by Ashly Graham
B.J. did not lower his voice. ‘No, it would spoil the spell, they have to go out the old-fashioned way. But I make it quick: hatchet, strangling noose...the way it’s been done for centuries.’
Jenny was aghast. ‘B.J., why can’t you just have Hecate wave her arms and do it painlessly by magic?’
‘Firstly, Hecate never waves her arms unless she’s shouting at me. Second, you can’t spell a spell. I’d make placebos out of flour and water if I could get away with it, which I probably could as often as a witch botches the job without help from me. But we have to buy malpractice coverage from WICCA, the Witches’ Insurance Cooperative & Care Association. It’s administered by the Guild; and Wanda Empiria, whose eye is on every bottom line except her own, expects an annual net loss ratio of no higher than forty per cent, or she starts laying off staff.
‘When Hecate was in charge, and I use the term loosely, you could mistakenly send long-life coals to the Newcastle chapter—as Hec did—instead of to the Lapland one where they were supposed to go, for keeping the Lapp chapter warm and cosy in its covens on the tundra permafrost; and get a cheque by return in full, i.e. subject to no deductible or excess, advance payment for another delivery of coals to Lapland, plus the extra shipping costs, plus an indemnification to the Lapps for the medical cost of treating their frostbite and chilblains, so that they did not have to claim under the third party section of their own insurance policy, plus a goodwill payment for their inconvenience; and still not have our own premium increased a penny upon renewal.
‘Now, owing to Empiria’s strict accountability and enforcement rules, which she had rewritten after Hec’s Viking fiasco downstairs, we’re on thin ice, rather than permafrost, of our own and in permanent danger of being frosted out of business. If WICCA cancelled our policy we’d be finished, because you can’t keep a business licence without proof of insurance. In which case I might as well myself jump, blaspheming liver and all, into the pot on Dragonburgh’s blasted heath, where the witches gather to try and come up with their own spells as a way of saving money.
‘Though what sort of spell I’d be good for I shudder to think.’
A silence was tempered by a faint snoring from Curly Swinekill’s cage.
B.J.’s eyes brightened. ‘One of the benefits of looking after Wort the liver, is that I allow it a dram of whisky on Saturday nights, while I hang on to the bottle and sing music hall songs. In my job I get no time off for bad behaviour, and it’s nice to let my metaphorical hair down once in a while.’
”
Chapter Thirty-Three
“
‘Oh, I nearly forgot,’ said B.J., smacking his forehead; ‘would you like to see a dragon?’
Jenny’s jaw dropped. ‘A dragon, a real dragon? Surely not. Isn’t it...dangerous? Hecate told me a lot about dragons that made them sound...not nice to be around. Where would we have to go?’
‘Oh, nowhere, it’s a miniature dragon, a Parvus esmeralda. A she. Very decorative but no use for teeth; she has them of course, but they’re too small to be ground for powdered dragon tooth, the most important of our spell ingredients. Hec probably told you about the stuff.’
‘She did, it was very interesting.’
‘Miniatures are extremely rare, and it’s illegal to harvest their teeth. Although, when they fall out they’re useful as styluses for record-players, and an alternative to pavé-set diamonds. I found this little chap as a baby, while I was collecting sulphur for the laboratory from inside the crater of a volcano. She’d been deserted by the mother, which is most unusual amongst the Parvi, and makes it likely that the parent had been killed by a Humungus Armada.
‘I was nervous because the volcano was still active—in the event of an eruption my heavy asbestos suit wasn’t going to be much use—and there was a possibility of falling into a nest of Humungi. I’m a pharmacist and a coward, not a St George. I had no confidence in the DragonZapper I was carrying, which is supposed to emit a sound that the Humunguses dislike but is inaudible to humans; nor my spray bottle of super-concentrated mace.
‘The Parvus was alone on a ledge halfway down the crater, and I wrapped her in foil to keep her warm and brought her back here. Hec wasn’t sure it was a good idea at first, but she agreed to let me raise her so long as it didn’t interfere with my other duties. So I gave the little dragon the necessary vaccination shots, and named her Hotscale.’
B.J. got up from his stool, opened a drawer and took out an elbow-length oven glove, put it on, and went to the stove in the middle of the room. Bending to pick up the riddling iron from the brick surround, he knelt, hooked it in the door on the side of the stove and opened it. A blast of heat filled the room and Jenny felt a prickling of perspiration on her forehead.
B.J. seemed unaffected by the increase in temperature. ‘There she is.’ As he pointed inside with the riddling iron, Jenny crouched behind him, using him as a shield.
‘I can’t see anything,’ said Jenny; ‘it’s white-hot in there and too bright.’
B.J. patted his pockets. ‘Put these on, I don’t need them.’ He gave her a pair of sunglasses with very dark lenses, and Jenny held them up in front of her eyes. This time she could make out tongues of flame.
‘Better, but still nothing.’
‘Keep looking,’ said B.J., ‘it might take a moment. She’s very shy.’ He crooned into the stove. ‘Hotty, come here, dear, there’s someone to see you. Who’s a cutie little Hooty? You are, yes you are, you’re a little cutie Hooty.’ If it hadn’t been so hot Jenny would have blushed with embarrassment.
As the flames in an evening hearthside fire assume protean forms in one’s imagination, an outline formed like a large piece of golden holly, about ten inches high. The shape began to fill in with intense sparkles of colour, until it resembled a seahorse brooch studded with emeralds, diamonds, and rubies.
There she was, the little dragon Hotscale, perfect in every detail and looking pleased at the attention she was receiving.
‘Oh,’ cried Jenny; ‘she’s adorable.’ Hotscale fanned the scalloped panels of her wings and looked modestly down her nose over carbuncled nostrils. B.J. moved aside and Jenny came closer; involuntarily she held out her hand towards the dragon, and then withdrew it hastily from the heat.
‘Here, give her a few of these,’ said B.J., reaching into his other pocket. ‘Just toss them in. Diamonds are a dragon’s as well as a girl’s best friend, along with every other kind of precious jewel, but today all I have are pearls. Hold out your hand.’
He poured the milky-white pearls into her palm, and Jenny stared. ‘These can’t be real.’
‘Certainly they are, I wouldn’t give Hotty anything less than the best.’
‘She doesn’t eat them, does she?’
‘You’ll see. Throw them in one after another, and don’t worry, she won’t drop them.’
Jenny hesitated and looked from her hand to B.J. to see if he was serious; which, judging from his expression he was, so she did as he asked.
Hotscale caught each pearl deftly on her snout, and rolled it around as if she were performing a party trick, before tossing it up and catching it in her mouth. She did this seven or eight times until Jenny’s hand was empty. Then, when the little dragon was sure that there were no more pearls coming, she began preening herself.
‘Extraordinary,’ breathed Jenny.
‘Keep watching.’
As she did so, Hotscale stuck the pearls all over her own body, between the other gems that were already fastened to it: the white and yellow diamonds, the rubies, and the emeralds.
When she was finished Jenny cheered. ‘Brava Hotscale! How beautiful you look. I’d rather have seen you than a phoenix, for all its gorgeous plumage. Or the phoenix as I should call it, since only one can live at a time.’
Hotscale dipped her head in thanks for the pearls, and acknowledgement of the compliment.
‘Better say goodbye,’ said B.J; ‘I mustn’t let out too much heat, for our comfort as well as Hotsc
ale’s. She needs to maintain a constant body temperature to remain healthy.’
‘So long, Hotscale,’ said Jenny; ‘I hope to see you again.’
When B.J. had closed the door of the stove, they sat down again. The doctor eyed his guest, as if he were about to ask her a loaded question. ‘You mentioned the Arabian bird, Jenny; what do you know of it?’
‘I’ve always been fascinated by mythical creatures, particularly unicorns; but the phoenix is my favourite.’ Jenny was struck by a worrisome thought. ‘You don’t powder the horns of unicorns, do you, B.J., as you would a dragon’s teeth?’
‘Of course not, unicorns are a protected species. But about the phoenix, and myth: what does myth signify to you?’
‘A myth is a traditional story that is either partially or completely fictitious. That doesn’t mean it isn’t credible, however, or not true in an idealistic sense.’
‘How is that not a contradiction in terms?’
‘Because as supernatural explanations of natural phenomena, myths are self-justifying, even though they are not scientifically provable. It is only relatively recently that the word Myth came to mean a misrepresentation, or misconception.’
‘Give me an example.’
‘The phoenix itself. Although it’s commonly accepted that it is a fabulous bird, that has done nothing to lessen interest in it, as if no one is prepared to give up the belief that it might exist. There are versions of what a phoenix might be. Though in Greek the word phoinix means date palm, the Greeks depicted it as a bird, either a peacock or an eagle. The Egyptians saw it as a heron. The phoenix is believed to have a lifespan of between five hundred, and one thousand four hundred and sixty-one, years: a delightfully precise imprecision.
‘Owing to a consensus that it is unique, the phoenix has come to mean “a thing of matchless beauty, a paragon.” It signifies resurrection and immortality, because whenever it dies it is born again and lives as its predecessor did, in Arabia near a cool well. Every morning it bathes in the well and sings a beautiful song; which the sun god Helios, otherwise known as Hyperion or Apollo, stops his chariot every morning to listen to.
‘The beast can feel when it is about to die, and in preparation builds itself a funeral pyre, a nest of spices and aromatic wood. Helios lights the fire, the phoenix fans the flames with its wings, and as it is consumed it sings a melodious dirge. From the ashes a new phoenix springs forth, and embalms the ashes of its predecessor in an egg of myrrh. It then carries the egg to the city of the sun, Heliopolis, and deposits it on the altar of the sun god.
‘That’s it, pretty much. The point is that the phoenix is more than a fanciful creation. By its rebirth it asserts the possibility of impossibility; which, as the opposite of nihilism, is a concept that resonates in the heart of mankind.’
‘Very good,’ said B.J. ‘And now, since there’s still some time left before you need to be downstairs for the open house, let’s move on to less sublime matters.’ Standing, from one of two piles of magazines on top of the hutches B.J. picked up a handful of copies and gave them to Jenny. ‘These are the latest monthly issues of Bewitched, the official publication of the Witches’ Guild. The articles are listed on the cover.’
Looking them over, Jenny saw that the features were an eclectic array, including: Birthing a Moonchild, and How to Avoid a Maternity Suit; Broomsticks and Peripherals—Don’t Get Taken for a Ride; Phenomenal Philtres; Familiars—How to Train and Not Be Trained; A Prude’s Guide to Erotic Spells; Be Your Own Astrologer; Magic Mirrors: The Hidden Truth; The Pandarus Guide to Instant Infatuation; Runes for Rookies; Compendiums of Rites, Rituals, and Invocations—Are They a Waste of Money?; The Forbes 50 Top Druids, Yogis, and Hags; A Novice’s Guide to Fakes and Phoneys; Pre-Loaded Amulets, Mojos, Fetishes, Charms, Periapts, and Talismans; and, 1-800-VIRGINS: Is It For Real?
‘And these,’ said B.J., removing some pamphlets from the second pile and showing them to her, ‘are pull-out sections from the Sunday newspapers.’ He fanned them out. ‘This one has the latest scoop on ESP, and this the skinny on Chants and Incantations. All invaluable stuff, no doubt, if one is into that sort of thing, as over-sensationalized as it is. Here’s a handy-dandy price comparison of over-the-counter spells for warts, toothache, dandruff, earache, colds, sore throat, and ingrown toenails. Elementary ailments to cure, you might say, but the editors save the important topics for spring and autumn, and that came out in the summer when many people are away on holiday.
‘This one’s more useful: a Which? report on the best witches to go to for spells dealing with...let’s see...succeeding in business, revenge, getting rid of obstreperous family members, job promotion, improving one’s love life, slimming, passing exams, preventing gas, gaining self-confidence, and how to make even the dullest party go with a swing. No need of that one here.
‘Here's a Do-It-Yourself guide for old-fashioned spells for stealing a march on a competitor, or spiting one’s enemy: making a neighbour's cow barren or lame, turning the milk sour, or preventing the cream from churning into butter; and inducing agues, rheumatism, and arthritis.
‘And this is last year’s Christmas mail order catalogue of…astral projectors, astrolabes, attraction oils, cabalistic signs, crystals, essences and exudations, fire-makers, gemstones, hookahs, hypnotizing pendants, pendulums, touchstones, wax image dolls, and zodiacal charts. All mass-produced, which is why the prices are reasonable, and whatever’s left over goes on sale at New Year. There’s no VAT on spells, so the only add-on is postage and packing.’
‘Abut broomsticks,’ said Jenny. ‘Do they fly themselves, sort of on automatic pilot, or do they have to be steered manually? If so, do witches have to pass a driving test? And surely brooms must be very uncomfortable over long distances.’
B.J. laughed as he sat down again. ‘Now there’s a big subject. As to licences, no, they’re not required, though they should be in my opinion, witches are such bad drivers. Someone came up with an initiative proposing they should be, one year at the Annual Convention; but most of the witches knew they would fail the test, and went to great lengths to ensure that the Freedom of the Skies lobbyists got the motion killed. There are courses, which all should be advised to go on, but they’re not compulsory.
‘Regarding the brooms themselves, your basic ash-plant besom or fascicle broom is still made from bound twigs or straw. Dust-Brushers, the young witches call them, and these days they’re only used by the most reactionary sort, such as McToot, Tarrant, and Theobald—the three Ts. It’s a pity, because there’s nothing like the sight of a witch on a broomstick against a full moon. Even the old brigade who were once such dare-devils, and thought nothing of going out unprotected in the foulest weather: now they’re slow, comfortable, riders who wouldn’t dream of venturing forth if there’s a wind or even a hint of drizzle. They’re the equivalent of middle-aged bikers on their Harley-Davidson Fat Boys.
‘In general, the only time you’re likely to see brooms are on pub signs, postings of coven meeting locations, and as logos on witchcraft-related product labels. Most surviving riding brooms can only be seen these days behind glass in atmospherically controlled conditions. Some are brought out occasionally from private collections as curated exhibits in galleries. Some are traded at auctions, where those made by the best of the early broomsmen, or which belonged to someone famous, can command stupendous prices. Old Mother Hecate’s been offered a fortune for some of the battered things in her closet, as if they were Stradivarius violins; but she wouldn’t think of parting with them, however short on ingredient money she is, or in debt.
‘An old broom, Hecate says, becomes a witch’s friend and part of her, in a way that a modern computer-designed and -built contraption, which gets traded in every couple of years, never will. That must be true, because Hec, who isn’t a sentimental person, still has her very first broom from when she was a child in the Old World. It, or I should say she, because her name is Harriet, is a starter broom with stabilizers on the side. As worm-eaten a
s she is, Harriet’s still rideable, and Hec uses her whenever she goes on holiday.
‘Nobody else can get on Harriet; as a Mrs Billie Bong who was here for dinner from Australia, and had too much vino, discovered when Hecate was called out on an emergency to deal with a tide-reversal gone wrong. Owing to Hec having made a lunar miscalculation—though she’s a goddess of the lower world who used to control the phases of the moon, mistakes happen, she said—the tide was coming in instead of going out, imperilling the army of clam diggers which had bought the spell to make the most of the high season harvest.
‘While she was gone, Mrs Bong, who had walked into the broom closet thinking it was the toilet, thought it would be fun to take Harriet out on a jaunt. The timing was disastrous, because just as Hec pulled the sea back out, Harriet, who of course is loyal to her mistress, tossed her guest off the cliff. Splat rather than splash. When she got back and found out what had happened, Hec shrugged, saying the woman had it coming to her…and the following day Mrs Bong, what the sharks had left of her, washed up on Bondi Beach.
‘You’re right about the discomfort aspect: Hecate took me up in a gale once on one of her hickory sticks, and I was sore for a week as well as seasick. Modern witches would laugh at the idea of travelling exposed to the elements sitting astride or side-saddle on a stick, the primary function of which is for housekeepers to sweep the doorstep with. But laugh they may: having no moving parts, riding brooms are easily maintained, like bicycles; they require nothing more than an occasional coat of wood protector on the shaft, and having the straw renewed when it gets thin and scrappy.
‘In flying a broom, to change height and direction one simply altered the angle of the handle and pointed it towards one’s destination. Because there were no gears, everyone proceeded at uniform speed irrespective of whether it was calm or there was a head- or following wind. Very few accidents happened. When broomsticks were the norm, cruising the flight paths was a pleasure; whereas now they’re fraught with the dangers of speeding and overtaking and air rage that have become so commonplace since the arrival of the modern conveyances.
