That Magic Mischief

by Susan Conley

  • • •

  Six thirty-five A.M. Damn it! It was Sunday morning, the crack of dawn, and Annabelle was wide awake. What a mess, she thought. What a literal mess. Curled up under the covers, she willed herself to go back to sleep, but how was that supposed to happen when every single nerve ending she possessed was vibrating with the kind of tornado of emotions that required a pharmacist’s cocktail to soothe?

  She got out from under the covers and tip-toed over to the door. Pressing her ear against it, she listened for … what? The sounds of a mystical cleaning crew putting her apartment to rights? God damn it, so much for a trip to the Met this afternoon, although a springtime Sunday was probably the single worst day to go to the museum. Not that it would make mopping up that mess out there any less irritating or arduous … She yanked open the bedroom door —

  The room was so spotless, it shone. Annabelle closed the door, banged her head against it just to make sure she was awake, and opened it again.

  Still clean — probably cleaner than it had ever been in since the building had been built. The hardwood floor gleamed as brightly as the mirror on the wall, and the sink had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. She could see herself in the oven door. Every key on her computer’s keyboard looked as though it had been spit-polished. Her altar, most importantly, seemed restored to its former state, and then some: it was spotless and gleaming in the dim light of the corner, and as Annabelle approached it, it appeared to be glowing with more than cleanliness.

  Perched on the edge of the surface sat a small figure, seemingly composed of grey smoke and black shadows, wearing a long cloak. Its streaming locks waved as if stirred by a slight breeze and were emitting a glow, like the light of the full moon in winter. The only thing colorful about it were its piercing hazel eyes, eyes which crinkled at the corners with spiteful glee as Annabelle, shocked beyond belief, backed into the bathroom and shut the door.

  “First things first,” Annabelle muttered aloud, and stuck her head under the faucet. The rush of freezing cold water did nothing to wipe out the image of that gnomish, spooky figure sitting in her front room. Repeated dunking in the ice-cold stream spewing into the sink did not wash away her panic.

  Shaking the excess water out of her hair, she looked at herself in the mirror. Eyes wide with shock, the top of her head soaked with water, she poked her cheeks, her chin, her ears, to convince herself that she was actually awake. “Maybe I’m dreaming,” she whispered to her reflection. “Maybe this is just a dream.”

  She rubbed her face and hair briskly with a hand towel and when she looked back up at the mirror, the reflection of a life-sized version of the figure from her altar appeared in the glass. “Oh, this isn’t a dream, chicken,” it said, its voice sounding like a combination of a whisper and an echo.

  Annabelle ran out of the bathroom and back into the living room, and hid behind her little couch, leaning up against its back. She sat still and tried to take deep cleansing breaths, but her heart was pumping with such anxiety that she couldn’t seem to breathe deeper than her collarbones.

  Okay. Okay. How to forestall an anxiety attack: ground yourself in your body. Annabelle made herself become aware of the coldness of the floor under her butt, of the scratchy fabric of the couch biting through her light T-shirt. Okay. Now name your surroundings. “My computer, my camera equipment, my bookshelves, my pictures, my books … ” Annabelle trailed off as she got a good look at her usually meticulously organized bookshelves. Not only were they completely out of alphabetical order, all the genres had been mixed up, and some of the books had been replaced upside down, or with the bindings facing in, toward the back … “I don’t believe this!” She leaped up and began to pull the volumes out by the armful.

  “Yes, you do. Deep down, you believe this. Else I wouldn’t be here.”

  Goosebumps erupted along Annabelle’s arms and legs. If this were a movie, the heroine would inevitably engage with the creature instead of doing the sensible thing, which would be to run out of the house. Ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille, Annabelle thought giddily. Refusing to turn around, she strove for a light, conversational tone as she sorted her books into their proper order. “Maybe I do believe this. But did you have to make such a mess?”

  The creature’s tone turned decidedly sulky. “I cleaned it up, didn’t I?”

  “You made in the first place! So it doesn’t count!”

  “You said that you wanted to help! Calling out to the Universe in all the four directions, help me, help me!” She whined, pathetically.

  “What?” Oh, yeah. I did, didn’t I. “And this is the thanks I get?” Annabelle threw Jane Austen down on top of Virginia Woolf. “Do you have any idea how long sorting out my books is going to take?” Annabelle huffed an irritated sigh, and separated Joseph Campbell and Edith Wharton.

  A low grumbling and a grudging mumble told Annabelle that she’d won a point. “Stand back!” the creature demanded. Annabelle turned and saw that she had now become a rather large swan, and that it was sitting on the ‘dining room’ table.

  “Why?” Annabelle demanded, boldly, considering that since this thing seemed able to become anything it wanted, that it might not be very wise to spar with a supernatural entities with unlimited powers. “Why should I?” she demanded, recklessly.

  One minute she was standing in front of her bookshelves, the next, in a blink of an eye, she was on the other side of her couch, and her books were flying around the room, swirling as if on the current of a hurricane, floating and flying about like a flock of birds. Spinning and spiraling in a crescendo of flapping pages and fluttering covers, they lightly set themselves back on their shelves, perfectly aligned, alphabetically according to genre, just the way Annabelle liked them. One dramatic beat later, her knick-knacks, photographs, and tchotchkes followed suit, arranged chronologically in a fashion that Annabelle had always thought about, but had never got around to doing.

  “Satisfied?” it snarled, now an enormous black cat lounging on the arm of the couch. With a sound like the damp snuffing of a candle, only magnified, it disappeared.

  Annabelle lowered herself onto one of her chairs. The silence was deafening, and she was exhausted. It was too early in the morning to be experiencing otherworldly phenomena, and now that the thing had shown itself, she didn’t know what to do. Maybe she should go stay with Maria Grazia for a few days, or even just go out now for a bit of breakfast and a reality check.

  She went to throw some stuff in a bag, just in case, and dragged on a sweat suit. Grabbing up her coat, and checking for her keys, she went to unlock her front door — and found she couldn’t. The chain wouldn’t budge, nor any of the locks. She fruitlessly tugged at the doorknob, but it didn’t even move enough to make the least bit of noise. She was locked in her own apartment.

  • • •

  At eleven A.M., Annabelle’s stomach rumbled for the millionth time. She’d been hiding out in her bedroom for hours, and now she was starving. She’d kill someone — something, more like — for a cup of coffee, two chocolate croissants, some strawberries, and a big, fat cheese omelet. Her stomach rumbled louder at the thought. She knew she had nothing in the fridge, and that she hadn’t bought coffee in almost six months.

  Annabelle tried to psyche herself up. “Come on! You are being a total wimp! This is your house! You let that plant push you around, and now you’re cowering in your bed just because some, some, some thing is shapeshifting all over the place?”

  She remembered crazy Maeve and her prediction about the Pooka — was that what it was? She never did do that research, having gotten sidetracked by the flippin’ plant. Fine, then! Time to get to work on figuring this whole thing out, and time to eat something. She flung open the door once more.

  The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the apartment, and a beautiful spread of chocolate croissants, strawberries and raspberries, in cream,
and a steaming plate of the largest, fluffiest eggs Annabelle had ever seen, was laid out on her little table. Beautiful cutlery and crockery added to the overall impression of bounty, and she took a chair, poured herself a cup of the aromatic brew, took two big bites from a croissant, lapped up three heaping spoonfuls of the berries and cream, and felt like this was the best breakfast she’d ever had — until it occurred to her to question where the food had come from.

  “Bleerrgh!” She spat out a berry and dropped the delicate china coffee cup, which didn’t break, but bounced and righted itself in its saucer. A robust yet echoing laugh filled the room, and Annabelle, mindful of the myth of Hades and Persephone, wondered if she was going to be making an unexpected holiday in Hell.

  “Hell has nothing to do with it.” It was back, lounging on the couch in it its original, vaguely female, gnome shape. Its cloak and hair moved like the light of a candle on the wall, and the creature’s big greenish-hazel eyes fixed unwaveringly on Annabelle. “If you’d bothered to learn a bit about me, you’d know that.”

  “Yeah, well, there don’t seem to be any websites about hazelnuts turning into plants turning into … you.” Annabelle looked longingly at the empty coffee cup, which filled itself a split second after her fleeting thought.

  “Seems a shame to waste it … ” It purred, returning to the form of a black cat as it leaped lightly up onto the tabletop next to the coffee pot. “Go on, then. It’ll do you good. Go on.”

  Annabelle got up and moved to the couch. “I won’t! Any fairy story or myth that features the eating of magical food always ends badly.”

  “The bargain is struck, in any case.” The cat leaped down to sit on the chair. In mid-leap it transformed into a satyr, and crossed its furry, goat-like legs.

  “Would you mind picking one thing and staying with it, please?” Annabelle moodily picked at the nub of the couch. She glared at the satyr. “It’s getting on my nerves. And what bargain? We don’t have any bargain.”

  The satyr let out a gleeful laugh and clapped its hands. “Oh, indeed we have. You did, in fact, eat of the food I laid before you, and in doing so you have agreed to help me get back home. Hmmm, let’s see … ” As it rose, it changed shape again, this time into a large blue heron. Holding aloft one large wing, it counted out what Annabelle ate on several feathers. “One cup of coffee,” the bird clucked as it trained a beady eye on Annabelle. “Two bites of a chocolate croissant, and three spoonfuls of berries — “ Its voice rose to cut off Annabelle’s protest. “You’ll wish it was more, missus. So.” Flapping its great wings, the heron turned its other, equally beady eye in the direction of the couch. “You have exactly five weeks in which to return me to Ireland … or else.”

  “What? I’m not going to Ireland! And this isn’t fair, at all. I didn’t know what was going on, I didn’t know the rules, so there’s no bargain! And why should I help anyone that, that, forces innocent people into taking unwanted trips!”

  Back in its semi-human, cloaked guise, the creature tried for a conciliatory, wheedling tone. “But what about all I’ve done for you? Organizing your new career, getting some spirit back in that blood — not an easy feat when I was stuck, planted in that bloody wee pot! Helping you get over your little break-up with that tosser … isn’t that what you wanted? Wasn’t that what you asked for?”

  “I never asked … ” Annabelle trailed off. Well. Okay, that’s what all the rituals had been about, and she was stunned to think that it had actually worked, and not at all surprised that it hadn’t gone the way she wanted.

  “Ha!” It rose and began to pace back and forth in front of the couch. “‘Hadn’t gone the way you wanted’! You human! Never satisfied, never happy, always asking for more, more, more, while we work ourselves down to the bone, trying to take on board all your wishes and satisfy all your whims. Never a bit of thanks for our magic touch, the slightest show of appreciation, it never occurs to you that we have a better grasp of the consequences of your silly little dreams, while we — ”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Annabelle demanded, cutting off the creature’s tirade.

  It stopped pacing and turned to face Annabelle fully; as it did so, it increased its size until it seemed to fill the whole room — its voice certainly did, resonating off the walls and ceiling. “I am a Pooka, neither male nor female, animal or mineral, flora nor fauna, but any of them at any time, on any whim. I am a mischief-maker, a shape-shifter, a trickster. I have the knowledge and the means to bestow upon you your heart’s desire — ” The Pooka shrunk down to half size. “If you have the brains to realize it yourself.”

  It sighed. “Pookas are usually relegated to the realm of the poltergeist. People think we exist simply to make things go missing, to fiddle with electricity and wiring, to manifest ourselves in any number of small things that go wrong. Ha!” Her hair seemed to wave more exuberantly as she warmed to her rant. “Luckless Pookas are we who are attached to a family, time out of mind, for our responsibility is great, and even more thankless! We are ever at the beck and call of any member of a family to whom we have become attached — ”

  “Oh!” Annabelle leaned forward, touched. “Are you attached to me? Oh, wow! And you’ve come all this way, to help me?”

  The Pooka looked down its nose at Annabelle. “We only come when the humans for whom we are responsible are in danger of making a complete and total bollix of their lives.”

  Annabelle leaped to her feet. “I was doing just fine, thank you very much! So what, I got dumped, I didn’t have a job, or any prospects, um … I was going to be fine! I was definitely going to get better, and, and, and … damn it!” She threw a throw pillow — as well suited for throwing as its name implied — at the Pooka. It stopped short of touching the creature, suspended itself in mid-air, and then floated to the floor like a feather. “I don’t need your help, I don’t want anything to do with you, and I sure as hell am not going to Ireland!” She fled for the apparent safety of the bedroom, leaving the grinning Pooka to groom its flowing locks as it faded from sight.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Six fifty-five P.M. In the hours since the debacle of the magical brunch, Annabelle had organized two and a half bags of clothes to donate to the Salvation Army; had purged her make-up collection of any and all lipsticks, eyeshadows, and eyeliners she’d had for more than a year; had arranged her underwear and sock drawers chromatically; had cleaned out the top shelf of her closet and decided, without too much guilt, too keep everything up there just as it was; and changed her sheets — twice. Occasionally, she stuck her head out the door, and even though the room was empty, she stayed inside where it was safe. Did she feel threatened? She sat down on her bed, and wrapped her arms around a couple of pillows. Not really. Just irritated, the kind of adolescent irritation that came from feeling like her life was being organized by forces beyond her control.

  Annabelle sat up straight. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe these forces weren’t beyond her control. The thing … Pooka … said that it was there because it was attached to her. Maybe she herself had to take control of it. Maybe she herself had to grab the bull by the horns — uh oh, Annabelle thought. What if it actually turned into a bull? Maybe she needed to get a major grip, on herself.

  Maybe she needed to get up out of bed and out of the bedroom. One step at a time, she thought. Time to take back the living room.

  She scooped up the cast-off clothing and nonchalantly strolled over to her little couch, upon which she rested the bulging bags. She hummed to herself as she put on the kettle, relieved that the Pooka hadn’t decided to turn off her gas. The cupboards were, as she had suspected, bare; that’s what happened when she got busy. She wondered if the Chinese food guy would hand her some egg foo yung and fried rice through the window? No, there was enough leftover spaghetti and meat sauce to get her through the night. And as for tomorrow …

  She had a gig tomorrow! She banged her
fists on the countertop. She had research to do, CDs to listen to, batteries and micro cassette tape to buy. Time to multi-task: she tossed the pasta into a pot, added a bit of sauce and turned the gas on low. Pouring hot water into a mug of fennel tea, she booted up her computer to start surfing Dan Minnehan. As she waited for her Powerbook to get ready for business, she packed up her laptop bag, threw in a pad and paper, checked her cassette recorder, realized she had plenty of batteries …

  Hey, she thought. For a minute there I forgot I was haunted.

  In almost no time at all, thanks to her orderliness, she was as ready as she’d ever be for the music guy interview. She sat down on the couch, pushing the bags aside, and finished off the rest of her tea. The spaghetti was beginning to bubble on the stove top. The door, from where she was sitting, still looked locked. Sighing, she got up gamely to give it another go. Nope. She wasn’t going anywhere soon.

  She and the Pooka needed to have a little talk. Annabelle cleared her throat, and, since she was pretty used to it already, began addressing the thin air.

  “Excuse me! Hellloooooooo!” Annabelle rose and moved around the room, for lack of anything better to do than sit still and talk to herself. “I have a gig in the morning, if you don’t mind? A gig that you worked so hard to drum up for me, talentless, pathetic little me, incapable of managing my own life!” Probably not the best tack to take …

  Okay. “Pooka? Pooka? Please unlock my door. Please let me out. You didn’t like being trapped in the pot, did you? How do you think I feel? Pooka?”

  Nothing. Annabelle, out of the mood for food, moved the pasta off the burner and shut off the stove. She dug out a pile of her witchy books, and started thumbing through the indexes. The book about fairies was informative, but Annabelle didn’t think any of the extremely helpful hints applied in this case. The rituals in another volume were all designed to banish spirits, not call them forth. Poltergeists, phantoms, and apparitions of every stripe were covered in detail, but no one had a thing to say, good or ill, about Pookas. She slammed the last book shut; strike fifteen, she was out.