Book of Enchantments

by Patricia C. Wrede

  As she searched, Adrian felt the amused gaze of the black-haired woman on her back, though she did not turn to look. This is ridiculous, she thought, stepping over a cluster of miniature roses with pale centers and dark edges. They're flowers, that's all. Just really weird flowers. She wondered suddenly why she had not, in all the visions the roses had shown her, seen Sam even once. She had seen herself talking with her mother and father, with friends she had known for years and with those she had not yet met, with lovers, husbands, children, and grandchildren, but not with her sister. That awful moment in the cancer ward was as close as she had come.

  Shaking off a sudden chill, she bent toward a small bush at the rear of the rose bed. It took her a moment to find a blossom; the leaves were thick, and the flowers were hidden among them. She pricked her fingers twice trying to push the other stems far enough aside to get a good sniff of the rose. This had better be a good one, she thought. Finally, she cleared a space and breathed the rose's scent.

  Samantha stood looking out the window. As the last of the funeral guests pulled away, she turned. "All right, Adrian. It's just us now, and I've got something to say to you."

  "Go ahead."

  For a moment, Sam hesitated, as if she could not remember the words or had suddenly changed her mind. Then her shoulders stiffened, and she said, "You've built a wall between us, Adrian, and I'm tired of knocking myself against it. I don't know why you have to disapprove of everything I do, but I don't have to live with it anymore now that Mom and Dad are both gone. So I won't. I'm leaving in a few hours, and I won't be back unless you ask."

  "I might have known you'd pull something dramatic at a time like this," Adrian said, while the back of her mind whispered, Leaving? She can't leave. She doesn't mean it. She's my sister.

  "I'm not making a dramatic gesture, however you choose to interpret it. I just thought I'd explain. Try to explain. If you won't hear it, at least it won't be because I didn't say it." She started toward the door, then paused with one hand on the knob. "It's your wall, Adrian. You're the one who has to do something about it, if anyone does." The door swung open, then shut, and she was gone, while Adrian's mind stuttered over things to say before settling at last into the familiar pattern of criticism and anger. . .

  "No!" Adrian said, pulling back so rapidly that one of the thorns scratched her cheek. "It's not like that!"

  "You need not be upset." The soft voice of the dark-haired woman made Adrian jump. "The roses show possibilities, nothing more."

  "Then why are they all the same?"

  The woman's eyebrows lifted. "The same? I do not think so. But there are always things in each one's life that are too late to change. You can but live with them, as you endure your height or the color of your eyes."

  "I like the color of my eyes, and anyway it's not like that." Adrian kept her voice under control only with considerable effort. "I'm not like that. And I don't believe it's too late, no matter what your damned roses show."

  The woman shrugged. "Then search."

  Adrian stared, angry enough to strike her but a little too afraid to actually do so. Then she turned and plunged into the roses, heedless of the scratches. Images blurred together: an empty stage; a marble-lined hallway full of elegant strangers; Sam lying in the sun beside a swimming pool; their mother shaking her head sadly; the black-haired woman watching impassively in the moonlit garden. None of them offered what she wanted. She was beginning to despair of ever finding it, when she saw a rosebush half hidden behind an arbor.

  Even from a distance, it looked different from the other plants. Where they lifted their branches in graceful sprays, or twined over arbors, or stood neat and compact, this one sprawled untidily in a waist-high mass of leaves. Unlike the other rosebushes, it was not covered with flowers. Indeed, when she first saw it, Adrian thought it bore no blossoms at all. Drawing nearer, she saw tight, pointed buds here and there among the leaves.

  How am I supposed to smell a flower that isn't open yet? Tentatively, she sniffed at one of the buds. Nothing happened. Adrian pressed her lips together and began hunting through the thick, prickly branches. At last she found a flower—still a bud, really, with the tips of the petals barely beginning to unfurl. She stared at it for a moment, then leaned forward.

  "Do you think it's been easy for me, being your sister?" Samantha asked quietly. "Always coming second, being expected to be as brilliant and talented—"

  "Don't try to flatter me," Adrian said, but somehow the words lacked the bitterness they would have held even half an hour before. It had never occurred to her before that their relationship might have made things difficult for Sam. Sam was the one who was difficult.

  "I'm not. Don't you know that's how they all think of you? I have to be twice as much of anything just to get noticed."

  "Is that why. . . ?" Adrian stopped and swallowed. "Look, Sam, I. . . Well, I'm sorry." She felt as if the words had been wrenched out of her with pliers, and then she felt almost light-headed. "Do you suppose we can do better from now on?"

  Samantha smiled suddenly. "Maybe if we both try."

  Adrian rocked back, staring at the bud. Was it that simple? But it hadn't seemed simple, even in the brief image. It had seemed . . . hard. Letting go of anger should be easy, now that she knew how much trouble it would make and how much of it was due to willful blindness. It should be easy, but she could tell that it wasn't going to be.

  There was a whisper of movement behind her. "Have you at last unearthed a flower that suits you?" the black-haired woman asked.

  "I think— Yes. Yes, I have." But Adrian's hands seemed paralyzed, frozen to the branches they were holding back. She could not move to pick the rose; she could only look.

  "If you are sure, then take it."

  The momentary paralysis left Adrian, and she reached for the rose. And paused. If you are given a choice, be careful; be wise. I never thought there might be other dreams . . . She sat in a garden of dreams, surrounded by possibilities, but to choose one, no matter how much she desired it, precluded all the others. There had been wonderful things in some of those roses. Slowly, Adrian drew her hand back.

  "I think not," she said. "It's only just opened. It ought to have a chance to bloom."

  The woman's eyebrows rose. "One visit to my garden is more than many mortals gain. You will not have a second chance to pick a rose."

  "Then I'll make my life up as I go along, the way everybody else does." Gently, Adrian withdrew her hands, letting the leaves close over the flower. She stood and turned to look directly at the strange woman. "Thank you very much for the offer, though. It's been ... a real education."

  The woman winced; then the ghost of a smile touched her lips. "You are wiser than most of those who come to see my roses."

  "That depends on how it turns out, doesn't it?" Adrian looked at the hundreds of flowers shining in the moonlight and shivered slightly.

  "It does. Yet I think that all may yet be very well for you." The woman's smile grew broader. "It will interest me to watch and see."

  "I think I'd better get home. Sam's having a party, and I really shouldn't miss all of it."

  "You may return the way we came, down the path and between the rose arch," the woman said. "I shall not come with you, though we may meet again in after years, if you are willing.

  Adrian was surprised to find herself nodding. "Good night."

  "Fare you well."

  Turning, Adrian walked toward the garden's entrance. As she ducked into the thicket outside, she felt the packet of cigarettes in her pocket shift. The first thing I do is get rid of those, she thought, remembering the hospital. And then I'll talk to Sam.

  She came out of the honeysuckle and smiled at the familiar birches. The band was thumping loudly, building to some sort of climax. It all but drowned out the crackle of the cellophane cigarette wrapper in her pocket. There's half a pack left. It'd be a shame to waste them. And I still don't want to go to the party.

  Adrian looked at the hous
e once more, then headed back the way she had come, toward the parked cars.

  Tomorrow, I'll throw the rest of them away, if there are any left. Tomorrow, I'll talk to Sam.

  Tomorrow.

  * * *

  The Sixty-two Curses of Caliph Arenschadd

  The WORST thing about Caliph Arenschadd is that he's a wizard. At least that's what my father says. Mother says the worst thing about the caliph is his temper, and that it's a good thing he's a wizard because if he were just an ordinary caliph he'd cut people's heads off when they displeased him, instead of cursing them.

  I tend to agree with Mother. Cutting someone's head off is permanent; a curse, you can break. Of course, it usually takes something nasty and undignified to do it, but everything about curses is supposed to be unpleasant. Father doesn't see it that way. I think he'd prefer to be permanently dead than temporarily undignified.

  Father is Caliph Arenschadd's grand vizier, which is the reason all of us have opinions about the caliph and his curses. You see, a long time ago the caliph decided that he would lay a curse on anyone who displeased him, thus punishing the person and displaying the caliph's magical skill at the same time. (Mother also says Caliph Arenschadd likes to show off.) He found out very quickly that it was hard work coming up with a new curse every time someone made him unhappy, but by then he'd had a proclamation issued and he couldn't back down. So he shut himself up in one of the palace minarets for weeks, and when he came out he had a list of sixty-two curses he could cast at a moment's notice.

  From then on, every time someone has done something the caliph doesn't like, the caliph has hauled out his list of curses and slapped one on whoever-it-was. Everyone starts at the first curse on the list and works their way down, so you can tell how long someone's been at court by whether his fingernails are three feet long or his eyelids stuck together. Father's been at court longer than anybody, so we've worked our way through an awful lot of curses.

  I say we because Caliph Arenschadd doesn't just curse the particular person he's annoyed with. His curses get the person's whole family as well. I don't think that's fair, but Mother says it's just like him. She's been mad at the caliph ever since the eleventh curse, which made all three of us lose our voices for a week right in the middle of the Enchantresses and Sorceresses Annual Conference. Mother was supposed to present a paper, but she had to cancel it because she couldn't talk, and she's never forgiven Caliph Arenschadd.

  I have to admit that some of the curses are fun. I enjoyed being bright green, and having monkey's paws was quite useful (I like climbing things, and the peaches had just turned ripe). Having my eyelids stuck together was boring, though. Things even out. It's best when you know what to expect, but after Father passed the forty-second curse there wasn't anyone ahead of us anymore to let us know what came next. We muddled through curses number forty-three through forty-seven with only a little more trouble than usual, and Caliph Arenschadd actually seemed pleased. We went for almost three months without any curses at all. Then one day Father came home from the palace looking grim and solemn.

  Mother took one look at him and said, "O my husband and light of my eyes, not again!" in the exasperated tone she usually saves for me when I've put a rip in my skirts.

  "I'm afraid so, Mirza," Father said. "He was in an awful mood today, but I simply couldn't put off asking him about those water rights for the caravaners any longer. So we're going to find out about number forty-eight." Father never says the word curse when he's talking about one of Caliph Arenschadd's; he only refers to them by number.

  "Someone should take that caliph in hand," Mother said.

  "Are you offering?" Father demanded.

  I could tell there was an argument starting, so I got up and slipped out of the room before they could get me in on it. Mother and Father usually have an argument right after Caliph Arenschadd puts another curse on us; I think it relieves their feelings or something. It never lasts long, and as soon as they're finished they start looking for the way to break the curse. They're very good at it. Most of the curses last less than a week, and the longest one only went nine days. It's never much fun to be around for the arguing part, though, which is why I left.

  I went to visit my best friend, Tumpkin. Tumpkin isn't his real name; I call him that because the first time I met him he wouldn't tell me who he was and I had to call him something. I ran into him in one of the private gardens at the palace, so I figured he was one of the caliph's pages, poking around where he wasn't supposed to be. He's about the same age as I am, and he's nearsighted and sort of pudgy—just the kind of kid that gets picked on all the time. That's why I started calling him Tumpkin; it seemed to fit.

  I didn't have to spend much time looking for Tumpkin on the first day of the forty-eighth curse. He was in his favorite spot, under a bush behind a gold garden seat. He heard me coming and looked up. When he saw who it was, he grinned at me in relief. "Imani!" he said. "I was just thinking about you."

  "You ought to be thinking about your duties," I told him. "Someone's going to catch you shirking one of these days, and then you'll really be in trouble."

  "Do you have to tell me what to do, too?" Tumpkin said grumpily. He waved in the direction of the palace. "You sound just like everyone in there."

  "No, I sound like my father," I said, flopping down on the bench. "Sorry, it's been a rough day."

  Tumpkin stopped looking grumpy and looked interested and sympathetic instead. "What happened?"

  "Father picked up another curse, and he and Mother are arguing about it," I said.

  "Another one?" Tumpkin said. "How many does that make?"

  "Forty-eight," I said gloomily. "And we don't have even a tiny hint of what it is this time."

  "I could try and find out for you," Tumpkin offered diffidently.

  "Don't bother," I said. "Caliph Arenschadd takes better care of his list of curses than he does of the crown jewels. If you got caught, he'd probably slap four or five curses on you at once."

  "He can't," Tumpkin said smugly. "They only work one at a time. And besides—" "It's all right, Tumpkin," I said hastily. "We'll find out soon enough what number forty-eight is; you don't have to risk moving yourself up the list."

  "Well, actually—" Tumpkin said, and stopped, looking very uncomfortable.

  "Tumpkin!" I said, staring at him. "Do you mean to say the caliph has never put any of his curses on you?"

  "I guess so," Tumpkin said. "I mean, no, he hasn't."

  "You must be really good at keeping out of the way," I said with considerable admiration. "I've never heard of anyone who didn't make it through at least five curses during his first six weeks at court, and you've been around for nearly a year!"

  "Longer than that, but I spend a lot of time out here." Tumpkin sounded more uncomfortable than ever, so I let the subject drop and went back to talking about my parents and curse number forty-eight. After a while Tumpkin relaxed, but he didn't make a second offer to sneak a look at Caliph Arenschadd's list of curses.

  I stayed with Tumpkin for most of the afternoon, and there was still no sign of the curse when I started for home. That worried me. The longer Caliph Arenschadd's curses take to have an effect, the nastier they tend to be. I could tell that Mother and Father were worried, too; neither of them said much at dinner.

  That evening I had the first dream. I was running and running through the night, and the wind was in my hair, and a silver moon shone high in the sky. I woke up just as I realized that I was running on four feet, like a dog. The thin crescent of the waxing moon was framed in the window at the foot of my bed. I sat staring at it for a long time before I fell asleep again.

  I had the same dream the following night. I didn't worry about it much at the time; I was far more concerned about the forty-eighth curse. There still didn't seem to be any signs of it taking hold, at least none that I could see, and I'd never known one of Caliph Arenschadd's curses to take this long to affect someone. I stayed inside most of the time, figuring that
I'd rather not have to try to get home with my feet turned backward or my knees stuck together if the curse hit all of a sudden. I didn't even go to the palace to see Tumpkin.

  Two nights later, the dream got stronger. I ran and ran, with the wind down my back and the ground flowing past my feet and the sweet smell of grass at night in my nostrils. And a silver moon hung round and perfect in the sky above me.

  I dreamed again the following night, and every night after that. Always it was the same dream, of running strong and free and wild in the wind and the moonlight. And always I woke with the moon shining through the window at the foot of my bed. At first it was just a crescent-shaped sliver of silver light, but every day the sliver grew wider. My dream became more and more vivid as the moon waxed, until I could close my eyes even in the day and see moonlight shining on sharp blades of grass. I began looking forward to the night, because I knew that then I would dream of running in the wind.

  I didn't tell anyone about the dream. Mother and Father were still puzzling over the curse, and I didn't want to distract them. Besides, the dream was a private, special thing. I didn't want to share it with anyone, not even Tumpkin.

  Not that I'd been seeing much of Tumpkin. At first I didn't go to the palace because I didn't want the curse to catch up with me while I was away from home. By the time I decided I didn't care about the curse, I didn't want to go anywhere. I probably would have stayed home forever if Mother hadn't chased me out after a week so she could work on some delicate enchantments.

  Tumpkin was glad to see me. In fact, he practically pounced on me the minute I came into the garden. "You're back!" he said. "Did your parents figure out how to break it already? What was it, anyway?"