The Young Sorceress

by Wesley Allison

  Suddenly she could see in her mind what the little quasit had seen with his eyes. She witnessed the battle between two of her duplicates, the conclusion of the battle, and the absorption of one doppelganger into another.

  “I wonder how that works?” she said to herself. “Is she twice as powerful now?”

  She grabbed the second quasit and tossed it into its jar.

  “That’s it, is it Ulixes? I’m not going to eat your eyes, just to see the same thing from a different point of view.”

  She looked at the third little monster.

  “I’m sorely disappointed in you, Dante. Couldn’t even find her, could you?”

  The tiny creature looked chagrined.

  “Don’t worry. You can make it up to me. I need someone to go check out things in Lizzietown. All right. Hurry along.”

  The tiny thing flapped its wings and took off out the small round window, leaving the young sorceress sitting cross-legged in the center of the mystic circle.

  Chapter Eight: Gods

  “I honestly don’t know what her problem was,” said Senta over her cup of tea.

  “It reinforces what I’ve always said,” said Nellie Swenson. “Magic is too dangerous.”

  Graham looked from one to the other, clearly expecting Senta to get up and clock the girl reporter in the noggin, but she just smiled and nodded.

  “Another bottle of Billingbow’s!” he called to the passing waitress, who happened to be his sister.

  “You know where it is!” she shouted back at him. “Go get it yourself!”

  “Does anyone else want anything?” he asked the two girls seated with him. They both shook their heads.

  “All right then, um, I’ll just be right back.”

  “So how are you finding Birmisia?” asked Senta when he had left.

  “Knock off the chit-chat, you lunatic,” replied the redhead. “You’re a menace and I intend to tell all of Brechalon about it.”

  “So who’s stopping you,” replied the sorceress. “Do whatever you want.”

  “Oh, I will. And before I’m done, I’ll have freed Graham Dokkins from whatever magic you’ve used to cloud over his mind.”

  Senta snorted into her cup.

  “You’re a daft cow,” she said.

  Graham returned with his bottle of soda, but before he could sit down, Nellie jumped to her feet.

  “Come on, Graham. I want to feed the dinosaurs.”

  The boy looked questioningly at Senta.

  “Go ahead,” she answered his unasked question. “Run along and play.”

  She sat alone for a few minutes finishing her tea, and had just decided to head home, when the chair opposite hers slid back and Hertzel plopped down into it. He gave her a look, with one brow cocked.

  “What?” she asked. “Do you think I’ve ensorcelled him too?”

  He shook his head.

  Gaylene stopped at the table.

  “Having tea then, Hertzel?”

  He nodded and made a circle with his hands.

  “Soup coming up,” said Gaylene, and then hurried away.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be working?” asked Senta.

  Hertzel shook his head again.

  “So what are you doing?”

  He shrugged.

  “You need a girlfriend, that’s what,” said Senta. “Maybe we can find you a little ginger tramp too.”

  * * * * *

  It was teatime too at the home of Egeria Lusk. Her large house, tall with great columns along the front, sat just east of Town Square, behind a tall metal fence. Large willows grew along the east and west sides and in back was a large, carefully cultivated garden. Here, tea had been set up on a white wrought iron table and guests sat around it on six matching chairs.

  Miss Lusk poured first for her fiancé Zeah Korlann, then his daughter Yuah, Yuah’s lizzy dressing maid, and finally for herself. Young Augustus already had a glass of juice, and his little sister Terra was curled up in the lizzie’s reptilian arms, sleeping. Famous for her fine white dresses, on this occasion Miss Lusk wore a white and lavender striped day dress. Her flaming red hair was pulled back into a bun and topped with a white boater.

  “I told Mrs. Beynon that if Mrs. Dechantagne wanted to seat her lizzie at the dinner table then that was her prerogative,” she said.

  “Cissy isn’t just a lizzie,” said Yuah. “She’s part of the family.”

  “Oh, believe me, I understand. Why I just couldn’t get by without Chunny.”

  Miss Lusk’s lizzie, Chunny, stepped out the back door at that moment, and balancing a large silver tray positively overflowing with covered dishes. He was a magnificent fellow, tall and heavily built, with bright green skin the color spring leaves on his back and a yellowish olive underside. Stopping beside the table, he laid out the dishes one by one before the diners.

  “Tsaua Khunniitia,” said Cissy.

  “Tsaua Ssissiatok,” replied Chunney stiffly.

  “Kichketos ets etehos eenu?” Miss Lusk asked him sharply, then turning to Cissy said. “I would prefer we spoke Brech at the table, please.”

  “You seem to have quite a command of the local language, my dear,” said Zeah. “Perhaps we could make a little game of it—all of us learning a few words. What do you think, Yuah?”

  “What?” asked Yuah, starting as if awakened. “I don’t… I don’t care.”

  “I’m hungry,” whined Augie. “Ghahk tonahass already.”

  His mother smacked him on the back of the head.

  “Mind your manners,” she snapped.

  “That is exactly why we don’t play those kind of games at the table,” said Miss Lusk. “Learning the language so that we are better able to interact with our new world is one thing, but if we aren’t careful we shall end up bastardizing Brech culture, Brech language, and Brech civilization.”

  “I doubt that our learning a bit of foreign language will have any lasting effect on Brech civilization,” said Zeah.

  “You don’t think so?” Miss Lusk tilted her head as she spoke. “Young Augustus will grow up to be an important person—perhaps Prime Minister. How will that happen if we allow his mind to be polluted?”

  “I’m growing up to be king of the lizzies,” said Augie.

  Miss Lusk raised an eyebrow, as if to say “I told you so.”

  “I’m going to be a princess,” said Terra, dreamily.

  * * * * *

  Senta rifled through the cupboard but there wasn’t a thing there that was even remotely edible. She couldn’t think of the last time she had a decent meal. Turning when she heard the front door open, she watched as her duplicate walked in. The doppelganger was carrying a wooden crate, which she sat down on the dining table.

  “Thought you might like something to eat,” she said, then paused to open the door in response to a scratching sound. When the tiny grey humanoid creature walked in, she continued. “Or are you only eating eyes now?”

  “You know that’s what you have to do!” snapped Senta. “Or do you want to do it?”

  “No, no. You go right on ahead. Eat something else first though. You look a right wreck.”

  While the duplicate sat down in the comfy chair, Senta searched through the box. There were three sandwiches from Finkler’s, wrapped in wax paper, as well as two boxes of raisins, a carton of Teddy Sweet Men, a box of baked cheese nests, and a tin of butter cookies. Two bottles of Billingbow’s were tucked in the corners.

  “Thanks for this,” said Senta, unwrapping one of the sandwiches.

  “Of course,” said the blond girl. “We aren’t enemies, you know. We’re supposed to be helping each other. That was why I cast the spell, after all.”

  “You didn’t cast any such thing,” said Senta. “I’m the real Senta. I’m the one who cast the spell.”

  “As you say,” said the other, waving her hand in a Zurfina-like dismissive gesture. “In any case I need your help with Graham and this little bint he’s spending time with.”

 
“Can’t manage your own affairs?”

  “It was never my affair. I’m to take care of Hero and Hertzel, or has your brain gone weak?”

  “Well, if only we had someone to do that for us,” mused Senta, as she chewed a large mouthful of ham sandwich. “Oh, that’s right. You killed her.”

  “I didn’t kill her. I just reabsorbed her. Do you want to help or not?”

  “Can’t you get the other one?”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  Senta grumbled but didn’t answer.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said the doppelganger. “You finish your scrying and then find me and we’ll take care of it together.”

  Senta nodded, then grabbing the quasit in one hand and the sandwich in the other, started up the stairs toward Zurfina’s study.

  “One more thing,” said the other. “There’s a boy in town who claims he’s Smedley’s apprentice.”

  “Smedley Bassington?”

  “Do we know any other Smedley? He says he has a message for Senta but claimed that I wasn’t her. Maybe you’re the real Senta.”

  “Of course I’m the real Senta!” she snapped.

  She jogged quickly up the four flights of stairs to the very top of the tower, sitting down cross-legged in the center of the room. With a squeeze of little Dante’s head, she popped his eyes out and then popping them into her mouth, chewed and swallowed them.

  “Well, that is very interesting,” she said.

  * * * * *

  Eight Months Earlier

  Wissinger stepped into the doorway and immediately felt the warmth from the fireplace across the room melting into his body. It was still more than a month until summer was officially over and fall began, but here in Freedonia, it was already quite cool in the evenings. He peeled off his gloves and stuffed them into the pocket of his greatcoat, and then took it off and hung it on a peg by the door.

  “Finally here, are we, Kurt?” boomed Herr Fuhrmann, stepping from around the corner and slapping him on the shoulder. “Trouble?”

  “No, just the usual. The road was a mess.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Famished,” Wissinger replied truthfully.

  “Inga! Kurt’s home and he’s hungry!”

  Inga came bounding into the room and wrapped her arms around the new arrival.

  “I’m so glad you’re home. You missed my party.”

  “I’m certain that you didn’t need me hanging around, eating all your würstchen im schlafrock and getting in the way of your games.”

  “You could never be in the way,” said the girl. “And as luck would have it, I saved some würstchen im schlafrock for you.”

  Inga heated up the sausages in the oven while Wissinger enjoyed a pint of thick, dark Freedonian beer with her father. When the food was ready, he ate at the table after saying a Kafirite prayer, something he no longer felt self-conscious about doing. The girl hovered around him, making sure that he had all the mustard and sauerkraut he wanted. Just before he finished his meal, he grabbed the girl by the wrist. Reaching into his shirt, he pulled out a small gift-wrapped package and stuck it into her hand.

  “Happy Birthday,” he said.

  “Thank you, Herr Schroeder,” she beamed. “You didn’t really need to get me anything.”

  “I wanted to,” he said. “A pretty girl like you should have pretty things. And no, it’s not a book.”

  In truth, he had bought her a book too, but he couldn’t give it to her yet. There were only a half dozen shops in Butzbach, and the millinery where he had purchased a small silver mirror was right next to a tiny, musty bookstore. Wissinger had passed it a dozen times in the past few months, but hadn’t dared go in. He was sure the bookseller would recognize him as the famous Zaeri writer. When he finally mustered up the courage yesterday and passed through the doorway, he hadn’t been noticed at all. This both relieved and perturbed him.

  Bidding good night to the two Fuhrmanns, Wissinger stepped out the back door and walked across the courtyard to the stables. Here, he followed the narrow steps up to his apartment. In the five months he had been there, he had fixed it up nicely. He now had a small table, an old second-hand chair, and a cheap pot with a flower growing in it. He had bought an extra set of clothes, a pair of comfortable shoes, and stocked away more food than he really needed, since he usually ate with his employer. Still, he thought back to his days in the ghetto and didn’t feel at all bad for hoarding a small wheel of cheese, some canned and dried fruits and a half a dozen chocolate bars.

  He had also bought a new tablet, and he sat down at the table and wrote in it, as he did most every night. The draft of his book was almost done. It was a novel, but it was a true novel. It was the story of the families who had been driven from their homes, forced into the ghettos, and dehumanized. The protagonist was a woman, but in reality, she was all the women that the writer had come to know the previous two years. He had a title in mind—Desperation’s Daughter, but he didn’t write it down. Not until he was finished with the draft. It was one of his little superstitions.

  Putting away the tools of his trade, the writer peeled off his clothes and slipped into his nightshirt and nightcap. He blew out the lantern and slipped beneath the sheet and two blankets on his bed. Some people kept four or five heavy blankets on their bed, but Wissinger had made the discovery that fewer blankets actually kept him warmer. He was sure that this was because too many heavy blankets squeezed out the air from around a sleeping body, and that it was the air that held in body heat. He was sure that this was true and not that his mind had simply grabbed onto this as a rationalization of the fact that he couldn’t have gotten more blankets in the ghetto.

  Wissinger didn’t know how long he had been asleep, but he woke to feel a soft smooth body rubbing against his. Still half asleep, he ran his hand down the side of the new arrival, feeling warm naked flesh.

  “You feel very nice,” he said, imagining the last time he had felt Zurfina’s body against him.

  “You feel nice too,” came the reply, but it wasn’t Zurfina’s husky voice.

  “What?” started Wissinger, as he tried to disengage himself from blankets and female arms and jump from the bed. Stumbling onto the floor, he bumped against the table, where he found a hooded lantern sitting next to his cold one. He lifted the hood and turned around. There on the bed, only partially contained within his blankets, was a very young and very naked Inga.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice taking on a tone of panic.

  “I want you to make love to me.”

  “You… no, you don’t. You’re just a child.”

  “I’m sixteen now. Don’t you see? We can be together. I love you and my father likes you.”

  “Liking me and allowing me to sleep with his daughter are too very different things,” said Wissinger, struggling to remember whether he had seen any firearms in the home.

  “We can get married and you can take over father’s business when he retires,” said Inga, smiling. “You see, I have everything planned out.”

  The writer opened his mouth, but didn’t speak. He wanted to tell her that her father’s retirement might come only a few years before his own. He wanted to tell her that he was a fugitive and he would in all likelihood have to leave soon. He didn’t say any of that. There wasn’t any point.

  “We can discuss things tomorrow,” he said slowly. “You however must remain a virgin for your wedding night.”

  “Oh you,” Inga squealed. “You are so old fashioned.”

  “Yes. That is what I am—old fashioned—God of the Zur help me… and if you have anything to add Kafira, well, I won’t say no.”

  He pointedly turned his back and waited as the girl got out of his bed and donned the nightgown she had left on the floor. She kissed him on the cheek and then started down the stairs. He waited only long enough for her to reach the back door of her home before he began packing his belongings.

  While he had possessed nothing more than he cou
ld wear when he had arrived, his possessions now filled a pillowcase. He left the book that he had purchased for Inga on his little table. It was a well-worn copy of Red Heart, his first book. He was surprised to find it still on the shelves in the little bookshop, but it had never been very popular so it had probably been overlooked. He opened the cover and looked at the title page.

  He wanted to write something. He thought about writing:

  Inga,

  The author cares for you more than you know.

  Have a wonderful life.

  Isaak Wissinger.

  If anyone ever came looking for him here though, this would confirm that he had stayed with the Fuhrmanns, and that would put them that much closer to catching him. He thought about writing:

  Inga,

  I care about you very much, but we are just not right for one another.

  Live your life.

  Kurt.

  In the end, he didn’t write anything at all. He just left the book there on the table, tossed the pillowcase over his shoulder, descended the stairs, and stepped out the door of the stable into the night.

  The Present:

  The village of Hiissierra sat against the side of a hill. From one side of the hill to the other, in a large circle, a wooden palisade formed a protective barrier around the village. Contained within that wooden circle were nearly two hundred lizzie homes. These were square wooden structures with wooden or animal hide doors. In the front of each of them was a stone fireplace around which female lizzies worked. In the back of the village, a pathway of carefully laid stone led up the hill to the top where there were two buildings, each many times larger than a single lizzie house. One of these was wooden and had been built generations before as home of the king. The other already countless ages old when the king’s home had been built, was of ancient stone, home to the gods.