“That I am,” Herbert admitted. “But then, why am I the one inside of a pentagram?”
“I see that you’re going to be difficult. Very well.” Murzivel sighed. “I performed the ancient summoning rites to bring you here from the human realm. Now you must make a deal with me and fulfill my greatest desire before I release you.”
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” said Herbert. “I’m not some sort of jinn or a wizard. I’m an accountant from Hoboken. If your greatest desire is to file your taxes using itemized deductions then sure, no problem. Can’t help you with much else, I’m afraid.”
“You’re trying to deceive me,” insisted Murzivel. “I understand. It’s in your human nature. But remember, you only have until the pentagram shrinks, so don’t waste too much time playing your games.”
Herbert looked down at the pentagram. He couldn’t be certain, but it might have gotten a little bit smaller than it was before his fainting spell.
“Umm…” he said. “Suppose you tell me what happens when the pentagram shinks?”
“Why, it will crush you like an insect,” said Murzivel. “Do you truly not know the basics? What kind of a human are you?”
“A very confused one,” Herbert muttered under his breath. Louder, he said, “OK, Murzivel. What is this wish you want fulfilled, anyway?”
Murzivel straightened up, looking earnestly at his captive.
“I want only what any demon wants. Respect. Power. A successful career. You know, the usual.” Murzivel paced along the outer edge of the circle as he spoke. “I might’ve achieved all those things on my own. But who’d show respect to anyone with a joke of a name like mine? My parents doomed my chances from the start, with a single ill-considered decision.”
“I see,” said Herbert. “What’s your name again? Merciful?
“No. Murzivel,” the demon winced, “which is even worse.”
“And if I help you, I can go home?”
“That’s how such things work.”
“Sounds like an easy fix to me. I invoke my human powers and hereby grant you permission to change your name to whatever it is you wish. How’s that?”
“Useless,” said Murzivel. “One can’t change the true name they’re born to, not even with magic.”
“Look, Murzivel. I’m sorry about your troubles, and I’m sorry that I am not what you expected. But I honestly possess no magic and have no idea how to help you. For what it’s worth, I used to get picked on as a kid because my name is Herbert.”
“Herbert is your true name?” asked Murzivel.
“Yeah. Herbert Handon. How’s that for alliteration?”
Murzivel stopped pacing and stared at Herbert for a while. “No human would share their true name so cavalierly. Yet, I sense no deceit from you. Could it be that you’re as clueless as you claim to be?”
“Utterly,” said Herbert. “Before today, I didn’t even think you demons existed.”
Murzivel nodded. “Most demons don’t believe in humans anymore, either. The powers that be, they know better. I’d be in a lot of trouble if anyone found out that I performed an unauthorized summoning. If humans can’t do magic then tell me, what’s your world really like?”
They talked for a better part of an hour, comparing their lives, desires and problems. At the end they agreed that their worlds were rather similar in many ways, most especially in how much it sucked to be the little guy with no prospects or influence. By then Herbert was beginning to like the hapless demon who summoned him.
“I think I’ll choose to believe you,” Murzivel said. “You’re telling the truth, or you’re the greatest liar I’ve ever met and I have no hope to outwit you. Either way, I’m not going to get what I want. So the only question is what do we do now?”
“I would really like to be sent back home,” said Herbert, “where it’s warm, and where I have clothes. Why is it so cold here, anyway? I always imagined hell to be a very hot place.”
“It froze over some time ago,” said Murzivel. “Long story. To be honest, I have no idea how to send you back.”
“How can you not? You managed to bring me here, didn’t you?”
“The incantation is very specific,” said Murzivel. “It brings you here. You then make a deal, work some magic and go free, or get carved up by the pentagram. There were no provisions for getting a malfunctioning human.”
“That,” said Herbert, “is one hell of a quandary.”
“Indeed,” said the demon.
The pentagram was getting visibly smaller. They tried everything from Murzivel’s incantations to wiping off some of the drawing with a mop. The barrier held, preventing Herbert and any physical items from passing in or out.
“It’s too bad you’ve convinced me that you have no magic,” said Murzivel. “Otherwise, we might’ve had a chance.”
“How is that?”
“I keep forgetting that you’re new to this. Magic is fueled by faith. If someone believes in you strongly enough then you’ve got actual power. If that faith falters, so goes your ability.”
“I see,” said Herbert. “Had I not convinced you that I was powerless, your conviction alone might have allowed me to perform an actual miracle?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“On my world, this is called the Tinkerbell Effect.”
“But you said that humans have no magic?” Murzivel asked with suspicion in his voice.
“We don’t. Tinker Bell is a fictional character. At one point in the story she’s about to die and needs many children to believe in her being real, in order to survive.”
“That is brilliant!” Murzivel shouted. “Nothing is stronger or more pure than the faith of a child. I’ll be back soon,” he told Herbert, “and when I return, act magical.”
Murzivel arrived with a much smaller demon in tow.
“This is my son, Beelzebub,” he said proudly. “Now that is a good, solid name, even if it’s a bit commonplace. Beelzebub, meet a human I’ve summoned from across the nether. He’s here to do our bidding.”
Beelzebub stared up at Herbert wide-eyed.
“Hi there, Bleez… Beezle… you don’t mind if I just call you Bobby, do you?”
Beelzebub nodded slowly, though Murzivel snorted and frowned; he didn’t appear to think much of abbreviating his son’s perfect name.
“This human is a mighty terrible sorcerer,” Murzivel said, pointing at Herbert. “He’s eager to fulfill any one of your wishes. Why don’t you ask him for something? Anything you like.”
Herbert admired the way Murzivel managed to deceive his son without lying. After all, he really was terrible at being a sorcerer. The demonling didn’t catch the distinction. He kept staring at Herbert, mouth agape, but said nothing. He looked away and ran to his father, hugged him and buried his head in the older demon’s knees. Then Beelzebub began to sob.
Murzivel held his son tight and shot Herbert a venomous glance.
“You scared him.”
“Me? You were the one doing a terrible wizard routine!”
Murzivel shook his head. He picked up his child. “I’ll be back later,” he announced, and headed out the door.
Herbert was alone for a long time, cold and miserable, and watching the pentagram inch ever closer to the center of the hall. He was beginning to suspect that Murzivel had abandoned him to die alone. The demon wasn’t an evil sort, but he had probably ran out of ideas and didn’t want to be around to watch the unpleasant consequences of his failed plan.
The building shook violently.
It felt like an earthquake tremor and was powerful enough to knock Herbert into one of the pentagram edges. His shoulder connected with the invisible barrier and was stinging badly from the contact. Above his head, the chandelier was swinging with enough force to put out several of the candles.
On his knees, Herbert crawled back to the center. He curled up on the cold ground, barely managing to keep in place as the subsequent tremors jolted the hall.
The do
or opened to admit Murzivel and Beelzebub.
“What’s happening?” Herbert had to raise his voice to be heard over the rumbles.
“This is bad,” said Murzivel. “Really bad. The powers that be, they must’ve detected the summoning. They’re coming now, to punish me.” He turned to Beelzebub.
“Listen to me, son. Stay here with the human. I know he frightens you, but he’s far safer than what’s coming. I will go and surrender myself. If we are very lucky they’ll take me and won’t bother to look inside for either of you.”
Murzivel hugged his son tight, his jaw quivering and his red arms shaking as he embraced the demonling. Then he rushed out the door.
The tremors were growing stronger. Herbert crawled as close as he dared to the edge of the pentagram.
“They’re coming, Bobby. The bad people, they want to hurt your dad. Do you understand?”
Beelzebub looked terrified, but he didn’t run away and was instead staring at Herbert with large, yellow eyes.
“I can help,” said Herbert. “I want to help. But I’m stuck inside this pentagram. Come on, Bobby. It’s all up to you, now.”
The biggest tremor yet caused a hairline crack to appear in one of the walls. Bits of gravel were being shaken loose from the ceiling. Beelzebub walked up as close as he dared to the line encircling the pentagram. He was now face to face with Herbert, who knelt on the other side.
“Save my daddy,” whispered the demonling.
An immense wave of power surged through Herbert. The pain, the cold, even the fear were gone. He instinctively knew that, for as long as this one child believed in him unconditionally, he could do anything. He could save Murzivel, and he could return home.
Herbert smiled and stepped over the pentagram.
This story originally appeared in Buzzy Magazine.
There’s a long-standing tradition in speculative fiction to take an established trope and flip it upside down. The idea of a demon using a pentagram to summon a human appealed to me, and the story practically wrote itself.
TRUE LOVE
“This wasn’t at all what I expected,” said Helen of Troy.
The man behind the counter nodded, an expression of professional empathy pasted onto his face.
“There was no epic love, no grand romance,” said Helen. No, she was Molly. Molly. But it was difficult to stop thinking of herself as Helen after spending what felt like years in the other woman’s head. “Everything was so dirty and run down, and there was no indoor plumbing. Paris tired of his conquest after only a few weeks, and I spent ages cooped up in a tiny room, bored out of my mind.”
“Paris wasn’t in love, then?” The man behind the counter wore the purple and white uniform of Temporal Excursions, Inc. and a metal nametag which read “Travis.”
“Not with Helen,” said Molly. “I’m pretty sure he was much more interested in Aeneas.”
“I’m sorry,” said Travis. “Actual history rarely turns out to match what was recorded and passed down through the centuries. Events tend to become neater and larger than life with each retelling.”
“I won’t give up just because Paris turned out to be so overhyped,” said Molly. “There are other accounts of true love throughout history. Pure love, the likes of which you just don’t see around, these days. And I’m determined to experience it.”
True to her word, Molly was back the following week. Travis waved at her from across the office, came over to say “hello” and to process her order, then helped her to get comfortable in the recliner seat. But, before her hour was up, Molly disconnected the temporal cables from her head and got up, frowning.
“No true love?” Travis asked.
“Not even close. Caesar was a lecherous old man, and Cleopatra always saw their union as a marriage of convenience. Mark Anthony was worse. When things weren’t going his way, he took it out on me… On her.” Molly shivered.
“That sounds awful,” said Travis, with what sounded like genuine concern. “Did she really use a poisonous snake, you know, at the end?”
“I don’t know. I disconnected, before ...” Molly trailed off, then refocused. “You know the worst part? Mark Anthony beat her, and Cleopatra just let him. And there was nothing I could do, no matter how hard I tried.”
“It’s temporal physics.” Travis sighed. “We can only be spectators of the past. Passengers, along for the ride. We can’t influence events in any way.”
“I wonder how people like Cleopatra would feel if they knew about tens of thousands of tourists riding along in their heads, observing their every private moment.” Molly crossed her arms.
“It’s probably best that they never knew,” said Travis. “Who knows, there may be some future customers of Temporal Excursions watching us right now.”
Molly didn’t like the idea at all.
“I wasn’t sure you’d be back,” said Travis the following week.
“I’ve been reading,” said Molly. “Napoleon wrote such beautiful love letters to his bride.” She handed Travis her credit card.
“Napoleon was a pig,” she declared an hour later. “All those mistresses, and then he dumps Josephine for that Austrian harlot, just because she couldn’t give him a child.”
“There are other moments in history you could try,” said Travis. “Tristan and Isolde. Juan and Evita Peron.” He smiled. “I’ve been reading, too.”
“No, I think I’m done with Temporal Excursions for a while,” said Molly.
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” Travis shifted his weight from foot to foot, uncomfortably. “I do hope you’ll change your mind. It’s always nice to see you here.”
Molly studied Travis, who looked sheepish waiting for her response. He lacked the smoldering good looks of Paris, the chiseled muscles of Mark Anthony, or the confidence of Napoleon. But his eyes were kind.
“Would you like to maybe grab a cup of coffee sometime?” Molly asked.
“Sure,” Travis beamed a smile at her. “My shift is just ending.”
A few minutes later, they walked outside together.
This story originally appeared in Daily Science Fiction.
I tend to write a lot of stories that rely on (and subvert) literary and historical tropes. In this case I wanted to examine the legends of larger-than-life characters like Cleopatra and Napoleon, and consider what they might have been like in real life.
YOU BET
Joe stepped through the door and found himself in a cramped, smoke-filled card room. The players paused their game and turned toward him, five and a half pairs of eyes studying the newcomer.
Seated around the green felt table were a robot, a witch, a vampire, an alien Grey, and a fairy. And looming behind them was a pink mass of scales and tentacles topped off with a bowler hat. It regarded Joe thoughtfully with a single bulging eye the size of a dinner plate.
“Hey there, new guy,” said the fairy. Despite her two-foot frame her voice was sultry rather than tinny. “And what are you supposed to be?”
Joe tried to answer and realized that he couldn’t. He remembered nothing of who—or what—he was, except his first name. He felt strange, empty, as if someone had sucked everything out of his head through a straw.
“I know that look,” said the witch. “Everyone has trouble with their memory in the first few hours. It’ll go away. Unless you’re an amnesiac spy, that is. But we already had one of those.”
His memory problems were selective, Joe discovered. He recognized the sounds of a Frank Sinatra recording crooning in the background, yet couldn’t recall a reason for arriving at this place.
“You aren’t anything obvious,” said the fairy. “If you figure it out quickly, don’t say! I’d rather guess.”
“Well I’d rather play poker,” said the Grey, the kind they usually depict abducting cattle and probing things indiscriminately. This one was dressed in a three-piece suit, and his almond-shaped head was topped off with a cowboy hat. He caressed a large stack of chips with his three long fing
ers. “It’s your turn to deal,” the alien said to the fairy.
The fairy pouted.
“We do nothing but play cards,” said the witch. “Let her have her fun.”
The fairy fluttered her wings and displayed a huge grin. Her mood changed so quickly, Joe couldn’t help but wonder if Little Folk were susceptible to bipolar disorder.
“Are you a superhero out of costume? A serial killer? A werewolf, perhaps?”
“Mangy curs,” the tall, striking brunette with fangs sniffed the air. “I can smell those a mile away. He isn’t lupine.” She looked Joe up and down. “This one may be a tasty morsel, even if he’s a bit ordinary looking.”
“Watch out, friend,” announced the robot in a stage whisper. “She means that literally.”
“Your guesses are as good as mine,” said Joe to the fairy. “My name’s Joe. Beyond that I can’t remember… well… anything.”
“I don’t need to learn your name,” said the alien. “You won’t be here long enough.”
“Grey makes a terrible first impression,” said the witch, with a sideways glance at the alien. “And it doesn’t improve much once you get to know him, either.”
“I’m sure that underneath the fifty shades of his cranky gray exterior beats a heart of gold,” said Joe. “Or hearts. However his physiology works.”
The alien stared at Joe down his pair of flat holes that passed for a nose and went back to counting his chips.
“Don’t you pay any mind to that meanie,” said the fairy. “Have you got any super powers? I hope you aren’t a mind reader, because we couldn’t let you play then. Telepaths only get to watch, like Howie over there.”
The pink monstrosity bobbed its head and made an assenting noise which sounded like the mewl of a tipped-over cow.
“Who are you lot? What exactly is this place?” Joe turned around, but the door he had entered through was gone. There was nothing but solid wall covered in pastel wallpaper, peeling with age. “How do I get out of here?”
“Oh, sweetie, you’re here to stay,” said the fairy. “We all are.”
Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories Page 18