by Scott Meyer
“Wind?! I was blasted into the forest by wind?”
“Two hundred mile an hour wind.”
“Yeah, I guess that’d do it. So, how do I make a macro?”
“Well, it’s just a matter of basic computer scripting. I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle on that pocket-computer of yours.”
Martin pulled out his smartphone, looked at it and bit his lip. “Phil, I’ve done some programing and the thing is, I could probably write the macros on this, but it wouldn’t be a lot of fun. This isn’t really a computer. I mean, it IS really a computer, but in my time we really don’t use these as computers.”
Phillip looked confused. “What do you use them for, then?”
“They really haven’t told you anything about the future, have they? This is my phone.”
“A phone. You use it as a phone. You carry around a device that’s the size of a deck of cards and is more powerful than a Cray supercomputer, and you use it as a phone?”
“I also play games on it, and watch a movie occasionally.”
“You can watch movies on that?”
“Not many, I mean I only have a sixteen gig memory card in it.”
Phillip muttered, almost to himself, “My Commodore has sixty-four kilobytes of memory and a floppy drive that stores one hundred and seventy K. You can double that, but you have to cut a notch in the disk.” Then, loud and clear, Phillip said, “I kind of hate you right now.”
“I guess that’s why nobody tells you about the future.”
“I guess. Anyway, that’ll have to wait. We have some work to do this afternoon.”
“What kind of work?”
“Nothing too taxing. Just a quick exorcism.”
Chapter 17.
Martin and Phillip teleported back to the shop so Phillip could grab a few things. He lurched around the room, picking up a couple of bottles, a small human figure made of twigs, and a dried dead frog, which he handed to Martin. “Here, take this.”
Martin held the dead frog gingerly, dangling it by two fingers. “Why do I have to hold the frog corpse?”
“I wanted to see if you would,” Phillip answered, looking at the frog and shuddering. “Ugh, disgusting.”
Phillip walked into the crystal ball room. Martin followed. Phillip consulted a scrap of paper and punched some commands into the Commodore 64.
“I agreed to this exorcism a couple of weeks ago. That was before you showed up, of course.”
“When you say exorcism, what do you mean?”
Phillip smiled, but didn’t look up from his work as he talked. “I mean that some local thinks his son is possessed by a demon, and we’ve been asked to remove it.”
“But there is no demon, right?”
“That depends on how you look at it. If you consider rebelliousness, sullenness, and liking things that their parents hate to be demonic, then yes, we live surrounded by demons.”
“I didn’t know wizards handled this sort of thing. I thought it was the church’s department.”
“It is,” Phillip said, “and that’s why we’ll be working with my friend, His Excellency Father Galbraith, the Bishop of Leadchurch.”
Martin was confused again. “I figured the church would be against the use of magic.”
“It was, before we came along. Back when wizards were just crazy men with no powers and a mystical belief system that they couldn’t really prove, the clergy was their sworn enemy. Kind of like two used car dealerships set up on the same street. Both sides claimed to have all the answers, but couldn’t demonstrate that they were right without resorting to a lot of arm waving and suggesting that people look around them and think about it. They couldn’t prove themselves right, so they channeled their energies into proving the other side wrong. Then we came along, with our irritating ability to prove that we had powers. We put the fake wizards right out of business, and the more practical-minded members of the church, Bishop Galbraith among them, decided that they had to find a way to explain our existence that was consistent with their belief system.”
“How do they explain us?”
“They just say we were created by God.”
“Fair enough. Why do they say God created wizards?”
“For a reason.”
“Okay, I’m still with you. What is that reason?”
“The reason is … beyond man’s understanding.”
Martin thought about this. “That’s not much of an explanation.”
“No, but it is consistent with their beliefs. The advantage that religion has over magic or science is that man’s inability to understand is built into the system, so if an explanation is confusing or unsatisfying, it strengthens the point.”
Martin was clearly having difficulty with this conversation, and Phillip knew that they should not proceed until whatever was bothering Martin was settled.
“So, if the church is a sham, why are you working with one of the perpetrators?” Martin asked.
Phillip said, “I didn’t say that the church is a sham.” He put his bottles and dead frog down, and leaned against the counter, settling in for some good, solid explaining. “I said that they can’t prove their belief system, and that the lack of proof is part of that system. It’s all belief and no proof. You and I, we’re both science guys. In science you question everything and prove ideas through experimentation. It’s all proof and no belief. It’s easy for us to sneer at the church for claiming the Earth was created in seven days, five thousand years ago, when there’s clear evidence that it’s much older, but you and I can prove that the Earth is part of a computer program, and how long did it take to write that program? Five days, perhaps? How long has the program been running? Five thousand cycles, perhaps? Who programmed it? Maybe their initials are G.O.D. and they have a sense of humor.
“Even if none of those answers line up with the church’s doctrine, what is our creator’s reality based on? Is he in a computer program? Nobody has all the answers, because all the best answers generate more questions. The way I see it, religion is no more inherently evil than science is. It’s just a matter of who’s using it and how, and Bishop Galbraith is a good man. He’s a gruff, cantankerous old fart, but a good man, and when our goals align, I’m happy to work with him. So, Martin, if you’re ready, let’s go forth as men of science and help a medieval Bishop exorcise a demon.”
In front of a small farmhouse on the outskirts of town, an old man in black sat on a white horse and waited. His robes, leggings, shirt, and hat were all slightly different shades of black. Around his neck there was a rough leather thong holding a cross that appeared to be hammered by hand from a chunk of raw iron. The fact that wristwatches weren’t invented yet made it difficult to look impatient, but he managed. He squinted at the sun, which was high in the sky and partially obscured by puffy clouds. He looked at the shadows on the ground, which were stubby dark silhouettes of the trees, fence posts and sheep. He peered down the road, seeing nothing but heat waves and dust. He scanned the horizon, finding rolling hills, and occasional stone and thatch farmhouses like the one he was sitting in front of. He knew he wouldn’t see what he was waiting for, but that didn’t stop him from looking, or from being irritated by not finding it.
Simple teleportation isn’t much to look at. One moment the wizard isn’t there, the next moment he is. Now that doing so wouldn’t cause Martin to ask questions and jump ahead in the lesson plan, Phillip used a macro to add some razzle-dazzle to the process. Two indistinct hazes, about three feet off of the ground and roughly two feet apart, formed before the old man’s eyes. A high pitched, vaguely gurgly noise filled the air. The horse bucked a bit, because that’s what one does in these situations. The sound grew louder. The two points of haze expanded into blotches of color and motion that took on the shapes of two men in robes and pointy hats. They remained unnatural
ly still as the sound and haze faded away, leaving them standing, holding their staffs at their sides, the older man’s hand on the younger man’s shoulder. When the haze had dissipated, and the sound faded away, the two men suddenly began moving, as smoothly as if they had never stopped.
“Star Trek! Nice!” Martin said.
“I thought you’d like that,” Phillip replied.
“Yer late, wizard!” The old man yelled, climbing down from his horse.
Phillip looked at the sky, then spread his hands in a questioning gesture. “I said we’d meet when the sun was at its highest point.”
The old man walked slowly toward them. He could clearly still get around, but it just as clearly took more effort than it used to. “Aye, and that time’s past. I’m a busy man, you know. I can’t flit about in the wink of an eye like you lot. It’ll take me half the day to get back to my responsibilities in Leadchurch, and I don’t have a young apprentice to help me.”
“You have younger priests and several nuns,” Phillip said, walking up to meet the old man halfway.
“True, but none of them are any help.”
The old man and Phillip shared a laugh and a hug. Phillip gestured toward Martin. “Your Excellency, this is my apprentice, Martin.”
Bishop Galbraith looked Martin over from head to toe. “Aye, Martin the Magnificent, I hear. Should I call you Martin, or Your Magnificence?”
Martin winced and bowed slightly. “You can call me whatever you like, sir.”
“I will. You know, someone brought me in a piece of your transparent fabric. Said that any clothing made of the stuff would be indecent. Wanted to know why God would allow such a thing to exist. “
“I’m sorry if I caused you any trouble,” Martin said. He wasn’t a religious man, but Phillip seemed to hold the priest in high regard, so Martin was inclined to be conciliatory.
“No, Son, luckily the stuff tore easily. I told him it was the work of the devil, and like all of Satan’s creations, was flimsy and useless.”
“Well played,” Phillip said.
“Thank you. Of course now there’s a peasant wandering the streets, convinced that your apprentice is the devil’s loom, but that’s not my problem.”
“Or mine,” said Phillip. “So, Bishop, what are we walking into here?”
“Parishioners of mine. The Melick family. The father is Donald. A good man, but stubborn, old-fashioned, ignorant, domineering, and judgmental.”
Martin made a note of the Bishop’s definition of a good man.
“His wife,” Bishop Galbraith continued, “is named Jan. A good woman. Smarter than she’s given credit for. Excellent cook. Usually lets Donald have his way because it’s easier that way. They have three daughters and a son, their youngest, Donald Junior. He’s a good boy, fifteen years old. Of late he’s started acting differently. He’s withdrawn and secretive. He misbehaves. He talks back and says things that sound like nonsense. His parents think he’s become host to a demon.”
“What do you think?” Martin asked.
Bishop Galbraith gave Martin a hard, questioning look, then looked to Phillip. Phillip shook his head slightly.
“Did you not hear me say that the lad’s fifteen?” The priest said.
“He’ll learn, Father,” Phillip said.
The old man turned his back to them and started limping his way to the farmhouse’s front door. Phillip glowered briefly at Martin, who shrugged in response.
Phillip gave Martin a last minute coaching as they approached the door. “Say nothing. Nothing. Even if they ask you a direct question. You will listen and let me do my job.”
“And what is your job?”
“Mostly, to stand back and let Bishop Galbraith do his.”
The farmhouse was larger than average, but inside felt close and cramped. Mrs. Melick was what Martin’s mother would describe as plump and pleasant. She welcomed them warmly and fussed over the Bishop and Phillip like having company was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Mr. Melick grudgingly got up when they entered. The rest of the room was taken up by three young women who were clearly the daughters of Mr. and Mrs. Melick. None of the girls were what Martin would call overweight, but the Melicks were a stoutly-framed family, and farm work had made them more so. Mr. Melick introduced the girls as Kitty, Evie, and Maggie.
Martin saw Phillip’s demeanor change as they entered the hut. He stood taller and looked more serious. He seemed to see everything. Bishop Galbraith’s demeanor hadn’t changed at all. Martin wasn’t sure it could. The priest said, “I’m sure you’re aware of Phillip, he’s a powerful wizard.”
“Oh, I’m aware of him, Father,” Mr. Melick said, “though I’m not sure why you brought him along.”
Phillip’s nostrils flared, and his voice resonated. “I hold the forces of darkness at bay. I command spirits and demons. I have the power to send them back to the unknown dimensions in which they dwell.”
Bishop Galbraith said, “You can see how that would be handy.”
Mrs. Melick said, “I’m not sure this is really needed. He’s a good boy, it’s just ...”
Mr. Mellick turned to her as if a mosquito had bitten him on the ear. “You hush. I’ve told you it’s needed. They boy’s got a demon in him. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The girls all agree, don’t you?” he turned to look at the girls, who were standing together in a clump. They nodded vigorously, stopping the instant he turned his attention back to Bishop Galbraith. Mr. Mellick invited the visitors to sit, then pointed at Martin. “Who’s the lad?”
“He is my apprentice,” Phillip said.
“Oh,” Mrs. Melick said, lighting up as her maternal instincts kicked into gear, “that must be very exciting!”
“It is.” Phillip responded
Mrs. Melick looked directly at Martin. “Are you learning a lot?”
“He is.” Phillip responded.
Mrs. Melick was taken aback. “Can he not speak?”
“No, he cannot.” Phillip said.
Her large, wet eyes filled with large, wet sympathy. She put a hand on Martin’s elbow so gently he barely felt it. Martin had never wanted to hug another person so badly in his life. “Poor lad. Why can’t he speak? What happened to him?”
“I ordered him not to.” Phillip answered.
Mr. Melick nodded, “Quite right. Young people should be seen but not heard, isn’t that right, girls?” His daughters nearly gave themselves whiplash nodding agreement.
There were two benches, each of which seemed designed for four average people, or three full-grown Melicks. Mr. Melick sat about two thirds of the way across one bench. There wasn’t enough room for anyone to sit on his left. Mrs. Melick sat, perched on the far right end of the bench next to her husband. The guests were invited to sit on the other bench. Martin started toward the bench, but Phillip stopped him. “Stand back and watch,” he whispered before he settled on the bench next to Bishop Galbraith.
Bishop Galbraith saw that the three daughters were still standing, and quickly stood himself. “Please. Ladies. Do sit as well.” He looked around the room, but there was nothing else to sit on.
“They can’t. You’re sitting on their bench, but you are guests, and are welcome to it. Isn’t that right, girls?” More nodding, but Mr. Melick didn’t see it, because he didn’t look.
Phillip looked at the girls, then the bench, then the girls again, and asked the question Martin wanted to ask. “Does Donald Junior sit on the floor?”
“Not in my house he doesn’t! I’m raising him to be a man, not an animal!”
“Then … does he sit on the bench with his sisters?” Phillip pressed.
“Why does it matter where the boy sits?” Donald Senior asked.
“I need to check for … demonic residue.”
“Oh, i
s that what that is?” The youngest sister blurted before every Melick in the room’s eyes silenced her.
“When they were younger, the boy sat on the bench with his sisters, but they’re all too grown.”
Phillip tried to give the subject a rest, but after a moment, even Bishop Galbraith needed to know. “So, where does the lad sit?” The Bishop asked.
“He’s young and has strong legs,” Mr. Melick said. “Standing will help make a man out of him.”
Phillip turned and made eye contact with Martin. He didn’t need to say anything. In one sentence, Donald Melick had said it all. Bishop Galbraith asked probing questions, and in answering them, a clear picture of Donald Junior’s life emerged. His father was a simple man. Not dumb, simple. He loved hunting, fishing, and farming. He married Jan and set out to create a son with whom he could hunt, fish, and farm. Three attempts left him with three daughters to feed via hunting, fishing, and farming, and still nobody (as far as he was concerned) to hunt, fish, or farm with.
When Donnie was born, Donald Senior tried to ensure that his son shared his passion for outdoorsmanship by talking about nothing else for fifteen solid years. The boy had not wanted for attention and love, though. It appeared his mother and sisters had loved him to within an inch of his life. Their father gave the girls permission to speak, and speak they did, at length, about how they all took an active role in raising their baby brother. Helping to feed him, to dress him, reminding him to stand up straight, say please and thank you, to not talk back, to respect his elders, to do as he’s told, and above all else, to be grateful that he has so many people who care about him.
“But no matter how much we correct him, he isn’t grateful,” Kitty, the eldest Melick girl said.
Lately Donnie had become quiet and sullen. He’d moved to an old shed out back. “I don’t see why,” Mr. Melick said. “I’ve worked damn hard to give him a nice place to stand in here. The worst of it is that he’s taken to hanging around with those bastards.”
