The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  Genet flicked through the pages of the book, until she settled on one with a particularly obscene drawing. The script seemed to dance on the page, and the enchantress had to look slightly sideways to see it properly. She managed to focus. “This will do. A demon to watch over, until we can free her.”

  Still looking away from the page, she traced the ghostly words with a finger, and muttered the incantation. The floor glowed slightly, and she scattered an evil-smelling powder. The glow increased, and Genet was pleased to see the gradual appearance of a small, squat demon. It sniggered as it saw her expression. “Didiubas at your service,” it said, as though the witch should know the name.

  “I do not know you, but I have work,” said Genet.

  “Will I enjoy it?”

  “It is to protect a lady, until I can return and free her.”

  “No fun?” The demon scowled.

  “Not immediately,” said Genet. “But you will do it because I summoned you.”

  “And after that? What’s in it for me?”

  “It is not my problem once the lady has been saved. I suppose you can return to the depths of wherever you came from, or you will be released into this world, to indulge your pleasure. What does it matter? Can you not be satisfied with doing the lady a favour?”

  “Not really,” said the demon. “And if I want to, how do I return to my own dimension when the job is done?”

  “You are firmly dedicated to evil?”

  “I do my best.”

  “Then... you shall stay here, until you learn to do good,” said Genet, as the idea popped into her head.

  “You are cruel to a poor chaos demon, and for me, doing good may take some time. Nice smell.” Didiubas rubbed himself in the mess on the floor-tiles. “I might learn to enjoy making trouble in this strange world.”

  “As long as the lady is safe, it is up to you. That is what you are here for. That is the sorcery which brought you, and binds you. You won’t be here long, so you can take that grin off your face.”

  “It’s not a grin; it’s how I always look.”

  “Of course it is,” said Genet. “Sit and guard. Don’t let anything happen to the grave. I charge you by the powers of light and darkness to protect the lady.”

  “You can rely on me,” said the demon.

  “Then, I bid you goodnight.”

  “Nice tits, by the way.” The demon vanished.

  Genet scowled, and slipped her robe back on. She put the spell book under her arm again, and went quietly to open the side door. When she was sure there was nothing hidden in the darkness, she scurried round the end of the church, keeping in the shadows. It was a long walk home, but worth it, for the satisfaction of dealing with the abbot.

  She was a few paces beyond the abbey precinct, when torchlight flared.

  “She’s here, master. Come quickly.” Genet froze. The demon, Didiubas, was in front of her with a flaming brand. He was shouting. “She’s here. Come and deal with her.”

  She tried to run, but her way was blocked by a nobleman on a horse.

  “Ah, Genet of Siwaldston, I presume.” The man peered down at her. “The witch who is trying to revive the Lady.”

  “But how did you know...?”

  “A little warty fellow has just this moment shared the information with me, in exchange for a piece of gold. He seems to have gone, so I will keep my coin.”

  Genet heard a snigger from the wall above her head.

  “You little...” She tried to see where Didiubas was hiding, but he had finished his mischief, and returned to his bound vigil over the grave.

  “Precisely,” said the man. “There is to be no chance of her revival, do you understand?”

  “Fate will be what Fate will be.” Genet shrugged. “If it is to be that the lady returns, you have no say in the matter.”

  “What is that book?”

  “Nothing, my lord.” She tried to hide it behind her back.

  “Then, I will take it,” said the man. “A peasant should not have such a valuable item.”

  “You will not.” Genet muttered the beginnings of a spell. “No you will not.”

  Her outline began to fade.

  “And you won’t get away by trickery!” The horseman drew his sword, and charged towards her, scything it back and forth. Genet gave a cry as the blade bit into her disappearing figure, but the spell completed, and she vanished. The man jumped from his horse, and swept around the area with his blade, but found nothing, other than a few drops of blood on the grass.

  I

  n the darkness on top of the hill overlooking the abbey, Brother Francis was sitting miserably, watching the full moon sinking over the distant hills. He saw the line of bright stars linking it to the ground like a chain. Five in a row. Was it the portent Genet had mentioned when he picked up the fateful potion? He shrugged. In his hand, he held the knife that she had given him. The blade was poised over his wrist. It was devilishly sharp. One quick jab and tear, and the blood would flow; he would fade away. He had failed his mistress, been tricked, and would probably be the scape-goat, should the abbot renege on his promise; and the abbot was very likely to do that, unless Francis became slave to his every whim.

  It was no use pretending. He took a deep breath, and plunged the knife in. It stabbed like fire, but Francis was used to pain; he had been a monk for nearly thirty years, and had lived under a proper regime when Pontesbury had been in charge. The blood flowed.

  As his mind started to wander, Francis became aware of someone beside him: a naked woman. In the dim light, he recognised the witch. She was moaning, and blood flowed from a nasty cut on her neck. Despite that, she had a large book open in front of her, and was muttering under her breath.

  “What happened?” Even as he felt his life slipping away, Francis was concerned for the suffering of others.

  “That devil, Mynde,” she gasped. “He’s done for me, but I have something to tell you.”

  “What could a dying man possibly be interested in?” He forced a weak smile.

  “Do not jest. We have but little time.”

  “It is your fault this is happening,” said the monk. “If you had given me the correct mixture, the lady would not be dead.”

  “The lady is not dead,” rasped Genet. “The mixture put her into a deep sleep. She would be free now, but for the demon.”

  “What demon?” Francis was starting to lose consciousness.

  “The demon I conjured to protect her. It is evil.”

  “I will meet the lady again in Heaven,” said the monk weakly. “I can beg her forgiveness.”

  “She will not be there,” said Genet. “If the spell is not lifted, she will sleep between worlds forever. Touch me, take my life force to keep you in this world, and protect my book. The lady will need it to achieve her full destiny.”

  “I cannot,” said the monk. “I cannot indulge the carnal. It is forbidden.”

  “You will touch me,” said Genet. She took hold of his arm and the knife fell to the ground. “See.” She thrust his hand against her breast, and pulled him over on top of her. Their blood mingled. He felt a breath of life enter him, like taking in the scent of a fresh morning after a night’s rain, as they died together on the grassy hillside.

  6. Chariot

  Present Day

  T

  he pounding in her head brought Ankerita back to consciousness. She had been studying the Book for most of the night, long after Wesley had retired to the sofa. She had quizzed him about the origins of the tome, but his own knowledge was sketchy. Try as she might, staring at the runes and characters, nothing seemed to make sense.

  The drumming continued as she opened her eyes; it was the rain on the roof of the bed-sit. It had not stopped since they had returned from the hills. She noticed a patch of damp in one corner. It grew as she watched.

  “Fie,” she said. “How can you live in this guts-griping maggot-pie?”

  �
��What?” Wesley’s unkempt head appeared from over the sofa. She had insisted on him turning it around, so the back faced the bed.

  “This rats’-castle. Can you afford nothing better?”

  “I have little money. What else can I do?”

  “Have you no family?”

  “I couldn’t stay there. My mother kind of disowned me.”

  “Did she? Why?”

  “Well...” Wesley stuttered. “I might have been slightly arrested for carrying an illegal substance.”

  “What substance?” Ankerita’s eyes narrowed. “Look at me, thou hedge-born haggard. Tell me what passed.”

  “Only cannabis,” he stuttered under her steady gaze. “That’s all. I gave a fiver to a down-and-out who looked desperate, and he offered me the weed. I only thought I’d try it, but the moment I lit up, the pigs jumped me.”

  “Pigs? You have wild boar in the city?”

  “No, sorry, I meant ‘the police’. They were having a crackdown on drugs. I wonder if that dealer was a plant...”

  “Plant, like a holly-bush or something. I’m having a tad of trouble understanding thee. Wherefore dost thou not speak the King’s English?”

  “We currently have a queen, but I’ll do my best.”

  “Continue.”

  Wesley eyed the beautiful girl in his bed. “Can I hold you while we talk?”

  “No... why?”

  “Because you are so lovely, and you look so much better than when I rescued you from the hills.”

  “We are cousins, sirrah.”

  “Look,” said Wesley. “There is no way I have any cousins like you. Do you mean ‘distant relative’?”

  “Is that something different?”

  “You’re going to leave, aren’t you?”

  The girl was silent.

  Wesley continued. “If we are related, you can take the Book from me?”

  “I’m sure we are, and I will take it,” said Ankerita, “and you can start your life again. That is your compensation, a new beginning. Perhaps your misfortunes will leave you after that.”

  Wesley looked away.

  “Have you lost your voice?” Ankerita sounded impatient. “You were telling me about the wild boar who set a snare to catch you eating a weed with the queen.”

  “I mean it was a trap to catch me.” Wesley sighed. “My mother had to pay to get me out of jail, and the fine afterwards. She kept niggling me about it, so I packed up and left home.”

  “Deserted your mother? I presume your father has been killed in the wars with the French.”

  “You are very confused? My sister still lives there.”

  “Of course I’m confused.” The girl scowled at him. “With all this flapdoodle about plants and stuff. I don’t know what I’m thinking half the time. All these different words and languages are buzzing in my head like angry wasps.”

  “I’ll try to explain better,” said Wesley.

  “Do that, and don’t look so miserable all the time. At least you know where you belong, even if it is in this hot-house.” Ankerita regarded the flat with disdain. “And how did you come here?”

  “I got a few odd jobs on building sites to pay the way, but there is so much competition from the immigrants, and they are better at it than me, that the only job I could get was at a distribution warehouse. It doesn’t pay much, so I’m having to be as frugal as I can. Even in the supermarkets, the down-and-outs get the stuff that’s reduced at the end of the day before I finish work. I’m a double outcast.” He gazed down at his worn and slightly fragrant sleeping-bag.

  “We should make amends with your family,” said Ankerita. “I will not have relatives of mine treating my cousin such as this. We will return and ensure that they take you back. Where is their estate?”

  “A long way,” said Wesley miserably. “Down south.”

  “Good,” said Ankerita. “That is where I need to go. There is a snivelling half-faced clot-pole I need to visit. He has my money and my passport. I have a job to return to. People are waiting.”

  “Job?”

  “I was with a band.”

  “Yeah right. A band? Which one?”

  Ankerita spoke hesitantly, recalling the name with difficulty. “Baal-Peor?”

  “The god of licentiousness and unhappy marriages?”

  “I hope not.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “You will, once we start recording. We must return to your city.”

  “We will have to hitch. I can’t afford the train.”

  “Do you have a car?”

  “You know I don’t have a car?” Wesley flapped his hands.

  “Yes, I forgot you said. Can you drive?”

  “I learned a long time ago. I do still have a licence.”

  “Good,” Ankerita decided. “From what little I can understand, I believe that your Book points to the location of the Chariot of Morgan Mwynfawr. We will need that.”

  “What the heck are you talking about?”

  “Reading from here, it is one of the Thirteen Treasures of Albion, a fabled carriage that would transfer the owner quickly and directly to where he wants to go.”

  “Are you serious? That sounds like something out of fantasy. How long ago? Albion? This country has not been called that for thousands of years.”

  “Of course. Fabled treasures have to be old.”

  “How can such a thing be still around?” Wesley scratched his head. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “It is in the Book,” said Ankerita, “and there is a map. Have a look.” She climbed out of bed and pointed to the page. Wesley touched the vellum.

  “Ow, it tingles. It’s not done that before.”

  Ankerita ignored his protest. “Look at the map.”

  “I’d never noticed the before, but it is familiar.” Wesley turned it around in his hands a few times. “I think it might be not too far away. I recognise the village name, although it’s spelt differently.”

  “I suppose it is possible that names will have changed over time.”

  “If it’s the place I think, I’ve been walking around there; I have a map of the area on the shelf. I’ve never seen any chariot though.”

  “Good,” said Ankerita. “That will mean nobody will try to prig it. We go as soon as breakfast has been consumed. Has it stopped raining yet?”

  H

  eads turned as Ankerita and Wesley walked into the bus station. Wesley grinned as people did a double-take trying to understand the miss-match of the stunning girl, and himself, an apology that would make a scarecrow look refined. Enjoy it while you can, he said to himself. She will leave you; they always leave you.

  “Will it to be, and so will it be,” said Ankerita, totally unaware of the effect she was having on the other passengers. “We craft our own destinies.”

  “What?” Wesley was lost in his thoughts.

  “You said I would leave you.”

  “No I didn’t.”

  “As it be,” said Ankerita. “Now where’s this stagecoach we need?”

  T

  he bus dropped Ankerita and Wesley in a small village in the hills. The girl produced the Book from her shoulder-bag and sat down in the bus shelter to flick through the pages.

  “I’m sure it’s the right place,” said Wesley.

  “I think so too.” His companion pointed up the road. “That way.”

  “What makes you think it is still here? After all these centuries, why would a chariot still be here?”

  “I don’t know; in a museum or something?” Ankerita got up and strode ahead.

  “It’s not on my map,” said Wesley, unfolding his large scale chart in the shelter. “Wait a moment, and have a look.”

  “What is there?” Ankerita indicated roughly where the Book was suggesting that they look.

  “A building.”

  “That will be it.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

/>   “I will it to be, and so it will be. I thought I told you that.”

  “That’s not a very scientific approach.”

  “Does it have to be scientific?” The girl half smiled at him.

  “I suppose not. This is a ‘feral dodo’ hunt, you know.”

  “Humour me.” Ankerita dumped the Book back in her bag. “Hopefully we won’t have to fight off any of said creatures. This way is it?”

  The explorers walked into empty countryside. The road was narrow, with stone walls on both sides, and they were forced to squeeze out of the way of an occasional car. Once, a man on a tractor stopped to ask if they were lost, but Wesley told him they were hiking. Ankerita received a sympathetic grin, as the farmhand took in her muddy boots, and her ‘unsuitable’ clothing. Wesley of course was dressed correctly; in fact his only serviceable clothes were his hiking rig.

  “My feet are hurting.” Ankerita sat on the verge.

  “That’s the trouble with footwear,” replied Wesley. “You have to make sure you get a pair that fits.”

  “You got me the wrong size.”

  “I got you a five as you asked. Read the label inside.”

  “I will.” Ankerita took off her boots, and peered at the size label. “They must have got the sticker wrong.”

  “Come on,” said Wesley. “We haven’t got far to go. It’ll be the return journey which will be the problem.”

  “You will have to carry me.” The girl grunted as she pulled the boots on. “Although I don’t suppose you have the strength.”

  “I supported you all the way down that mountain,” retorted Wesley. “The Book will help.”

  She gazed up the road. “Are we there yet?”

  “That barn is the only building near.” Wesley pointed across a field. “The big doors at the front look solid.”

  “That’s where,” Ankerita asserted. “How do we get in?”

  “There must be a gate. Oh...”

  “What?”

  “It’s full of cows.”

  “Bullocks.”

  “There’s no need...” Wesley grinned, but Ankerita was scanning along the wall.