“I’m sorry.” Jane gently placed the pieces of the black mirror in an envelope. “I hate him.”
“He’s an abominable creature, worthy of hate — but also of fear.” Jeoffry swatted the computer’s mouse and selected a screen saver of ballerina mice, which he regarded admiringly. “In truth, your familiar is a cautious spirit, not prone to risky behavior or foolish derring-do; nonetheless, I would listen to me if I were you. Trick E is dangerous. You must never again attempt physical combat with him.”
“You were brave, Jeoffry, to confront him.” She placed the envelope of shards in a notebook on her desk, beside the hazelnut tied with green thread. “You risked your life to help me.”
“Well, what are familiars for?” He blinked proudly. “A cold and severe rascal such as Trick E requires a bold fellow with extraordinary presence of mind to set him back head over paws. Such a fellow is Jeoffry. And if you respect my good opinion, you’ll call it a night and arrange as expeditiously as possible a conjunction of your head and a pillow.”
Sleep, yet again, did not come easily for Jane. Fears and questions spun round her mind. When she finally did doze off, nightmares deprived her of rest. She jolted out of bed before dawn. Trick E, in a halo of flames, had chased her across a gravel field of shattered black glass to the crumbly brink of a volcano, where bubbles of percolating tar burst into jets of blue fire, each with the stretched face of Alfred screaming.
“You have become prey to alarm and despair,” Jeoffry analyzed when she sat panting on the floor beside her bed. “I prescribe a strong dose of kindliness as an antidote to the spirit fox’s cruelty. What do you say we do something nice, something admirable, for creatures we might commonly ignore?”
With the sleeve of her pajamas, Jane wiped cold sweat from her brow. “How will that help?”
“When in the grip of some powerful emotion, one must seek its opposite for comfort,” Jeoffry said with authority. “Cruelty is to be answered with kindliness.”
“Who am I going to be kind to?” She gazed dully at those bright eyes in the dark. “Everybody’s asleep.”
“Ah, we must cast our attentions and affections beyond the customary targets of our good will.” Jeoffry trotted off toward the door. “Come along, Jane. We shall make a delectable breakfast for the gnomes.”
“For the who?”
“You illustrate my point with the luminosity of a Flemish master, my dear!” The cat paused before the closed door and stared over his shoulder as Jane gathered some warm clothes. “Who among the children of Eve pays heed to the gnomes? Those little fellows busy themselves daily to our benefit, broadcasting mushroom spore, directing misguided snails, and — on occasion — helping extricate fur balls from asphyxiating felines (I speak from personal experience), yet how rarely are their virtues extolled. Gnomes are simply ignored. But not this morning, Jane. Nay, I say! Not this fine Halloween morn, for we shall wine and dine them to mirthful excess. Well, not exactly. Wine, you see, makes them explode. So, we’ll substitute tea.”
“Gnomes are not as spooky as the faerïe, are they?” Jane asked nervously, tugging on her denim gardening overalls. “I mean, they don’t hate us for polluting the planet with our factories and heaps of garbage, do they?”
“Oh, probably. But they’re too jocular a lot ever to mention it.” Jeoffry led the way down the dark spiral stairwell. “You haven’t lived until you’ve experienced the festivity of breakfast with gnomes.”
By light of the open refrigerator, Jane followed Jeoffry’s instructions and selected a red pear, sprigs of watercress, several slices of white bread (“They’re mad about the stuff,” Jeoffry informed. “They think it’s made from clouds.”) and, from a drawer beside the stove, a book of matches.
“Come along,” the cat urged after pausing for a mouthful of kibble. “We have some enticing to do. Gnomes are not exactly impassioned about keeping company with people.”
The hazy cold of dawn filled the withered garden with a wan glow. On the far side of the gazebo, under a shagbark hickory trailing ivy vines, Jeoffry selected a grass patch tramped by squirrels. There, he had Jane set down what they had gathered from the kitchen and directed her to collect twigs and dead leaves. A brick and two flat rocks contained the pile of dry material and, with one stroke of a match, fire crackled brightly.
A watering can placed atop the twig-fire served as a kettle. Into it, Jeoffry had Jane feed small spruce cones and pine needles. Soon, a mentholated scent mingled with the leafsmoke.
“Conifer tea!” The familiar stood on his hind legs, the better to sniff the minty aroma. His eyes slimmed with satisfaction. “Now, there is a redolence irresistible to gnomes. The little fellows should be popping up like toast at any moment. Let’s hurry them along!”
The cat curled about, scanned the tangled grass and began to swat acorns into the small fire. “Toasted acorns — a gustatory delight for our impish friends! Ah, there’s a pruning knife Mrs. B has carelessly left to rust on the ground next to that dormant rose bush. That will prove useful for cutting the pear. We shall arrange the slices on a bed of moss. Oh and do make haste with the watercress sandwiches, will you, Jane? Just be sure to remove the crust. Crust simply ruins the illusion of bread as cloud.”
“I don’t see how this is going to help,” Jane groused, placing the red pear on a crusty lip of concrete at the footing of the gazebo. “Alfred’s still in a coma, you know. Shouldn’t we be at the hospital, communicating with his soul, like Trick E said?” She quartered the pear with the pruning knife, squinting in the dim light to see what she was doing. “And what about the blackout of the town that the faerïe want? We haven’t even thought about that — and today is Halloween.”
“Mercy, Jane!” Jeoffry pranced over. “We’re feeding gnomes, not camels. You must slice the pear to a delicate wafer of translucent thinness if we’re to...” The cat stopped in mid-sentence, and his tufty ears swiveled. “Hush! The gnomes arrive!”
In the half-darkness under a sky of rust-colored clouds, shadows stirred on the garden wall. Blotches of moss and fungus shimmered and moved like a camouflage pattern hiding something among the cluttered rocks. Jane gasped when the shadows separated from the wall.
Wee people, each no larger than her big toe, advanced through the autumn grass bedecked in gaudy rags. They jogged across the garden in a curious, shambling gait, neither running nor walking, more like parading, twirling grass stems for batons.
Looking closer with astonished eyes, she noticed they dressed in forest debris: leaf capes, cobweb cowls, breeches of fiery green moss, and hats of mushroom caps and acorn shells. Tiny laughter and carnival noise accompanied them, just barely audible above the riffle of the wind in the trees.
“Tally-ho, gnomes!” Jeoffry cried out exuberantly. “Come frolic, old friends!”
The merry troupe, embroidered in motley of tiny flowers, petal epaulets, and gold braid of dried mistletoe, came to a halt upon a heap of slain tomato vines. Their drum major, in a tall hat of chestnut fur, skipped closer, wielding a diminutive reed of cat’s-tail for a baton. “Mon, dat conifer tea smell mighty fine! Da smell corry on de wind out dere where we be sleepin’ in de shadders under de rock wall. It done woke us up hoppy. Who you steepin’ dat sweet brew for, Jeoffry boy?”
“Top o’ the mornin’ to you, chief of the gnomes!” Jeoffry raised a paw in greeting. “So good to see you rosy of complexion and in bright spirits. My companion here, one Jane Riggs, has got it in her head to do a spot of kindliness this Samhain morn. And you, jovial gnomes, are to be the object of her beneficence.”
“Hear dis, gals and fellas?” The chief turned to his gang of merrymakers and thrust the cat’s-tail above his furry high hat. “Grob your cups and mugs! Conifer tea is served from one Jane Riggs!”
The gnomes surged forward with dinky shrieks of celebration.
Jeoffry looked up at Jane, who had leaned back against the gazebo to support the weight of her surprise. “Snap to, kindly hostess. Show’s on! The time
has come for effervescence and vivacity all around! You man the kettle — or lady it if you prefer. I shall slice the pear.”
Jane used a gardening glove to lift the hot watering can and began to drip the merest trickle of steaming amber liquid into the teeny mugs that the peewee people held up to her with both hands. It took all her concentration not to spill the scalding liquid on the eager gnomes. When she had served everyone in the crowd, the first were ready for more.
“It is a pity dat dis kind of mornin’ ain’t every gnome’s first experience of de day.” The chief raised his mug for a refill. “Yah, darlin. Your brew is a tasty mouthful.”
Jane looked to Jeoffry, who held the blade of the pruning knife in his jaws and a quarter of pear between his claws. “What accent is that?”
The familiar pushed the blade down with his whole head and peeled a paper-thin slice of pear. “Jamaican,” he replied after releasing the knife. “These gnomes are immigrants, arriving with the huddled masses seeking better opportunities in the land of the free and the brave.”
“But Jamaica is in the Caribbean, where it’s warm.” Jane offered the gnomes wafers of pear, which they received with clamorous joy. “Chief, don’t you find it cold here in Massachusetts?”
“Dere is one ting da gnome knows, and dat is cold outside don’t motter if you warm inside!” The chief chirped a laugh and danced a vigorous reel that set the whole gang of gnomes jumping and leaping about.
“Quick, Jane!” The cat’s claws yanked at her pant leg. “The watercress sandwiches! Once these chaps start slapping their feet to a Caribbean beat, there’s no stopping them!”
Jane’s hands worked busily, stripping crust from slices of white bread and using the knife to cut the squares into triangles, dividing them again and again to make them as small as possible. “Should I get some mayonnaise or butter or jam or something?”
“Heavens, no!” Jeoffry clawed at the soft ground. “Humus! Rich decay! Old rotted mulch! That’s the savory spread preferred by discriminating gnomes.”
Jane smeared the tiny triangles of bread with wet clots of silt, shaking her head with disbelief. She plucked watercress leaves from their sprigs and constructed the most petite dirt sandwiches that her fingers could manage.
At the sight of the sandwiches, the gnomes stopped dancing and gathered around in an excited hush. “Oh, Jeoffry mon, we right proud we foller ya here to Wessex,” the chief said around a mouthful of pear. “Now, no more miskita to pester us, no more disasterish hurricane, and plenny good earth — mmm — smell o’ pine, sappy wit resin!”
“They followed you from Jamaica, Jeoffry?” Jane asked while meticulously slicing more curling wafers of pear.
“You will recall,” Jeoffry spoke as he deftly pawed roasted acorns from the crackling fire, “I have been a cosmopolitan traveler for the past third of a millennium. Many a foreign gnome has had their pointy ear bent by my sentimental recollections of hearth and home. My evocative narrative powers have inspired more than a few of these bitsy chaps to visit the West Woods for themselves. Consequently, a number have lingered. There are Burmese gnomes out by West Brook. Some Argentinean gnomes dwell in the cow pastures north of town. And right here in our own neighborhood are these jolly Jamaicans.”
“He call us jolly, dass cause he jolly hisself!” the chief sang out happily. “Show me de mon dat ever had business wit Jeoffry o’ de West Woods an’ never reap no joy from it!”
The gang of gnomes shouted in mirthful agreement and began to dance.
“Fra-la!” Jeoffry cried gleefully. “Move those dancing feet, J. R. — and trip the light fantastic!”
Jeoffry scooted in and out of the clipped rose stalks and then ran in a playful circle chasing his own tailless backside. All about him, gnomes hopped, skipped and kicked up their tiny, nimble legs. Several grabbed Jeoffry’s fur and spun off their feet, hoisted through the air squealing with pleasure.
The hilarious sight sparked laughter deep in Jane’s belly, and she joined the revelry, throwing her arms up in the air and lifting her knees high in a prancing dance. From far off, yet growing louder, came island music, jangling with festive force that made her bounce on her feet. Her hair whipped around her and lashed her giggling face as she skipped nimbly among the tiny, spinning dancers.
Ethan stared down from his bedroom window in bewilderment. He didn’t see the gnomes, but he spotted Lester bouncing like a ball — and he gawked at the sight of his daughter dancing with glorious elation through the gloomy garden, dark hair whipping, skinny arms flying, grinning face uplifted to the gray sky where the night’s last stars shivered.
The Hollow Hills
“I’m going to the hollow hills,” Jane decided, flush with excitement from her breakfast with the gnomes. Though darkness filled the house, she heard her father whistling in the shower, getting ready for his day. “I have to leave right away, Jeoffry, if I’m going to get out before father asks where I’m going.” She sat up straighter. “You think this is the right thing to do — for Alfred?”
Jeoffry shook his head. “If I breathe a word of what I think, you shall accuse me of pusillanimity.”
“Jeoffry, I don’t have time right now to work on my vocabulary.”
“In a word, miss — cowardice.”
“You think I should stay home.”
“What is the current vernacular for ‘indubitably’?” Jeoffry posed his head, pretending to search his memory. “Oh, yes. I believe it’s ‘Duh!’”
“What happened to Alfred is my fault.” Jane grabbed the backpack crammed with her caving gear. “I’m going.”
“Whoa, Nelly!” Jeoffry clawed at her denim pant leg. “I admire your courage. Yet I despair for your recklessness. Think about your kindly and unsuspecting papa. He’ll be heartbroken when you disappear from the face of the earth forever.”
Jane’s shoulders sagged. “Jeoffry! Don’t make this any harder for me.”
“Young witch, have you forgotten?” The cat lunged onto the chair and stood with front paws against the backrest, staring up at the teenager. “I am your familiar. I’m supposed to counsel you.”
“Hyssop Joan told me I had to figure this out for myself.” Jane met Jeoffry’s intent stare with a look of firm resolve. “I can’t rely on you, Jeoffry. You’re too cautious.”
Jeoffry lowered himself to his haunches and sighed. “I do not want you to go, miss. I’ve become fond of you. But if you insist on going — and I fervently pray you do not — then you must keep two things foremost in mind.” The cat held up a paw and extended one claw. “First — and most importantly — you must never for a moment doubt that you are a wild child, a friend of all untamed creatures, a lover of the wilderness, a naturalist who is utterly sickened by the asphalt blight of cities and freeways.”
“That won’t be too hard.” Jane threw a look at the collage of desert photos above her desk. “I love the outdoors. What’s the second thing I should remember?”
Jeoffry extended a second claw. “Alfred is a soul. Though he may appear to you in his usual guise as a freckle-faced lad with orange locks, he is in truth little more than ectoplasm, soul-stuff that can assume any shape he wishes. Once our young superhero realizes this, you shall have a formidable ally in that strange nether realm where you stubbornly insist on risking your sanity and your mortal existence.”
Jane wanted to inquire further about the second point, but already the light outside was brightening. She affectionately rubbed the head of her familiar and thanked him before grabbing her Army jacket and exiting to the mournful sound of his mewling protests.
If she had any more time to think, she was sure she would back out. And soon her father would emerge from the bathroom. She didn’t want to have to lie again. There wasn’t even time to write a note. She simply slipped through the front door with her backpack and quietly retrieved her bicycle from the shed.
Under a dawn sky of red brushstrokes, she rode hard, without a helmet, raven hair streaming behind, all caution thro
wn to the wind.
∞
Jane arrived in the woods outside Wessex with dawn soaking up the last stars. Gold rays of sunlight spread like a fan in the eastern sky, and a small wind crawled through orange leaves on the forest floor.
She dismounted from her bicycle and walked down a mushroom-strewn embankment to a trickling creek. The stream cut into a hillside of stunted spruce all darkly draped and tiered as a choir of nuns.
A low opening beneath a shelf of rock draped with red ivy looked promising. She forded the creek along a bar of silt and gravel and then bent down to peer into the narrow cave.
Softly, she sang: “Starwind, moonfire, owl’s tongue — and crickets are the song that’s sung — come forth, oh come forth — east, west, south and north — you bright faerïe creatures...”
“Wild child...” a girl’s voice sifted out of the darkness.
Fear curdled Jane’s stomach. But she had not come this far to turn back. A chill draft wafted from within and carried a curious scent of peppery blossoms and tropical perfume.
“Hello!” she called, and no echo returned from that murky darkness.
She unpacked her longest coil of fluorescent yellow rope and donned her caving helmet and flashlights. After securing the rope to a nearby crooked spruce, she threaded it through the safety buckle of her sit-harness. With a last look at the yellow clouds beyond the leafless trees, she got down on her knees and crawled through tendrils of forlorn ivy into a dank and dark interior.
The entry constricted before she had gotten very far, and the only way to proceed was to remove her helmet. She tossed it behind and kicked it out of the tight cave. Heart clopping with fear, she crept forward among rasping pebbles and over cold panes of shale and slate.
The Conjure Book Page 10