For the summer, Sean and Joe-Jack’s son, Beowulf, were his only employees. Beo was snoring in the back of the van, and he didn’t wake up even when Hrothgar started drooling on his face and hammering his kneecaps with his hairy club of a tail. The van smelled like Hrothgar, who was always wet from jumping into the Pawtuxet River. It smelled, too, like oiled tools and raw wood and Coffee Exchange coffee, which was the only elitist thing Joe-Jack went in for. Joe-Jack poured Sean a cup from his working-guy thermos. “That’s the Sumatra,” he said. “They finally got some that was Fair Trade.”
“Great,” Sean said. At this time of day, he would have drunk it if it had been produced by child slaves in shackles. Joe-Jack brewed his coffee strong; after a few sips, Sean felt alive enough to call Hrothgar over to him. The chocolate Lab scrabbled up and stuck his head into the cab. Sean scratched him behind his damp ears. “We’re on the East Side today, right?”
“Doyle Avenue. You have a good time in Arkham yesterday?”
“Yeah. I got this cool book about the witch trials.”
Joe-Jack scowled. “Witch trials. That was some steaming heap of crap.”
“Right. But it’s interesting what people used to believe.”
“The bosses never believed in witches,” Joe-Jack said. “The politicians and ministers. They just used the superstitions of the uneducated to get rid of their enemies.”
Just like now. Sean waited for it.
Joe-Jack drank off his Sumatra. “Like now,” he said.
“Yeah. Hey, Joe. Will you drop me off at Eddy’s later?”
“So you can read about witches?”
“I don’t know. But she said her mom’s making strawberry pies.”
“Well, strawberry pies make sense. Save me a hunk.”
Except for lunch, Sean and Beowulf and Joe-Jack worked nonstop ripping apart the porch of the house they were renovating on Doyle Street. Hrothgar squeezed through loose latticework and lay on the cool dirt under the decking. For a dog named after a Danish King, he was pretty democratic about how the stirred-up bugs swarmed over him. A ginormous centipede went up Joe-Jack’s jeans. Sean and Beo about peed themselves when Joe-Jack hopped and dropped his pants and yelled, Jesus-H-fucking-Christ!—which he never said around them even though it was a perfectly good working-guy expression. He didn’t kill the centipede because of the oneness of being, and, shaken free, it went off to demonstrate oneness by exploring Hrothgar’s orifices.
Between the heat and the grunt labor, Sean was a dripping mess when Joe-Jack dropped him off on Keene Street. Eddy lived right next door to Sean’s aunt Celeste and uncle Gus; when he opened the arched gate between the houses, she vaulted like a maniac over her porch railing. “Where you going?” she demanded.
“Um, to take a shower?”
Eddy wrinkled up her nose. “I didn’t know Joe-Jack did sewers. But hurry up! We have to meet the Reverend in ten minutes.”
Damn, that was right. “Hold him,” Sean said. Then he ran around the house to the back porch, where he pulled off his dirt-caked work shoes and socks. The screen door was unlatched. Sean let himself into the kitchen and yelled that it was him, not a burglar. He didn’t wait for Gus to answer. He didn’t even grab a glass of milk. He pounded up the back stairs, snatched clean clothes from his stay-over bedroom, and dashed for the hall bath.
By five after four, he was in Eddy’s “office.” It had been her playroom until she hit ten and inherited her granddad’s rolltop desk. With that beast in one corner and a computer station in the tower bay, it did look official. Eddy was parked at the computer, Brutus the Hell Pug on her lap and chat window open. “About time,” she said. “I was just going to try his ID.”
Sean snagged the leather desk chair from the rolltop. Brutus hurled himself onto its seat, then dived for Sean’s left flip-flop. Sean let him have it and plopped down before Brutus could realize he was losing the high ground.
Eddy had already typed rorne in the contact search bar. She scooted over so Sean could get at the keyboard. He settled his fingertips on the keys and stared down at the dirt still lodged under his nails. He hadn’t taken time to scrub them, he’d been so frantic to be on time for the Reverend. Now, of course, he couldn’t think of anything to write.
“Backing out?” Eddy said.
After sending that e-mail, he’d look like a major wuss if he didn’t follow through and ace the joke. Besides, the Rev probably wasn’t even online. “No way. What should I say, though?”
“Hello?”
As good an idea as any he had. Sean typed carefully, as if it was a real interview. Hello Reverend, are you there?
He was going to get a “not online” message. He knew it, but he knew wrong. A response popped onto the chat screen: Good afternoon, Lord Grayfalcon. This is Redemption Orne.
Eddy had pulled a couple iced teas from her mini-fridge. Good thing she hadn’t taken a swig yet—she’d have hosed down the whole computer station. “Oh my god! Lord Grayfalcon.”
“So I used my old account to mail him. Security.”
Eddy mimed adjusting a headset mic. “Reverend Orne, will you accept a geek-to-geek call from Lord—”
Sean hip-checked her chair with his, gaining full possession of the keyboard zone. He typed: Glad to meet you. You can call me Sean tho.
“Security, hello?” Eddy said.
“He can’t do anything with just my first name.”
I am very glad to meet you, Sean.
So what should I call you?
You may call me Reverend Orne, or simply Reverend.
Brutus was sniffing Sean’s right flip-flop. To get the pug away from his feet, Sean hauled him onto his lap. “He’s not giving out his real name.”
“His mom probably doesn’t let him.”
“Yeah, right. And she gets to call the shots, because he’s living in her basement.” Sean squinted at the chat screen, at a loss again. Finally, lamely, he typed: Okay Reverend. So like I wrote, I found that clipping with your ad on it.
In The Witch Panic in Arkham, I imagine. At Horrocke’s Bookstore.
Did you leave them there by accident? Because if you did, I can send them to you or something.
I left the book for you to find.
You mean for anybody to find?
No. I left the book for you in particular, Sean. No one else.
Something crawled over his scalp, all cold, wispy feet, like the centipede in Joe-Jack’s jeans. Eddy looked as weirded out as he felt. She sucked in air—was she going to scream? Instead she exploded into side-hugging laughter that caught him up, knocked the weirdness out of him, and made him explode, too.
“Oh my god,” Eddy gasped. “Is this guy a freak or what?”
Sean, bending double, squashed Brutus. The pug did his impression of the fox that disemboweled the Spartan boy. Sean was no Spartan. He dumped Brutus and choked out, “I’ll ask him. ‘Are you a freak or just a nutcase?’”
“Do it.”
He lookedh back at the chat screen. I left the book for you in particular, Sean. It had been a mistake to give the Reverend his real name. That gave the guy an advantage, let him pretend he knew Sean.
A new message appeared: Are you still there?
“Do it,” Eddy urged.
“What?”
“Ask whether he’s a freak or a nutcase.”
Sean started typing the question. He erased it. “That’s too snarky.”
“Let me, then.”
“If you won’t be an asshole.”
“Like I ever am. Move.”
Sean yielded ground. As usual Eddy got right to work: hey rev. i’m seans friend eddy. i’m kind of his agent.
Jesus.
The Reverend wasn’t fazed. Good afternoon, Eddy. How can I help you?
we want to know how you did the ad. it really looks old.
The clipping is from 1895, as it says. I found it in the book when I purchased it. I changed one of the original advertisements to mine.
“See,” Sean
said. “That makes sense.”
how did you change it? Eddy typed.
The reply was instant: Magic.
So much for sense, but Eddy was already too into sparring with the Reverend to pounce on Sean. She leaned closer to the computer screen, like she could get in the Rev’s face that way. that’s funny. seriously though.
I’m always serious about magic.
so you’re a real wizard?
I am.
Sean leaned forward, too. That tingle on his scalp had shifted to the back of his neck and morphed from creep-out to excitement. The Reverend was playing around, Sean knew that all right, but it looked like it could be a fun game. “Ask him if he’s the Redemption Orne that’s in my book.”
“Why not? The more rope he takes, the higher we can hang him.” Eddy typed: so are you the same redemption dude that was around in the witch hunt days?
I am.
“When was he born?” Sean said.
when were you born then?
No pause. On the 28th day of February, in 1669.
“That right?”
Where was his pack? There, on the rolltop desk. Sean propelled his chair over, pulled out The Witch Panic, and checked the Orne bio in the appendix. “He’s right.”
“Doesn’t prove crap. He’s studied up on the guy. All his Internet IDs are Redemption Orne. I bet he dresses like Redemption Orne. I bet he’s got Redemption Orne sheets on his bed.”
What would the sheets look like, black with little white Bibles and little gold crosses? Sean jetted back to the computer station, book in hand. “Let me back in.”
“Go for it. Like I want to chat with a dead Puritan.”
Sean reclaimed the keyboard, propped The Witch Panic against the monitor for inspiration, and typed: Hi Reverend. This is Sean. I hope Eddy didn’t piss you off.
“Suck-up,” Eddy said. She didn’t want to talk to a dead Puritan, but she didn’t mind craning over Sean’s shoulder while he did.
Not at all, the Reverend replied, which was nice of him.
So you’re how old?
337 years.
And you’re still alive?
I couldn’t talk to you otherwise.
“There!” Eddy said. “Like a three-hundred-and-thirty-seven-year-old wizard would use a smiley.”
Points off for the Rev or not? If a 337-year-old wizard could use chat, why not emoticons? Dumb question sorry. Only the book said you probably died out in the woods?
No, I have never died.
Sean’s neck was tingling like a bitch. That’s good. But how come you’ve lived so long?
I once believed that it was only through the grace of the Christian god that man could live forever. I was mistaken. It is the communion of the Outer Gods that truly confers immortality.
Eddy nudged Sean. “I’m reading about the Outer Gods in that other book.”
“Can they make you immortal?”
“Haven’t gotten that far yet.”
Sean typed: What have you been doing all this time, Reverend?
I’ve traveled, in this world and in worlds beyond its frail cocoon. I’ve found teachers and I’ve taught. I’ve taken different names and identities—among mortals, one can’t live too long and remain unquestioned, especially if one doesn’t age.
You don’t look old?
I look as I did when the Black Man made me immortal. I was twenty-three then.
So the Black Man is the same as the Devil?
There is no Devil. The Black Man is an avatar of Nyarlathotep.
Nyarlathotep was a big-shot monster in Lovecraft’s stories. That much Sean knew. Eddy supplied: “That’s one of the Outer Gods.”
Cool as hell. But the Puritans thought the Black Man was a devil?
Sadly, yes. Few have ever dared to learn the truth of the worlds.
Eddy blew a raspberry. “This guy could go on all day. Stop encouraging him.”
What was wrong with encouraging him? The Reverend was way interesting. Still, Dad would come to pick Sean up soon. He was composing a see-you-later in his head when the Reverend sent another message: We haven’t discussed the apprenticeship, Sean. You wrote that you thought you’d make a good apprentice. What are your qualifications?
That he’d played wizards in Dungeons & Dragons for years? That he’d read the Harry Potter books more times than Eddy? That Willow was his favorite Buffy character? Shit, his face felt like it was catching fire.
“Yeah, I’d like to know your qualifications, too,” Eddy said.
“Shut up.” But he did have to answer the Reverend. Should he make up a bunch of stuff? That would be fair, with all the stuff the Rev was making up. Only the Rev was supergood at it and Sean wasn’t coming up with any brilliant ideas. A crazy but compelling thought hit him: He should tell the absolute truth.
He typed: I guess I was just screwing around. I don’t have any qualifications.
You’ve never done magic?
For real?
Yes.
No. I mean, nobody can.
That’s untrue. A few, a very few, are born to magical ability.
Not me I guess.
I believe you’re wrong. The fact that you answered my advertisement proves to me that you have potential. Would you like to put it to the test?
Man, the room was quiet. Brutus was asleep on a windowsill in the tower bay, and for once Eddy didn’t come out with a smart crack. The computer hummed. Downstairs pans rattled. Sean might have magic potential. He could put it to the test. Bullshit, but why not answer yes if he felt like it? What could it hurt? Sean flexed his fingers, then typed: Sure Reverend. That would be cool.
“Feeding the troll, feeding the troll,” Eddy murmured.
Sean shrugged.
Very good, the Reverend replied. What type of magic would you like to attempt?
Rabbit out of a hat was all he could think of, and he didn’t even like rabbits. Magic from books wouldn’t count, either, would it? Unless it came from nonfiction. Sean spotted Infinity Unimaginable in a corner, atop a teetering stack of books Eddy had labeled “TO READ,” but he didn’t have time to comb it for legitimate spells. He turned back to the monitor. The Witch Panic still leaned against it. What kind of magic had Patience Orne done? Healing stuff. Killing people stuff. He didn’t have anyone to heal. Dad would definitely be against killing people. Getting a familiar—
All right.
Sean typed: How about familiars? Like they said Patience summoned?
This time the Reverend didn’t respond at once. Maybe he was chewing over the idea. Maybe he was trying to come up with a good fake familiar spell. “I’m not kidding,” Eddy began.
Sean waved her off as a new message popped up: An interesting proposal, Sean. The familiar Patience summoned would be much too hazardous—you will have read of the havoc it wrought in Arkham. But there’s another familiar that may be called with the same ritual, slightly altered. It is harmless and useful, and the ritual would be a rigorous test for you. Shall I send it?
“Say no,” Eddy said.
“Why?”
“Because, I don’t know, this guy squicks me out.”
“Or maybe you’re just pissed that we were going to mess with his head, but he’s messing the hell out of ours. We can’t keep up.”
Sean?
Yes, Sean typed. That would be great Reverend, thanks.
You’re most welcome. I’ll send details of the ritual to your e-mail address. I look forward to seeing what you do with it. If you succeed, perhaps I can guide you further in magic.
Awesome.
But you must realize, the way is very difficult.
I bet. Like how they used to hang you guys.
That aside, Sean. When a young wizard begins the journey, he may have days of doubt and regret. But the days become hours, the hours minutes, the minutes mere seconds. Then, like the motes they have become, the young wizard sweeps even the seconds aside. He is free.
The way Eddy started gagging ticked Sean off bi
g-time. Bad enough her chin was practically on his shoulder, but the Reverend’s last message was seriously deep, like something in a book you could read over and over. “Can it, will you? And if you don’t like what the Rev writes, stop hanging all over me to read it.”
Eddy fell back into her own chair. “What’s with you?”
“Nothing! I’m just trying to read in peace, all right?”
“Read what? Dude’s gone.”
She was right. The Reverend had signed out of chat. “You scared him away,” Sean said.
“How? I wasn’t the one talking to him.”
“Yeah, well, maybe he sensed how you were dissing him.” But come on. How dumb-ass did that sound? Way dumb-ass, that was how dumb-ass. Sean kind of laughed. Then he all-out laughed. It was weird: Now that the Reverend was gone, Sean felt tension draining out of his muscles. It was like it had been a genuine job interview, after all.
“You’re wacked,” Eddy said. She was laughing, too, and Brutus started out of his nap into a barking fit. “I mean, you’re as wacked as the Rev.”
“Hell no. I’m not even half as wacked as he is. He thinks I’m wizard material, right?”
“Yeah, right. That’s megawacked. You’re still up there, though.”
Sean arched his arm as if to shoot a basket from half-court. Brutus skittered around the office hunting for the imaginary ball. Taking advantage of the distraction, Eddy rammed Sean’s chair broadside and retook the keyboard.
“Hey!”
“I’ve got to print this chat out for the Wacked Hall of Fame.”
Sure, why not? “Eddy. You still think the Rev’s some kid in Mom’s basement?”
“Unless he’s in a nuthouse.”
“I’m serious. Didn’t he seem kind of old?”
“What, like three hundred and thirty-seven?”
“No, regular old, like thirty?”
“Maybe. He could just be smart, though.”
A knock sounded on the half-open office door. They both kind of jumped.
Rachel Rosenbaum had the life juices of a million strawberries on her industrial-strength apron. Funny how a math professor could be so into farmy stuff like pies and canning. Especially one who made everyone call her by her first name. Or maybe it wasn’t funny. Understanding adults wasn’t Sean’s best subject. “I thought you’d be down for snacks,” Rachel said. “The pies are out.”
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