalist said. "I have been through everything three times, twice. The New York Times, the Morgen Dzshornal, I.F. Stone, Dow-Jones, the Daph-Yomi, your name-Text, the weather report, Psalm of the Day. Everything is worked out, by numerology, analogy, gematria, noutricon, anagrams, allegory, procession and precession. So.

  "Of course today as any everyday we must await the coming of the Messiah: 'await'—expect?today? not today. Today he wouldn't come. Considerations for atmospheric changes, or changes for atmospheric considerations, not—bad. Not—bad. Someone gives you an offer for a good air-conditioner, cheap, you could think about it. Read seven capitals of psalms between afternoon and evening prayers. One sequence is enough. The day is favorable for decisions on growth stocks, but avoid closed-end mutual funds. On the corner by the beygal store is an old woman with a pyshka, collecting dowries for orphan girls in Jerusalem: the money, she never sends, this is her sin, it's no concern of yours: give her eighteen cents, a very auspicious number: merit, cheaply bought (she has sugar diabetes and the daughter last week gave birth to a weak-headed child by a schwartzer), what else?" They examined the columns of characters.

  "Ahah. Ohoh. If you get a chance to buy your house, don't buy it, the Regime will condemn it for a freeway, where are they all going so fast?—every man who has two legs thinks he needs three automobiles—besides—where did I write it? oh yes. There. The neighborhood is going to change very soon and if you stay you will be killed in three years and two months, or three months and two years, depending on which system of gematria is used in calculating. You have to warn your brother-in-law his sons should each commence bethinking a marriagematch. Otherwise they will be going to cinemas and watching televisions and putting arms around girls, won't have the proper intentions for their nighttime prayers, won't even read the protective psalms selected by the greatgrandson of the Baalshemtov: and with what results, my dear man? Nocturnal emissions and perhaps worse; is it for nothing that The Chapters of the Principles caution us, 'At age eighteen to the marriage canopy and the performance of good deeds,' hm?"

  Faroly cleared this throat. "Something else is on your mind," said the kabbalist. "Speak. Speak." Faroly confessed his concern about goslins. Kaplánovics exclaimed, struck the table. "Goslins! You wanted to talk about goslins? It's already gone past the hour to say the Shema, and I certainly didn't have in mind when I said it to commence constructing a kaméa—" He clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Am I omniscient?" he demanded. "Why didn't you let me know you were coming? Man walks in off the street, expects to find—"

  But it did not take long to soothe and smooth him—Who is strong? He who can control his own passion.

  And now to first things first, or, in this case, last things first, for it was the most recent manifestation of goslinness which Faroly wished to talk about. The kabbalist listened politely but did not seem in agreement with nor impressed by his guest's recitation of the signs by which a goslin day might make itself known. " 'Show simônim,' " he murmured, with a polite nod. "This one loses an object, that one finds it, let the claimant come and 'show simônim,' let him cite the signs by which his knowledge is demonstrated, and, hence, his ownership . . ." But this was mere polite fumfutting, and Faroly knew that the other knew that both knew it.

  On Lexington a blackavised goslin slipped out from a nexus of cracked mirrors reflecting dust at each other in a disused nightclub, snatched a purse from a young woman emerging from a ribs joint; in Bay Ridge another, palepink and blond, snatched a purse from an old woman right in front of Suomi Evangelical Lutheran. Both goslins flickersnickered and were sharply gone. In Tottenville, a third one materialized in the bedroom of an honest young woman still half asleep in bed just a second before her husband came back from the nightshift in Elizabeth, New Jersey; uttered a goslin cry and jumped out the window holding his shirt. Naturally the husband never believed her—would you? Two more slipped in and out of a crucial street corner on the troubled bordermarches of Italian Harlem, pausing only just long enough to exchange exclamations of guineabastard! goddamnigger! and goslin looks out of the corners of their goslin eyes. (Joslin cabdrivers curseshouted at hotsticky pregnant women dumb enough to try and cross at pedestrian crossings. The foul air grew fouler, thicker, hotter, tenser, muggier, murkier: and the goslins, smelling it from afar, came leapsniffing through the vimveil to nimblesnitch, torment, buffet, burden, uglylook, poke, makestumble, maltreat, and quickshmiggy back again to gezzle guzzle goslinland.

  The kabbalist had grown warm in discussion, eagerly inscribed circles in the air with downhooked thumb apart from fist " '. . . they have the forms of men and also they have the lusts of men,' " hequoted.

  "You are telling me what every schoolchild knows," protested Faroly. "But from which of the other three of the four worlds of Emanation, Creation, Formation, and Effectation—from which do they come? And why more often, and more and more often, and more and more and more often, and—"

  Face wrinkled to emphasize the gesture of waving these words away, Kaplánovics said, "If Yesod goes, how can Hod remain? If there is no Malchuth, how can there be Qether? Thus one throws away with the hand the entire configuration of Adam Qadmon, the Tree of Life, the Ancient of Days. Men tamper with the very vessels themselves, as if they don't know what happened with the Bursting of the Vessels before, as though the Husks, the Shards, even a single shattered Cortex, doesn't still plague and vex and afflict us to this day. They look down into the Abyss, and they say, 'This is high,' and they look up to an Eminence and they say, 'This is low' . . . And not thus alone! And not thus alone! Not just with complex deenim, as, for example, those concerning the fluxes of women—no! no! But the simplest of the simple of the Six Hundred and Thirteen Commandments: to place a parapet around a roof to keep someone from falling off and be killed. What can be simpler? What can be more obvious? What can be easier?

  "—but do they do it? What, was it only three weeks ago, or four? a Puertorican boy didn't fall off the roof of an apartment house near dead? Dead, perished. Go talk to the wall. Men don't want to know. Talk to them Ethics, talk to them Brotherhood, talk to them Ecumenical Dialogue, talk to them any kind of nonsenseness: they'll listen. But talk to them: It's written, textually, in the Torah, to build a parapet around your rooftop to prevent blood being shed—no: to this they won't listen. They would neither hear nor understand. They don't know Torah, don't know Text, don't know parapet; roof—this they never heard of either—"

&nb
sp; He paused. "Come tomorrow and I'll have prepared for you a kaméa against goslins." He seemed suddenly weary.

  Faroly got up. Sighed. "And tomorrow will you also have prepared a kaméa against goslins for everyone else?"

  Kaplánovics didn't raise his eyes. "Don't blame the rat," he said. "Blame the rat-hole."

  Downstairs Faroly noticed a boy in a green and white skullcap, knotted crispadin coming up from inside under his shirt to dangle over his pants. "Let me try a sortilegy," he thought to himself. "Perhaps it will give me some remez, or hint. . . ." Aloud, he asked, "Youngling, tell me, what text did you learn today in school?"

  The boy stopped twisting one of his stroobley earlocks, and turned up his phlegm-green eyes. " 'Three things take a man out of this world,' " he yawned. " 'Drinking in the morning, napping in the noon, and putting a girl on a winebarrel to find out if she's a virgin.' "

  Faroly clicked his tongue, fumbled for a handkerchief to wipe his heatprickled face. "You are mixing up the texts," he said.

  The boy raised his eyebrows, pursed his lips, struck out his lower jaw. "Oh indeed. You ask me a question, then you give me an answer. How do you know I'm mixing up the texts? Maybe I cited a text which you never heard before. What are you, the Vilna Gaon?"

  "Brazen face—look, look, how you've gotten your crispadin all snarled," Faroly said, slightly amused, fingering the cinctures passed through one belt-loop—then, feeling his own horrified amazement and, somehow, knowing . . . knowing . . . as one knows the refrigerator is going to stop humming one-half second before it does stop, yet—"What is this? What is this? The cords of your crisadin are tied in pairs?"

  The filthgreen eyes slid to their corners, still holding Faroly's. "Hear, O Israel," chanted the child: "the Lord our God, the Lord is Two."