The Warlock's Curse

by Hobson, M. K.

  Why are you here?

  “To say goodbye.” Jenny took a deep breath, straightened. “I’m going away. I’m finally going to do it. I’m going to take care of what we talked about.”

  There was a long silence, filled only by the noise of the bellows. Finally, Claire tapped one short word.

  No.

  “Claire, you know I have to at least try. And don’t worry, I’m going to make sure that the operation doesn’t—”

  No.

  Will had a strange feeling that Claire would have screamed the word if she could have. Something about the way the bellows revved suddenly, as if reacting to sudden tension in her body.

  Jenny sank to her knees before her sister, and spoke very softly.

  “Claire, I can do this. I have to do this.”

  No. Claire tapped again. And again, and again. No. No. No.

  She was still tapping it when someone entered the room. Jenny stood, turned quickly. She was white as a sheet, Will saw.

  “Miss Hansen!” The older woman who had entered the room wore the white coat of a doctor over a neatly tailored skirt. “I didn’t think we’d see you back so soon!”

  “Good morning, Dr. Smyth,” said Jenny, putting all of Miss Murison’s haughtiness into the greeting. “Yes, I didn’t expect to be back so soon either. But the situation is quite unusual. I have been married, and I have brought my husband with me.”

  “Husband?” Dr. Smyth blinked. She looked at Will, her eyes appraising him. “Why, your father didn’t mention—well! It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr—”

  “Edwards,” he said. “William Edwards.”

  “I am Dr. Margaret Smyth, Superintendent of the Hospital. I am also Claire’s personal physician.”

  “My husband and I made a special trip to Stockton to see you. We wish to ask you one more time to reconsider your decision regarding my sister’s operation.” Jenny gave Will a sidelong glance. “My husband is in agreement with me that the surgery should not proceed. I wanted to make it very clear that it’s not just me who objects.”

  “What surgery?” Will tried to whisper in Jenny’s ear, but Jenny nudged him with her elbow and he was silent. Dr. Smyth just shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Ha—I mean, Mrs. Edwards. I am well aware of your concern for your sister, but your father has power of attorney over her affairs. He recognizes that the surgery is our policy, and a condition of her continued treatment at this institution. He has given his approval, and no amount of opposition from yourself—or, I’m afraid, your new husband—can be considered.”

  Will felt Jenny stiffen beside him. “I know very well that my father has power of attorney, and that he’s given his approval,” she said, heat creeping into her voice. “But I also know that you have the power to delay the surgery based on medical advice. And that’s what I—what we are asking you to do.”

  “Of course I would delay the surgery if I harbored even the slightest concern for Claire’s health.” Dr. Smyth spoke with officious briskness. “But I do not. The surgery is very simple and straightforward, and it has already been scheduled. There is nothing for you to be worried about.”

  Jenny drew a deep breath, then leveled a dark gaze on the woman. When she spoke, her voice was sterner and more frightening than Will ever imagined it could be.

  “Let me make myself perfectly clear, Dr. Smyth,” she said slowly. “The matter is by no means as simple and straightforward as you believe. I am in discussions with the Consortium regarding this matter, and a great many other matters as well. If you proceed with the operation against my wishes, I can promise you that they will be very, very disappointed.”

  Dr. Smyth stared at Jenny for a moment, open-mouthed. She seemed to struggle for words. When she finally did speak, her voice was unsteady.

  “Of course,” she said. “That ... that is a different matter.” She looked between Jenny and Will, and Will was surprised to see there was actual fear in her eyes. “Perhaps there is more to consider than I first thought. Perhaps postponing the operation would be in Claire’s best interest. I believe we could wait another six months. But after that, we will have to reassess the situation.”

  “Thank you for your consideration,” said Jenny, icily. Will stared down at her in astonishment. What on earth was she doing? What was this “Consortium” she was talking about? He felt like they were kids again, and Jenny was acting the part of some villain in a melodrama.

  No no no no ...

  Across the room, Claire was still tapping the word, again and again, a quality of misery in the repetition. Dr. Smyth looked over at her, but there was no sympathy in her eyes.

  “What is wrong, Claire?” she called. Claire’s finger stopped abruptly, and the speaker on the tapper fell silent.

  “I’m afraid you walked in just as my sister and I were in the middle of a disagreement,” Jenny said, going back to Claire’s side. “We were arguing about the Teslaphone. Personally, I don’t like how it’s always blaring.”

  Dr. Smyth raised her eyebrows as she looked at the Teslaphone cabinet. “Oh, someone turned it off?” she said. “That won’t do. Brother Phleger is delivering a special sermon this afternoon. Of course all our patients are looking forward to hearing it.” She went over and switched the Teslaphone back on. The sound of the screeching organ music had given way to the smooth, oily tones of a preacher:

  “This is your Brother Dolphus Phleger, speaking to you from Justice, Illinois, where the New Faith Seat of Praise is being raised in honor of our great Lord’s holy name. His will be done!” He blurted this last bit like he was spitting a curse. “You just heard our own little Sanctity Snow—‘God’s Special Snowflake’—on the all-electrical organ, her playing today inspired by the message of courage and strength I want to deliver to all the valiant souls who will be participating in this Sunday’s rally in San Francisco ...”

  “We keep our patients’ Teslaphones on so they will never miss a word of the Good Brother’s teachings,” Dr Smyth commented. “And of course, all our patients just love that dear little Sanctity Snow.”

  Turning from the machine, she inclined her head toward them both. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Edwards. Congratulations on your marriage, Jenny. I hope you will both be very happy together. Rest assured that Claire will continue to receive the best treatment our institution can provide.”

  Jenny frowned, pressing her lips together as Dr. Smyth left the room. “All the best treatment!” she blazed, once the doctor was gone. She was stomping over to turn off the Teslaphone—now resounding with Brother Phleger’s rich, syrupy baritone—when Claire tapped:

  Leave it.

  Jenny froze, but did not turn. Brother Phleger was saying something profound and resonant about the moral decay of the United States, and how it was the duty of upright citizens to oppose injustice and tyranny in all its forms.

  You two really married?

  Jenny still did not turn, but nodded.

  Don’t do it, Jenny. Please. Too dangerous.

  “I have to. You know I do.” Jenny ran across the room, pressed a kiss to her sister’s blackened, tear-glistening cheek. “I love you, Claire. Goodbye.”

  Then, grabbing Will’s arm, she fled.

  She fairly dragged Will along the halls and corridors until they were outside the hospital’s tall front doors. Then, sinking down on the front steps, she buried her face in her hands and broke down in tears.

  Will was confronted with the age-old masculine conundrum of just what, exactly, one was supposed to do with a crying girl. He had the feeling that taking her in his arms and holding her close might help—but then again, it might not. In the end, he just sat next to her and patted her back softly, uncertain as to whether or not that was sufficient.

  Then he remembered probably the only valuable thing his father had ever taught him—always carry a clean handkerchief. Pulling it from his pocket, he handed it to Jenny and she took it gratefully, daubing her eyes then blowing her nose lustily.


  “I’m sorry. I wish you hadn’t come with me. I thought having you there would make Dr. Smyth more reasonable. She always is when my dad’s around. But I still had to threaten her just as much.”

  “What was that all about?”

  “I just bought my sister six more months.”

  “What was the procedure?”

  “It’s called a salpingectomy. It is the surgical sterilization of a female human, rendering her incapable of reproduction.”

  “Sterilize her? You mean like ... gelding a horse?”

  “The procedure is just a tiny bit different,” Jenny said with faint contempt, “but I suppose that’s close enough for a rancher’s son.”

  Will drew back in shock. “Why, that’s awful!”

  “It’s compulsory for all the patients here. Especially the ones like Claire, the ones they call magically cretinous.” She spoke the term with distaste. “Dr. Smyth says it makes patients easier to care for, and removes even the slightest possibility that their contaminated genes could be passed along.”

  “But surely ... I mean, she never could be a mother, could she?” Will tried to be tactful, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth he wished he could take them back.

  “You don’t know that for sure!” said Jenny, fiercely. “No one does! And with science and money, who knows what could happen? You made an incredible power source out of a cigar box! How can they say for sure that Claire couldn’t be healed someday?”

  Will didn’t know what to say. He took Jenny’s hand in his. Her skin was cold. He held her hand in both of his, rubbing it to warm it.

  “Why was Claire so upset, Jenny?” he asked. “Why did she keep saying ‘no’?”

  Jenny’s eyes widened, then became keen and wary.” You understood what she was saying?”

  Will nodded. “Sorry. I should have said something. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

  “So that’s why you jumped out of your skin when she said I liked you.” Jenny gave him a wan grin. “Once liked you.”

  “When I could whistle through my teeth,” remembered Will. “Why was she so upset, Jenny? What are you going to do?”

  Jenny, who had been letting Will hold her hand without demur, now snatched it away. She stood up. Where there had been tears in her eyes, now there was just anger.

  “You promised not to ask me about that,” she said. “Don’t do it again.”

  Will didn’t say anything for a long time. “She said it was dangerous,” he said finally.

  “You just let me worry about that,” said Jenny.

  Will took a deep breath. “I need to tell you something,” he said. “I got a letter from my brother Ben. I finally read it last night. He wants to help me get to Tesla Industries. He’s opened an account for me at the National Bank of Detroit and put money in it. He says it’s enough for me to get started on. For me to get started on.”

  Jenny stared at him. She was breathing hard, as if about to launch into a furious tirade, but she said nothing. Will shifted uncomfortably under her piercing gaze.

  “Anyway, once I get to Berkeley, and the Dimensional Subway, I’m set.” He looked at the handkerchief in Jenny’s hand. She was clutching it so hard her knuckles were white. “I don’t know what you’re thinking of doing. But if you’re thinking of doing it because of me, you don’t have to. We could get the marriage annulled. Things could go back to the way they were.”

  “You think I want that?” Jenny whispered.

  “I don’t know what you want!” said Will, through clenched teeth. “You’ve made me promise not to ask.”

  “And you haven’t even been able to keep that promise!” She bit the words. “Listen to me, William Edwards. Your plans are not the only ones I’m concerned about. You may think I’m just part of your plans. But it’s the other way around. You’re part of my plans, and I need you.”

  “Well maybe I don’t want to be part of your plans, have you thought about that?” Will replied sharply. “Especially when you won’t even tell me what they are!”

  “I have told you!” she said hotly, voice rising. “I want to file your patent. I want to see that your work is protected.” Then, in a culmination of pique, she threw the handkerchief at him. “And I want my share of the profit!”

  He couldn’t help but smile at that. He picked up the handkerchief in two fingers, grimacing at its dampness. “Well then,” he said. “We’d better get going. But no more crying, because I only have one handkerchief.”

  “Unless ... you’re trying to ditch me?” she said, and suddenly her voice was small and uncertain. “Are you trying to ditch me, William? Don’t you want me to go to Detroit with you?”

  “Of course I do!” Will said, jumping to his feet. Then, aware that he’d spoken too quickly, cleared his throat. “I mean, if you want to.”

  “I do,” she said softly.

  The sun was sinking swiftly behind Mount Diablo as the California Navigation and Improvement riverboat H.J. Corcoran steamed out of Stockton. It was an all-night trip to San Francisco (with many stops along the way to pick up passengers and freight), fifty cents per passenger and a dollar for a sleeping cabin.

  Will paid for the cabin, but he knew it would be far too small for both of them to sleep in decently. And it would seem suspicious for a young married couple—who would presumably have no scruples about decency—to buy two. Thus, when the hour got late, Will left Jenny to sleep in the cabin and went down to the hold make himself as comfortable as he could within the Baker’s close confines.

  Automobiles were common enough now that Will hadn’t had any difficulty convincing the stevedores to load Pask’s machine on alongside the horse teams. The hold, loaded with produce bound for sale in the San Francisco markets, smelled of San Joaquin River mud and the dray horses’ pungent leavings. A chill, low-hanging fog blanketed the dark water, and Will shivered as he wrapped his motoring duster close.

  There was no light in the hold, save a low-burning kerosene lamp that swung in a brass gimbal. So Will switched on the Baker’s headlamps and went to sit in front of the car. Consulting his wristwatch to ensure that it was past midnight, he pulled Ben’s letter out of his pocket. To his astonishment, he discovered that the text had entirely changed.

  Dear Will:

  First, I’ve got to tell you something important that I forgot to write in my last letter. The minute Mother figures out you’ve really gone, she’s going to Send for you, and the longer you don’t answer the madder she’s going to get ... and you know, when she’s mad, the Sends hurt worse. So you’d better know what to do about it.

  There’s no nice way to put this ... you have to be willing to hurt yourself. The only way to really break a Send is with pain. And it can’t be just a pinch. It’s got to hurt and hurt bad. Stab a pin into your leg, burn a match against your arm, something like that. It will break the Send and give her second thoughts about Sending for you again.

  Will absorbed this information, brow wrinkled. What did that mean, “give her second thoughts?” Would breaking the Send hurt Ma’am as much as it hurt him? Will didn’t like that thought at all. Ma’am’s Sends were annoying, but they weren’t worth hurting her for. Shaking his head, he continued to read.

  Now that’s out of the way, I want to get to the business at hand—and that’s telling you the truth—the real truth, as opposed to whatever our parents may have told you. Or, for that matter, what our brothers have told you, for you are no better off trusting any of them than you are trusting Father. He’s made each one of them into a perfect little replica of himself. Parts of himself, anyhow.

  First of all, I wasn’t “sent away.” I left when I was thirteen—by mutual agreement. They probably told you I was intractable. I wasn’t. I simply wanted something Father didn’t want me to want, and as you have discovered, in our family, that’s on a par with being a boy who tortures cats or sets barn fires. But I imagine what you’re most interested in is why I fought with Father. Because of all the secrets that have been kept
from you, I’m sure it’s the one that’s been kept most carefully.

  Here, Will began reading more quickly.

  The fight happened just after you were born. Father and Uncle Royce called all of us boys into Father’s study. Uncle Royce closed the door and he locked it. I remember Father had you in his arms—he was holding you so gently. You wouldn’t imagine it, but he was always very good with babies. Mother wasn’t there—she was sleeping, I think. You were a late baby—she was over forty when she had you—and the birth had been very difficult.

  Now, it gets a little strange.

  Will lifted an eyebrow. As if it wasn’t strange already, this story told on a magical sheet of paper, filled with family secrets that he wasn’t supposed to know!

  It was Uncle Royce who made the bizarre announcement. He said that in order to forestall the possibility of any of us contracting Black Flu, we were all going to be inoculated with Panchrest immediately. That very night.

  Can you understand just how bizarre this announcement was, Will? First of all, one doesn’t “catch” Black Flu. It’s the severest form of magical allergy, but it is no more contagious than hayfever. Also, the very concept of Panchrest inoculation was unheard of at the time. These days, of course, the question of mandatory immunization is a topic of intense national debate—with our own brother Argus making political hay out of his Anti-Immunization stance, which I find ironic in the extreme, given what happened that night. My point is, in 1892, when this happened, there was no talk of using the Panchrest preventatively. There was no discussion of “busting the Mantic Trust” or any such foolishness.

  But Uncle Royce told us that we were all to be inoculated that night. Father did not speak, but simply sat behind his desk, five hypodermic syringes lined up before him. One for each of us.

  Argus, Laddie, and Nate submitted without protest. And you, of course, could not struggle, for you were only an infant.

  When it my turn came, however, I refused. I knew how the Panchrest worked—by irreversibly blocking the magical channels in the human body. Taking the shot would render me incapable of ever practicing magic. And I had been planning a career in magic all my life. I’d never made any secret of it. Little brother, there was nothing I wanted more than to be a warlock.