by Michael Ende
“From your raven—Jacob Scribble, or whatever his name is.”
“He was here?”
“Yes, you sent him, didn’t you?”
“I did not,” said Tyrannia angrily. “I wanted my visit to be a surprise.”
Preposteror smiled joylessly. “Don’t take it so hard, dear Auntie Tye. At least I was able to prepare for your sweet visit.”
“That raven is getting too big for his britches,” the witch went on.
“My opinion exactly,” Preposteror replied. “He is impertinent to a noticeable degree.”
His aunt nodded. “I’ve had him for about a year and he’s had a rebellious personality from the start.”
The sorcerer and the witch found themselves staring at each other in silence once again.
Finally Preposteror asked, “How much does he know about you—and your business—anyway?”
“Not a thing,” said Tyrannia. “He’s nothing but a working-class stiff.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“You bet!”
•
Jacob chuckled silently to himself and whispered in the little cat’s ear, “That’s what she thinks.”
•
“Why do you keep the impertinent fowl in the first place?” Preposteror asked.
“Because I know too much about him.”
“And what do you know about him?”
The witch’s diamond fillings sparkled. “Everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“He is actually a spy sent to my house to snoop on me by the High Council of Animals. That jailbird thinks he’s pretty clever. He honestly believes to this day that I haven’t noticed anything.”
•
Jacob’s beak fell shut with an almost audible snap. Mauricio nudged him and whispurred, “That’s what she thinks, comrade.”
•
The sorcerer raised his eyebrows and nodded pensively.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “I, too, have had a spy in the house for some time—a complete simpleton of a cat who imagines himself to be a singer. He is gullible, gluttonous, and vain; in other words, a very pleasant companion—at least for me. It was child’s play rendering him harmless from the very beginning. I’ve stuffed him full of food—and tranquillizers. He dozes away his days, but he’s happy and contented, the little fool. He worships the very ground I walk on.”
“And he doesn’t suspect a thing?”
“He trusts me from the bottom of his heart,” Preposteror replied. “Do you know what he did today? He confessed everything of his own free will—why he is here and who sent him. He even begged my forgiveness for betraying me all this time. Have you ever heard of anyone so stupid?”
The tension between the sorcerer and the witch gave way to an explosion of ringing laughter. It may have been a duet—but it certainly wasn’t in harmony.
•
In the barrel, Mauricio could not suppress a tiny, silent sob. Jacob, who was just about to make a snide remark, sensed this and tactfully chose to remain silent.
“Nonetheless, extreme caution is required, my boy!” said Tyrannia, who had suddenly become serious again. “If they sneak spies into our homes, it means that the High Council of Animals has grown suspicious of us. I only wonder whose fault it is, Bubby?”
Preposteror braved his aunt’s gaze and said, “You’re asking me? Maybe you were a little too careless, Tye. Who knows how a raven brain works. Let’s hope the guy doesn’t ruin my stupid cat and end up putting dangerous ideas into his head.”
Tyrannia looked around the laboratory. “We should cross-examine the two of them. Where are they, anyway?”
“In the cat’s chamber,” said the sorcerer. “I assigned Mauricio to lock the raven in and guard him there.”
“And will he carry out his orders?”
“You can bet your broom on it.”
“Well then, let’s leave it at that for the time being,” the witch decided. “We can always deal with the two of them later. I’ve got something more pressing to discuss with you at the moment.”
Preposteror’s suspicions were back in an instant. “And what might that be, Auntie?”
“You still haven’t asked me why I came to see you.”
“Well, I’m asking you now.”
The witch leaned back and gazed severely at her nephew for some time. He knew that he was about to get one of her so-called curtain lectures, which he hated because they always had a hidden purpose. He drummed nervously with his fingers on the arm of his chair, looked up at the ceiling, and whistled distractedly.
“Now you listen to me, Beelzebub Preposteror,” she began. “Everything you are today, you basically owe to me. Are you aware of that? Back then, when your dear parents—my brother-in-law Asmodeus and my beautiful sister Lilith—so tragically and inadvertently lost their lives during the great shipwreck they themselves had caused, I took you in and raised you. You wanted for nothing. I beat your first lessons in cruelty to animals for fun and profit into you with my own two hands, when you were still a babe in arms. Later I enrolled you in the most devilish of schools, Sodom and Gomorrah High and Ahriman College. But you were always a problem child, Bubby; I had to cover up for your peccadillos and deficiencies even when you were still a young student at the Magic Institute of Technology in Hexachusetts. After all, we are the last two remaining members of our family. All that cost me a pretty penny, as you well know. You also got your good grades in Advanced Diabolics thanks to me, because I used my influence as chairwoman of the board of Wickednickel International, Inc. I saw to it that you were accepted into the Academy of Black Arts and I introduced you to the Deepest Circles, where you made the personal acquaintance of your benefactor and namesake. All in all, I should think that you are enough in my debt so as not to refuse me a small favor, which won’t cost you a thing.”
Preposteror’s face had assumed a pinched expression. Whenever she talked like this, she usually wanted to set him up in some way.
“It won’t cost me a thing?” he drawled. “I can’t wait to hear this.”
“Well,” said the witch, “it’s hardly worth mentioning. If I’m not mistaken, there was an ancient scroll of parchment, approximately two and a half yards long, among the heirlooms left to you by your grandfather Belial Preposteror.”
Preposteror nodded cautiously. “It’s somewhere up in the attic. I’d have to look for it first. I packed it away because it is completely useless. Apparently it used to be much longer, but good old Grandpa Belial tore it in two during one of his famous tantrums. To me he bequeathed only the second half, wicked old man that he was. Nobody knows where the other half is. It’s probably some sort of formula—unfortunately, it’s completely worthless, even for you, Auntie.”
“That’s just it!” said Tyrannia, and smiled as if her teeth were made of rock candy. “And since I may assume that you set great store by my financial aid, now and in the future, I don’t see why you couldn’t make me a present of that worthless piece of parchment scroll.”
His aunt’s sudden interest in this heirloom made the sorcerer suspicious.
“A present?!” He spat out the word like a piece of gristle. “I never give presents. Who ever gives me any?”
Tyrannia sighed. “Well, I expected as much. Wait a minute.”
She began working the combination lock of her pocketbook-safe with her golden fingernails, all the while murmuring in a businesslike tone of voice:
“Mammon, Lord of all that’s pricey,
Crispy bills and clinking crowns,
Show us what makes life so spicy,
Money makes the world go round!”
Then she yanked open the tiny door of the safe and withdrew several fat rolls of bank notes, which she peeled off one at a time in front of Preposteror.
“There!” she said. “Maybe that will convince you that, once again, I’ve got only your profit in mind. One thousand—two thousand—three—four—how much do you want?”
; Preposteror grinned like Yorick’s skull. Now his old auntie had made a crucial mistake. He knew on the one hand that she had the power to produce as much money as she wanted—a black-magic specialty not at his own disposal, for he was in another field—but on the other hand, he also knew that she was the epitome of miserliness and still had the first dollar she ever produced. If she was offering such a large sum, then the half scroll of parchment had to be worth very much to her.
“My dearest Auntie Tye,” he said, seemingly imperturbed, “I cannot help but entertain the notion that you are keeping something from me. That is not very good of you.”
“I won’t stand for it!” the witch replied indignantly. “That’s no way for us to do business.”
She got up, walked over to the fireplace, and pretended to look sulkily into the flames.
•
“Hey, kit-kat,” Jacob whispered close to his fellow sufferer’s ear, “don’t go to sleep now of all times!”
Mauricio awoke with a start. “I beg your pardon,” he breathed, “that comes from the tranquillizers . . . Would you please be so kind as to give me a hearty pinch?”
Jacob did so.
“Heartier still!” said Mauricio.
Jacob pinched him so hard that the little cat came within a hair of meowing out loud, but he heroically refrained.
“Thank you,” he whispered with tears in his eyes. “Now I’m all right again.”
“You know, Beelzebub,” the witch began in a sentimental tone of voice, “evenings like this always make me think of the good old days, when we were still all together: Uncle Cerberus and his charming wife, Medusa; little Nero and his sister Ghoulia; and then of course my cousin Virus, who was always a-courting me; your parents and Grandpa Belial, who let you ride bareback on his knees. Do you remember the time we had a picnic and burned down the entire forest? It was so idyllic.”
“What are you getting at?” Preposteror asked morosely.
“I would like to buy that scroll from you, Bubby, simply as a small remembrance of Grandfather Belial. Where’s your family spirit?”
“Now you’re getting silly, Auntie Tye,” he answered.
“All right,” she said, in her normal tone of voice, and went back to her pocketbook-safe. “So, how much do you want? I’ll throw in another five thousand.”
She pulled out several more bankrolls and threw them at the sorcerer’s feet, furious by now. Quite a respectable pile had accumulated in the meantime, in any case much more than could have fit into the small pocketbook-safe.
“Well?” she asked expectantly. “Ten thousand—my final offer! Take it or leave it.”
The furrows in Preposteror’s brow deepened. He stared at all that money through his thick glasses. His hands twitched, but he kept his composure. Money couldn’t help him out of his desperate situation, anyway. But the more she offered him, the more certain he was that she was not offering enough. He absolutely had to find out what she had up her sleeve.
He tried to catch her off guard and took a shot in the dark, so to speak.
“Come, come, old girl,” he said as calmly as he could, “of course I know that you have the other half of the scroll.”
His aunt’s face turned colors beneath her several layers of makeup. “Why . . . I mean, how . . . this is just another one of your dirty tricks!”
Preposteror smiled triumphantly. “Well, we all have our little sources of information.”
Tyrannia gulped, and then admitted meekly, “All right, since you already know . . . I had known for a long time who inherited the other half, namely, your third cousin, the film star Megaera Mummy in Hollywood. She always needed inordinate amounts of money because of her luxurious way of life; that’s why I was able to purchase the scroll from her—for a horrific sum, though.”
“That’s better,” said Preposteror. “Now we’re getting down to brass tacks. However, I fear that you’ve been taken to the cleaners. Anything coming from that area is rarely authentic.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That you can be pretty sure that it’s not the original, but just another one of those remakes.”
“It is the original, you can bet on it!”
“Have you ever shown it to a specialist? Let me examine it.”
He suddenly got a shifty look in his eyes.
His aunt answered with pursed lips, “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
“You know what,” said Preposteror indifferently, “I don’t really care one way or the other. You keep your half and I’ll keep mine.”
That did the trick.
His aunt tore the gigantic hat off her head and started pulling a long scroll of parchment out of its enormous brim. So that was why she had on that ridiculous headgear! Incidentally, now one could also see that she had but a few tufts of hair, dyed a bright red, which were rolled up into a skimpy, onion-shaped bun on top of her head.
“It is the original,” she repeated grimly, presenting her nephew with the torn end.
Preposteror bent forward, adjusted his glasses, and could see immediately by the unusual lettering and other features that his aunt was, in fact, telling the truth.
He grabbed at it, but she pulled it away.
“Hands off, my boy! That’s close enough.”
“Hmmm,” intoned Preposteror, stroking his chin, “it does appear to be the first part of the formula—but what’s the formula for?”
Tyrannia wiggled around nervously on her chair. “I simply don’t understand you, Beelzebub. Why are you asking so many questions? After all, ten thousand crowns is no chicken feed. Or are you just trying to jack up the price, you old cutthroat? Come on, how much do you want!”
Now she began conjuring further rolls of bank notes out of her pocketbook-safe.
Preposteror’s bald dome was beaded with perspiration. “I wonder who’s cutting whose throat here, dearest Auntie,” he murmured. “So spit it out: what kind of formula is it?”
Tyrannia clenched her fat little fists. “Oh, a Black Friday to you and your nosiness! It’s just an old recipe for punch. I’m quite simply in the mood for this particular punch this evening, because it’s said to be most exquisite. Gourmets will be gourmets, we will pay any price for such a taste sensation, and I happen to have a sweet tooth.”
“Come, come, Auntie,” Preposteror replied with a shake of his head, “we both know that your sense of good taste abandoned you well over a hundred years ago. You can’t tell the difference between raspberry juice and sulphuric acid. Who are you trying to kid, anyway?”
Tyrannia sprang to her feet, trembling with rage, and waddled about the laboratory. She had become increasingly fidgety during their negotiations, and had already snuck several peeks at the clock.
“All right already,” she burst out suddenly, “I’ll tell you, you thick-headed mule! But first you have to swear to me by Pluto’s Deep Dark Treasury that you’ll sell me your half of the scroll afterward.”
The sorcerer grumbled a bit and executed an indefinable movement of the head, which could have been interpreted as a nod.
The witch pulled her chair up against his, sat down with a wheeze, and spoke in a subdued tone of voice. “Now listen carefully—it’s the formula for the legendary Satanarchaeolidealcohellish Notion Potion. It is one of the most ancient and powerful evil spells in the universe. It works on New Year’s Eve alone, because only then do wishes have an extra-special effect. Tonight is the middle night of the twelve nights between Christmas and Epiphany in which, as is well known, all the forces of darkness are unleashed. For every glass of this magic potion that you down in one gulp you get one wish, which is guaranteed to come true if you say it out loud.”
Preposteror’s eyes had glazed over during his aunt’s explanation. The wheels were turning behind his forehead. His voice was suddenly hoarse with excitement as he asked, “Where in the name of Foul-and-Fatal-Fallout did you find all that out?”
“The directions are written at the beg
inning of the formula on my half of the scroll. There’s no chance of a mistake.”
A thousand stray thoughts crackled through the sorcerer’s brain like the thunderbolts of an approaching storm. It suddenly dawned on him that this Notion Potion would make it possible for him to make up for all his omitted evil deeds—in one fell swoop, so to speak. That which lay suddenly so close and unexpected before him was his salvation! He would be able to outwit the hellish bailiff, after all. Of course, he would have to keep this marvelous hooch all to himself. By no means would he hand over his half of the parchment scroll to his aunt, no matter what she offered to pay. Quite to the contrary, it was imperative that he get his hands on hers, whatever the cost, even if he had to conjure her out of the world, or at least into another galaxy. Of course, that was easier thought than done. He was only too well aware of her secret powers and knew that he had every reason to be very wary of her.
He stood up and started pacing back and forth, with his arms folded behind his back, so that she would not notice that his hands were shaking. He stopped, lost in thought, in front of the barrel marked TOXIC WASTE, drumming the rhythm of the latest hellish hit on the lid with his fingernails and humming to himself:
“Dracula’s blood began to curdle,
When he saw little Rosie’s girdle . . .”
The two animals inside the barrel ducked down, clung to each other, and held their breath. They had heard every word.
Preposteror turned suddenly and said, “I’m afraid it won’t work, Tye—although it pains me to say so. You forgot one little thing, or rather two: the cat and the raven. They’re going to want to be there, and since you have to say your wishes out loud, they’ll hear everything. And then you’ll have the High Council of Animals on your back. On the other hand, if we lock the two of them up or exclude them by force, it will raise just as many suspicions. It would be irresponsible of me to give you my half of the formula. I can’t allow you to get involved in such a dangerous undertaking, dear Auntie.”