by John Levitt
“Recipes? Oh, a joke. No, it’s quite interesting.” He muttered something that sounded like “Fraktur,” whatever that meant.
I asked him a few more questions, but after answering abstractedly for a while, he started responding with incomprehensible mumbling sounds. So while he sat mesmerized, staring at diagrams on the screen, I talked with Victor. Malcolm’s proposal interested him. But he’d never heard of Malcolm, and my description of him didn’t jog any memories.
“Odd,” he said. “If he can do half of what he says he can, he’d be an amazing talent. You’d think we’d have at least heard of him.”
“Well, I couldn’t sense any talent,” I said, “for whatever that’s worth. Maybe he’s a reclusive genius, hiding out from the world. He doesn’t seem that good with people.”
Something of our conversation must have filtered through to Eli’s consciousness because he suddenly swiveled around in his chair.
“Oh, you have to take him up on it,” he said.
“You think?”
“Absolutely. Who knows what you’ll find there, what questions could be answered?”
“The last time I did something like this I was looking for Lou, and the only question was whether we’d get out alive.”
“I think this is very different. This Malcolm is talking about a world, a society, and Lord knows what else. I seriously doubt that anyone could create such a thing, but he might be able to access some place that’s already there. And who knows what it might lead to?”
Victor wasn’t quite so enthusiastic, but he agreed. “They’re up to something,” he said.” And I don’t buy that they just want to test it out. They know what they’re doing. There’s a purpose behind it.”
“Maybe they’re hoping to find something there,” I said. “Something not available in this world, like those rune stones that gave us so much trouble.” Victor nodded.
“Not a bad thought. But again, what? The only way to find out is to take him up on his offer.”
Truth be told, I was curious myself. The singularity Jackie had created was impressive enough, and if Malcolm could go her one better, it would be quite a feat. Accessing a complete other world would be even more so. But curiosity has been known to kill more than cats.
“Be careful, will you?” Eli said, already lost back in the computer screen. He assumed I would jump at the chance, because that’s what he would have done.
“Always,” I said, but I doubt he heard me.
WHEN I CALLED JACKIE AND SAID IT WAS A GO, she told me to meet her and Malcolm at the north entrance to Mount Davidson at six. Jackie was acting subdued when I got there but Malcolm was upbeat and bouncy. He wore a fanny pack around his waist, much like the one Victor carries for magical forensic investigations.
Mount Davidson is an odd place, a thousand-foot-high hill covered with tall eucalyptus trees and choked with thick undergrowth. It rises up unexpectedly from an area of residential streets, and a narrow path leads up to the summit where a massive hundred-foot-tall white concrete cross dominates the clearing at the top.
Malcolm and Jackie led the way with Lou and me trailing behind. Neither of us wanted to walk up that narrow path with the two of them at our backs. A lot of people enjoy Mount Davidson, but I’ve always found it just the slightest bit creepy. It has an amazing microclimate, like something plucked from the Pacific Northwest coastal rain forest and set neatly down in the middle of San Francisco. Even on sunny days the light doesn’t quite penetrate all the way down to the forest floor, and the fog lingers there long after it’s cleared away from the rest of the city. The tree trunks are perpetually damp, the dirt path always muddy in spots.
Rarely do you see a bird in the surrounding woods, although you can often hear crows squawking in the distance. Flowers are few and far between, and sound is muffled. The narrow path winds up to the top of the hill, and you can’t see much of anything except the trees, even when you’re within fifty feet of the summit. But when you finally crest the lip at the top and reach the clearing, it all changes. The sky overhead glows blue and the city stretches out in the distance like a panoramic postcard. And best of all, the huge white cross that dominates the clearing exudes a quiet peace, no matter your religion.
The sun was low when we arrived at the summit and its rays lit up the top of the cross, adding to the supernatural sheen. I saw why Malcolm had picked this place.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” he said, following my gaze. “Richter lived in nineteenth-century Austria, so of course he was surrounded by Christian symbology. Many of his rituals and instructions depend on them—I probably could get much the same results using different symbols, but why mess with that when you have something that you know will work?”
“Don’t fix what ain’t broken.”
“Exactly,” he said, as if I’d uttered a profound truth.
He reached in the fanny pack and pulled out some crystals, which is standard for rituals. Then a glass bottle full of a grayish powder. He laid down a trail of parallel lines that led to the other side of the clearing, maybe ten feet or so, like a gunpowder trail leading to a powder keg. Arranging the crystals in a semicircle, he stepped back, considered them, and then, obviously dissatisfied, rearranged them. The next things out of the pack were a plain wooden cross, maybe six inches long, and a vial of liquid, dark red and viscous. I looked a question at him.
“Blood,” he confirmed. “Can’t do a black ritual without blood.”
He unstoppered the vial and sprinkled it over the crystals. I didn’t ask whose blood or where he’d obtained it. I was just happy it wasn’t mine, for once. But no such luck.
“We need a bit more as well,” he said, digging out what looked like a large pen from his pack. It was a springloaded lancet device, the kind diabetics use to test blood-sugar levels. He pricked his finger, drawing a bead of blood, then rubbed the blood into the wooden cross. He slipped a fresh lancet into the device and handed it to me.
“Sterile technique is all the rage these days,” he said. “I just need a small drop.”
I’m never thrilled about giving up any of my blood to a black practitioner, even a drop. I held it loosely, making no effort to use it.
“Why do you need more blood?” Jackie unexpectedly asked. She seemed a little ill at ease herself.
“We all need to contribute,” Malcolm said. “That’s one of the things that makes the singularity complex. All your life experiences are encoded in your blood, and all of mine in mine, and all of Mason’s in his. The more input, the more complexity. If I could collect a drop of blood each from a million people, I could create a new world indistinguishable from this one.”
Jackie took the device from my hand, pressed the end firmly against her little finger, and quickly produced a drop of blood. She rubbed it into the wood of the cross just as Malcolm had done and handed the device back to him. He inserted a new lancet and offered it to me again. There was no point in balking now. If Malcolm had bad intentions concerning me, there were easier ways to get at me than this elaborate ritual. I did the finger thing and rubbed it into the cross with the other drops.
Malcolm puttered around, adjusting the crystals, until finally he was satisfied. The last things he took out from the pack were an old work glove, a can of lighter fluid, and a sheet of paper covered with drawings and diagrams.
“Jackie, stand over here,” he directed. “Mason, you on the other side here, so we form a triangle.”
Lou had walked away and was now watching us from a safe distance. He hasn’t had the best of experiences with rituals.
Malcolm picked up a long stick, and holding the paper for a guide, he drew a series of diagrams in the dirt. At the same time, he pronounced a series of words, some in Latin, some in German, pausing at different intervals between them. About halfway through, he threw the stick down in disgust, erased the diagrams, and began to redraw them.
“Damn it,” he said.
“What?” asked Jackie.
“I made a m
istake. I’ll have to start over from the beginning.”
This sort of thing always puzzles me. My belief is that magical operations are a result of simply using talent to access power, nothing more, nothing less. Rituals, objects, spells—all are mere focusing devices to channel talent. But events of the last few years had made me wonder if it was as simple as that. It may take a practitioner to activate them, but there surely is an intrinsic power and magic inherent in certain objects. I’ve seen that. And I’ve seen other things that I don’t understand at all.
Still, I find it hard to believe that the exact sequence and proper pronunciation of words chanted in a spell can mean the difference between success and failure. Malcolm obviously believed it, though, and he was the one constructing the ritual.
I couldn’t tell any difference the second time through, but Malcolm was satisfied. He finished, took a deep breath, pulled the work glove over one hand, and doused the wooden cross with lighter fluid. I thought he might set it ablaze with a simple fire ignition spell, but instead he produced a wooden kitchen match and struck it against a rock. It flared up, catching the lighter fluid alight at the same time.
Holding the burning cross in his gloved hand, he turned to face west, mirroring the larger cross at the end of the clearing. Then, three clear syllables, almost Arabic in sound. Quickly, he crouched down and placed the cross over the lines of powder he’d laid down earlier. The fire shot down them with a sputtering sound, and then they burned quietly with a deep violet flame. He turned to Jackie.
“Quickly, now. You know I can’t do this part. Throw your power into it.”
This was odd. But maybe Malcolm was a weak practitioner despite his knowledge, somewhat like Eli. Eli had limited power, but his immense knowledge of magical operations more than made up for that lack.
Jackie lifted her arms and sang a high, keening double note, like a Tuvan throat singer. Energy flowed from her and the air above the lines of fire shimmied and wavered before solidifying into a faint passageway.
“That’s done it,” said Malcolm, breathless from exertion and adrenaline, but almost crowing. “I’ve done it; I’ve duplicated Richter. A few short steps, and we’ll be exploring uncharted territory.”
He gestured to Jackie, walked down the path between the lines of fire, and turned his head toward me.
“You coming?” he said.
ELEVEN
WE WERE STILL STANDING ON A PATH THAT wound down a hill, but now there was an actual forest around us. It was cold—not that San Francisco chill of a rainy day when the wind blows and the mist swirls around your head and down the collar of your shirt; more like the icy chill of the Sierras on a fall day that speaks of the coming winter. I turned up my jacket collar, wishing it was heavier.
“Notice how fresh the air is,” Jackie said.
I took a deep lungful. “No hydrocarbons. Maybe.”
“No sounds, either,” said Malcolm, “except for natural ones. No traffic. No sirens. No engines. No leaf blowers or chain saws.”
I listened. I could hear wind and the squeak and groan of tree limbs rubbing together. I could hear water running somewhere up ahead.
“Is this what you were aiming for?” I asked.
He looked thoughtful. “I wasn’t really aiming for anything in particular. I just wanted to create the most complex place I could. The details weren’t under my control, but that’s something that eventually will change, I believe.”
I looked around for something to try my talent on. This time I wasn’t going to wait for an emergency before testing my limits. I listened to the sound of the running water, amplified it, and directed the sound farther up on the hillside. It worked; the reassuring sound of a fake waterfall echoed down among us, and Jackie looked up in confusion until she caught on to what I was doing.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“Just seeing how things work here,” I said.
We set off down the path, Lou in the lead. He was perkier than usual, almost playful, which was a good sign. He wouldn’t be prancing along if bizarre and dangerous creatures were lurking unseen in the woods. Probably.
The path was narrow, moist and muddy. Dead leaves choked parts of it and crooked trees leaned over one side. The other side was overgrown with lush broad-leafed plants and thick bushes. Occasional outcroppings of rock pushed their way through, dripping with a viscous green slime exactly like the gunk every kid buys for Halloween.
Gradually the woods opened up and the path wound through to where the trees were spread out every fifteen feet or so, sandy soil and leaf clutter providing a thick mat on the ground beneath them. Black squirrels scampered between the tree trunks. Lou whined in the back of his throat. He wanted to go after them, but restrained himself for once. If he ever caught one, I don’t know what he’d do with it, anyway. Surely he wouldn’t eat it. Or maybe he would.
He stayed on the path, though, all business despite his playful demeanor. Eventually we came to a broad stream, almost a river, the source of the water I’d been hearing. It curved in from the opposite direction until it ran parallel to the path. Moss-covered boulders squatted in the middle of the stream and tall, cattail-like rushes crowded together near the banks. Blackbirds with yellow wings fluttered among the reeds, uttering piercing whistles. Fifty yards from where the stream met the path, the water broadened out and gentled down. The path became a dirt road; the road became a long, solid stone bridge that crossed the stream, arches reflected in the water below.
We walked along the path until it became the road, crossed over the bridge, and followed the road down to where it bent around a shallow lake. The lake was broad and muddy, almost a swamp. Large trees with gnarled roots dotted the water, popping out like tiny green islands in a sea of brown. About twenty feet from the shore, I could see ripples in the muddy water. Probably catfish or something, but we stayed well back nonetheless.
The road continued past the lake and rolled into a narrow valley. A couple of miles farther down, a small village nestled into the slope of an encroaching hill. Buildings, mostly constructed of stone, overlapped on the slope like a giant jigsaw puzzle. Slanted roofs of red tile seemed to be the universal covering of choice. Smoke drifted out of several chimneys and the sound of hammering carried all the way up to where we stood. Picturesque didn’t begin to describe it.
This didn’t appear to be a construct to me. It was far too complex, and far too large. There was none of that telltale blurring around the edges that spoke of a singularity. And Lou seemed entirely at ease.
But on the other hand there was also something slightly unreal about the scene. It was like a Disney version of the mythical days of yore, like an illustration in a book rather than an actual flesh-and-blood village. I didn’t see any people, either. Or maybe it was inhabited not by people, but by giant talking lizards. If this was Malcolm’s magical creation, I supposed anything was possible.
Lou glanced back over his shoulder and danced impatiently. He was cold and wanted to keep moving. We continued on down the road toward the village. Ruts appeared in the dirt, indicating that wagons or the like sometimes passed this way. On the edge of the town a few buildings stood close to the road, not quite barns but larger than sheds, with gray, weathered wood patched so many times it looked as if they had been constructed of driftwood. Closer in, more substantial structures appeared, but still no people.
By the time we reached the base of the village I was feeling distinctly on edge. Lou was trotting happily along, however, ears perked as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
Finally we arrived at one particularly large building that stood out from the others. It was two-storied, broad and solid, made of stone with thick and narrow glass windows, almost opaque, and a large front door of dark wood. The door sported an ornate brass handle, so there was at least some modicum of technology here. A wooden sign hung over it, suspended from metal chains, adorned by a crude painting of a large barrel with a tap.
Everything was amazingly detai
led, from the ornate brass door handle to the wonderful smell of fresh, clean air. I’d been skeptical about Malcolm’s ability to pull this off, but I was starting to believe. But not completely. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something still seemed off. At least Lou was having a good time.
“After you,” I said, opening the door and holding it for Malcolm and Jackie. They hesitated and Lou bounded through in front of them. This was not the sort of place where anyone would be unduly worried about a dog in a bar.
Inside, a large room opened up with a modest fireplace at the far end and a small fire burning cheerily away inside. A medium-sized brown dog, sharp nosed and long haired, was lying by the hearth with its eyes closed. It looked up as we entered and Lou immediately walked confidently over to make dog friends.
Several wooden tables were pulled up close to the fire. Across the room, the long, rough-hewn bar would have been right at home in any Northern California logging town. Behind the bar, a middle-aged man in a brown wool shirt and apron was busy stoking up a small woodstove. He had longish hair and a dark beard, and again, would have fit right in to any logging town back home. No giant lizards were in evidence. So far, so good. He looked up as we came in and nodded a welcome.
“Sirs,” he said, “and lady. Welcome, welcome. Chilly out, is it not? Can I get you something to warm your bones?”
So. He spoke English. That swung the weight of evidence over to it being a construct.
The delicious scent of hot cider, mulled with spices and what smelled like rum, wafted toward me. This place might not be the real thing, but Malcolm had got the important details down pat. My mouth was already watering in anticipation before I remembered an unfortunate complication.
“I’m afraid we don’t have any money,” I said regretfully.
The man’s face narrowed in instant wariness, the wariness all bar owners develop from long experience in dealing with indigent lowlifes. Then he looked me over carefully, then glanced at Lou. His face relaxed and he brightened up.
