“Oh, what jaunty news, old girl. I’m sure our imperiled Jane is delighted to learn that her bowels are so highly prized by our foe.” Jeoffry sat up, irked. “Pay no heed to this cranky crone. One shrug of the shoulders and her fears are banished.”
“Look, you two, forget about me.” Jane’s voice rang with urgency. “We have to wake Alfred!”
“Our Jeoffry,” the witch spoke coldly, “the universal monarch of wit, certainly has a plan.”
“Dash it, Joan, you’re the witch!” Jeoffry snapped. “Surely, you can raise that damnable Alfred from the depths.”
Hyssop Joan gnashed her tiny, discolored teeth. “Spit disdain if thou wilt, Jeoffry, yet have I neither power nor means to redeem poor Alfred. That monkey’s soul be lost.”
“No!” Jane blanched. “There must be something we can do.”
Hyssop Joan tilted her eyes upward in frustration. “Naught can be accomplished for Alfred. Forget him, Jane.”
“I can’t!” She reached over and flicked on her desk lamp. In the abrupt brightness, the ghost vanished, and the teenager cried to the empty place where the witch had stood, “I’m responsible for what happened! You said so yourself!”
“Thy declaration moves some pity for thy care of Alfred,” the witch allowed from the computer monitor, where she had reappeared. “I am not unmindful of thy woe. But what be accomplished by tears? Thou hast forfeit that boy’s soul.”
“Pip-pip, old heart!” Jeoffry sat up straighter, squinting into the lamplight. “Why don’t we fabricate a black mirror?”
“What’s that?” Jane asked. “Will it wake Alfred?”
“A vain and frivolous trifle to pursue.” Hyssop Joan dismissed the idea with a wag of her head. “A black mirror be but a cordial of pity, a petty drink of Alfred’s pain.”
“Can’t you talk so I can understand you?” Jane turned away from the monitor in disgust and looked to Jeoffry. “What is she saying? What is a black mirror?” She waved away her question with an irritated groan and strode for the door. “Forget it.”
“Now see what you’ve done, you sour old woman!” Jeoffry dashed after Jane. “Hey, there! Come back! A black mirror is just the trick. I’ll explain it to you.”
“Don’t bother,” Jane said, flinging open her bedroom door and hurrying down the spiral stairway. She glimpsed her father’s bedroom door ajar and him sitting at his desk correcting students’ papers. The downstairs loomed empty. Laughter from the television in Mrs. Babcock’s room seeped through her door. Moonlight and an orange haze from street lamps filled the windows of the darkened house.
Outside, Jane stood in the front doorway staring into a yard illuminated by porch lights. By that amber glow, she conducted a cursory search of the lawn under the spruce trees and found a fallen wren’s dead husk among a litter of needles and cones. The small feathery body felt light as crepe paper in her hand. Tiny white worms glistened in the empty eye sockets like miniature pearls.
“Oh, no!” Jeoffry moaned from the door stoop. “That dead bird is prelude to conjuring knowledge!”
Jane made no reply. She stepped over the cat, closed the front door and ascended the spiral stairs two at a time, dead bird in hand. She had glimpsed it in the yard earlier that day when she had returned from school, and now she understood that fate had placed it there.
“Jane, slow down!” Jeoffry flitted past the teen and tried to confront her at the head of the staircase. “Anger has marked you for its own, young miss. Best not to act when you are distraught. Consult with your wise familiar. What are you intending to do?”
Jane budged quickly past him, a stern and resolute look on her face. Grateful he didn’t have a tail, Jeoffry just barely managed to slip into Jane’s bedroom before she slapped the door shut behind her.
“Hyssop Joan!” Jane called as she dropped the dead wren onto her desk in front of the computer monitor. “Put your hand against the screen.”
The crone peered suspiciously from inside the monitor and turned up her long and knobby nose. “Forsake thy impatience, child, and explain what thou propose to accomplish with this dead bird magic.”
“Alfred’s life is at stake,” Jane answered curtly. “I don’t have time for anymore of this ‘thee’ and ‘thou’ stuff. I have to understand you. So, put your hand against the screen. Come on.”
Jeoffry sprang onto the cane chair beside the desk and watched attentively as Hyssop Joan sighed resignedly and pressed her big-knuckled hand against the screen. “I be old and frail, Child Jane. What conjure knowledge thou seeks from me shall avail thee little, for I shall evaporate as does haste the dew if thou inflicts too radiant a will upon me. Dost thou understand?”
“No — but I intend to.” Jane took a paperback dictionary from her drawer and held it to the computer screen. “Now, say it. Say the magic word for knowledge, three times. Come on. Do it.”
“Is this a prudent idea, Jane?” Jeoffry inquired. “What the old bird is trying to tell you is that she hasn’t the oomph to conjure much of anything, not even knowledge. If you push her to this, you will lose her.”
“I may lose you,” Jane said to the arthritic hand, “but I’m not going to lose Alfred. Say it.”
Hyssop Joan mumbled, “Sophos - sophos - sophos -” then gasped. A blizzard of static flurried across the monitor with a loud electronic screech.
“Uh-oh!” Jeoffry leaped from the cane chair as if on fire and disappeared under the bed.
Jane removed the dictionary, and static jarred twice across the screen, then sizzled away leaving a blank and silent monitor. “Joan?”
“I’m over here, Jane.”
Jane twisted about in her chair, and her jaw sagged.
A slender woman in a long black gown and a green shawl stood at the foot of the bed. Hair the color of a cello fell past her waist in complicated knots and braids tied about dried husks of small birds and frogs.
Jane searched the woman’s features, matching in memory this long nose, these almond eyes and square chin with the aged face of the crone. “Hyssop Joan?”
“This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Jane?” The witch stepped closer and sat in the cane chair Jeoffry had vacated. “The conjure book has given me knowledge of the modern English you understand.”
“But you’re so — young.”
Hyssop Joan’s suntanned cheeks dimpled around a snaggle-toothed smile. “I was not always old and ugly, you know. I figure if we’re going to use up the last of my strength, I might as well put my best foot forward.”
“The last of your strength?” Jane repeated, too astonished to think. “That’s what you were trying to tell me?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I can’t stay long — not like this. And when I go, this time I won’t be back.” Her smile shriveled. “Jane, you’re going to be on your own now.”
“But what about Alfred?” Jane’s voice rose higher. “I need your help to save him from Trick E.”
“You’re going to have to figure that out yourself.” Hyssop Joan looked to the desk, where the grimoire lay open beside the dead bird. “My conjure book will help. I bequeath it to you. You are now my official successor, Jane Riggs, and whatever hope of salvation I have lies entirely in your hands. All the pages will open for you now, and you will be able to read my writing in any light, not just moonlight. But you’ll have to choose your spells carefully. You saw what happened when you conjured sleep for Alfred.”
The amazement of seeing this youthful woman with her chiseled, sunburned face and outrageously braided hair sitting so close stoked Jane’s curiosity, and she reached out to touch her. A tingly feeling rippled up her arm as her hand passed through the apparition of the young witch.
Hyssop Joan winced and turned gray. “Oh, Jane. You shouldn’t have done that. I have little time as it is.”
“Gosh — I’m sorry!” Jane pulled away and held her hands against her chest. “You look so real — so solid.”
The witch coughed, and the flesh of her bold face sunk closer to h
er skull, giving her a hollow-cheeked and wasted look. “It’s not your fault. I had little time here anyway.” She hacked another cough, and the color in her hair drained away, leaving her locks grizzled. “Now, listen to me, Jane. I may never again have a chance to speak with you. You are in great danger. I know you are well aware that Trick E wants the conjure book. If he can, he will kill you for it.”
“But why?”
“Because the grimoire is the anchor of our magical power in this world. If the spirit fox destroys it, all hope of our entering the Twilight is lost — and all hope of retrieving Alfred from the hollow hills is gone forever.”
“The hollow hills?” Jane leaned forward. “What’s that? Where is Alfred?”
“The faerïe live underground in grottoes that they call the hollow hills.” Another cough wracked the witch and shoved her to her feet. Her hands withered to mottled claws, and her back twisted with an audible crack to a hump. “Oh, my! This ghost business is no stroll through the mall. I can’t hold on much longer. Oh my, my, my!”
“Where are the hollow hills?” Jane pressed, rising to her feet. “Can I go there and rescue Alfred?”
“Only his soul is trapped there, Jane. You can’t rescue a soul with your bare hands. You must get help from the faerïe...”
The crone wavered like a mirage, then exploded into a dazzle of pixels.
“Joan!”
With a bleat of pain, the hag vanished, and in the ensuing silence, Jane heard her heart running hard toward where she could not guess.
Black Mirror
A knock on the door turned Jane about with a jolt.
“Kiddo, what’s going on in there?” Ethan’s voice spoke, and the doorknob turned. He stuck his head in the room and looked around. “What’s all the racket? Shouldn’t you be asleep?”
“Just cruising the internet,” Jane blurted, heart still hammering. “Insomnia. But I’m going back to bed now.”
When her father accepted this with a small, annoyed nod and closed the door, Jane muttered in anguish. “How long am I going to have to keep lying?”
“You are drinking from a bitter cup, young miss.” Jeoffry crawled out from under the bed. “And now with our beloved toad lover gone the way of the deep sleep, I suspect that even more prevarications than usual shall be required to hold our secret close. We’re on our own now, teen witch — you and I, a courageous couple, a dauntless duo resolved to defeat evil and redeem the innocent.”
“Oh, Jeoffry — I don’t know if I can do this.” Jane sagged into her desk chair and gazed forlornly at the empty computer screen. “Isn’t there any way to get Hyssop Joan back? We need her help.”
Jeoffry shook his pointy-eared head unhappily. “Old Warts-and-Chin-Whiskers is lapsed into a slumber to rival R. van Winkle’s. I’m sorry to say, your eagerness to hear her speak the jargon has worn her out completely. There’s no hope of rousing her now.”
“I’m not a witch, Jeoffry.” She picked up the conjure book and stared at it hopelessly. “I have no idea what to do to save Alfred.”
“Have faith in your familiar, young witch.” Jeoffry hopped onto the cane chair and stuck out his chest. “I shall guide you with the surety and clarity of a laser beam.”
Jane gave him a dark look. “Okay, then — what do I do?”
“First, do not ever doubt that you are a witch.” Jeoffry blinked tranquilly. “You do recall our definition of a witch?”
“Yeah, sure,” she mumbled morosely. “I’m supposed to act like a wick — and hope I don’t get snuffed.”
“Now, now — sarcasm is no answer to our plight.” Jeoffry leaped from the cane chair into Jane’s lap and gazed up at her earnestly. “You will recall that witches possess the wisdom to utilize their vitality for working magic.”
“I don’t have any wisdom, Jeoffry.”
“And what do you think you are holding in your hand, a sardine omelet?” The cat shook his head once, decisively. “No. Not an omelet but a book — and a book of wisdom at that! These crisp pages contain a witch’s lifetime of wisdom: charms and spells for every occasion. Herein is a condensation of all that Hyssop Joan learned during eight studious decades as a witch. It is a veritable bouillon of Wicca knowledge!”
“Jeoffry, right now Alfred is dying.” Jane held the cat’s face in a firm grasp. “What are we going to do?”
“Unhand my snout,” Jeoffry mumbled through clenched jaw, “and I’ll tell you.”
Jane let him go. “Sorry.”
“No need for apologies. I fully appreciate your quiet despair. We are up against it — and by it I mean all the deviltry of Trick E.”
“Like I’ve forgotten?”
“Yes but, young miss, you’re looking gloomy as a desert prophet.” The familiar gently plucked at the fabric of Jane’s skirt. “You must believe in yourself. Take a gander at those photographs above your desk. Those mountain vistas and snapshots of caverns and petrified forests attest to your love of the wilderness. No reason you shouldn’t pass among the faerïe as a woodsy witch and nature lover.”
“Then, you think we can go get Alfred’s soul in the hollow hills and wake him up?” Jane asked hopefully.
“Well, all in good time, eager witch. I believe we may well convince the faerie you are a wild child and hence not a typical consumer-polluter and worthy target of their wrath. But before we attempt something as intrepid as trespassing the hollow hills perhaps we should check in on our pal Al and see how he fares in captivity.”
“How will we do that?”
“A black mirror, Jane — a magic mirror,” the cat replied. “With it, you may discourse with Alfred’s trapped soul.”
“You mean, I can talk with him?” Jane stood up, excited, and the familiar spilled to the floor with a startled mewl. “How do I get a black mirror?”
Jeoffry shook off his surprised fall. “Do you have anything of Alfred’s?”
“I’ve got a bunch of drawings he gave me. Silly cartoons of space monsters.”
“Ideal!” Jeoffry began smoothing his ruffled fur. “Now, all you have to do is find a common mirror, something small. The instructions for making it magical are right there in that clever book you’re holding. Peruse page eighteen.”
Jane quickly flipped through the pages and found:
Black Mirror
Find thee a common mirror and by moonlight burn upon it thy subject’s handiwork whilst chanting:
‘Make of this looking glass
a home for my searching eye.
Let ________’s soul through it pass
that I may his fate espy.’
From her dresser, Jane retrieved a small cosmetic mirror. After shuffling through a sheaf of school papers, she found three of Alfred’s drawings depicting superheroes with packed muscles fighting lobe-brained aliens.
The nearly full moon filled the bedroom with a lustrous glow when she turned off the lights, and in a few minutes, using a stick match from the kitchen, she had burned the wadded up drawings atop the small mirror, fervently chanting the words in the grimoire: “‘Make of this looking glass a home for my searching eye. Let Alfred’s soul through it pass that I may his fate espy.’”
“Ack!” Jeoffry coughed. “Do open a window and dance this ghastly smoke into the night! And while you’re at it, give the old heave-ho to that rotting wren you used to conjure knowledge from our ancient Joan.”
“Can I talk to Alfred now?” Jane inquired, opening both windows to a chill October night and tossing the dead bird back into the yard where she had found it.
“Patience, avid witch. Give our spell some time to set. You can chat with your school chum in the morn, once mister sun reaches this room.” Jeoffry scratched at the door. “Meantime, methinks I shall take a sip of fresh air before my forty winks. Ack!”
Jane spent another restless night tangled in bed sheets. Nightmares polluted her sleep, and she shoved out of bed at dawn, her pajamas plastered with sweat.
The cosmetic mirror on the sill had turned
utterly black. In its glossy darkness, her face and the room around her stared back as from the world’s shadow, an alternate earth exact in every detail except for the hope of sun.
The room was still gray when she left to fulfill her morning routine. After breakfast, she ran up the spiral staircase and found sunlight leaning into the room. She clutched the black mirror in both hands. “Alfred?” she whispered into its darkness. “Alfred, are you there?”
“Help me!” Alfred’s voice sounded distant and feeble from nowhere in particular. “Somebody — please! Help me!”
“Where are you?” Jane practically whined. “What’s happening with you?”
“I’m scared!” Alfred whimpered. “They’re hurting me!”
“Who?” Jane angled the mirror to see where Alfred’s voice came from but perceived only her own shadowy reflection. “Who’s hurting you, Alfred?”
“The green eyes! Oh, please! Get me out of here!”
“Jane?” Sheryl’s voice called from the staircase. “Hey, Jane, I came by early to bike to school with you.”
A knock rapped loudly. The door, which Jane in her haste to get to the black mirror had not entirely closed, opened wide, and Sheryl strode in, book bag slung over one shoulder.
Jane spun about, startled, and the black mirror slipped from her grasp. With a bright sound, it smashed on the wood floor, and shards spun glittering across the room.
“Oh, hey! I’m sorry!” Sheryl stood abashed in the doorway. “I didn’t mean to surprise you. What broke?”
“Oh — nothing.” Jane forced herself to sound casual. “Just a cheap mirror.”
“Let me help you clean it up.”
“No!” Jane grabbed her book bag and a corduroy jacket from her closet and quickly ushered Sheryl out of the room. “We’ll be late for school. Come on.”
Part Three:
The Faerïe’s Dark Kingdom
A Hazelnut Debt
Jane phoned the hospital frequently and got to know the staff at the information desk by name. She could have made another black mirror, but she couldn’t bear to hear Alfred’s piteous cries. All that her hope needed was to know he was alive. And that motivated her to study the grimoire closely, searching the tiny book for some way to wake Alfred. She buried her nose in the archaic primer, carrying it with her wherever she went, hiding it behind magazines at home and textbooks at school.
The Conjure Book Page 8