Sympathy for the Devil

by Justin Gustainis

  "Really?" el-Ghaffar said. "They didn't know what would happen when they set off the bomb?"

  "Apparently not. I gather there were serious disagreements among the scientists. Enrico Fermi, I think it was, was betting that the nuclear blast would set the atmosphere on fire and burn up all the planet's oxygen."

  "I hope the others were smart enough to take his bet," Mary Margaret Doyle said, stepping gingerly in her two-inch heels.

  "Why 'smart'?" Stark asked. "You figure they should have known Fermi was wrong?"

  "No," she said. "They should have known that if he was right, they wouldn't have to worry about paying up."

  The two men laughed, perhaps a little louder than the witticism deserved.

  "Well, you need have no such fears about this little demonstration, Senator," el-Ghaffar said. They had reached the bottom of the stairs now. "This is not the first time I have performed a summoning, and there is no real danger involved, as long as we follow a few elementary safety procedures."

  The basement, which consisted of one room, was larger than Stark would have guessed. It might have been designed as a 'rec room' by the architect long ago, but it was clear that whatever went on in there now would not be considered 'recreation' by anyone - except maybe Johannes Faustus.

  There was the pentagram, of course. Stark had done enough reading to recognize one, and this specimen was at least ten feet across. It had been drawn on the concrete floor using a liquid that appeared brown in the uncertain light. At each point of the star was a squat red candle, unlit, about eight inches high.

  The altar was off to the right, covered with a scarlet cloth into which a variety of symbols had been woven in black. Stark thought he recognized a few of them, like the figure eight on its side that was the Greek symbol for infinity, but most of the rest were a mystery.

  Atop the altar were a small charcoal brazier, a copper bell, several small ceramic bowls, an old-looking book bound in cracked leather, two candles similar to those surrounding the pentagram, and a long sword with a curved blade. Stark recognized the sword as an Arab implement called a scimitar.

  On the floor behind the altar was a circle about three feet in diameter, the same color as the pentagram. Ten feet to the left, two more circles were inscribed on the concrete. It was to these that Hassan el-Ghaffar led his guests.

  "Senator, if you will take your position within this circle here," he said, gesturing. "And Miss Doyle, inside this one, if you please."

  Dr. el-Ghaffar stepped back a couple of paces. "Very good," he said. "Now, in a moment I will seal each of your circles." He held up a cautionary hand. "Nothing that will induce claustrophobia, I assure you. But you will each be effectively protected against the demon that I will summon. It will not be able to escape from the confines of the pentagram in any case, but one always takes extra precautions when playing with fire, so to speak." He grinned briefly, the gleaming white teeth an odd contrast with the black goatee and café-au-lait complexion.

  If that smile's meant to be reassuring, Stark thought, then I think it needs a little work. He's as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

  El-Ghaffar picked up a canvas sack the size of a ten-pound bag of flour. Bending at the waist, he carefully poured what looked like sand around the perimeter of Stark's circle, then Mary Margaret Doyle's, before repeating the procedure on the larger circle behind the altar. The sand, if that's what it was, appeared to be shot through with small bits of blue stone. Stark noticed that el-Ghaffar was careful to create an unbroken circle each time he laid the sand down on the concrete floor.

  "Once I start the summoning," el-Ghaffar said, straightening up, "do not leave your circle for any reason, until the ritual is completed, the demon has been dismissed, and I tell you it is safe. This is vitally important." He looked each of them in the eyes. "If you disregard my instructions, you will place yourselves in very great hazard."

  "What kind of hazard?" Stark demanded. "You just said that this demon that's supposedly going to show up will be trapped inside the pentagram, right? So what does it matter whether I stay inside the circle or walk around the room on my hands, holding a rose between my teeth?"

  "I am a cautious man, Senator," el-Ghaffar said. The patience in his voice was clearly forced. "It is true that this work involves some risks, but they are always calculated risks, which means I employ every protection available."

  "That's what I don't get," Stark said. "What are the risks? What's the worst that could happen if something goes wrong?"

  "The worst that could happen?" The Arab shook his head. "Senator, I ask you to believe me when I tell you this: you do not want to know."

  "Well, why -"

  El-Ghaffar held up his hand. "Please! I would enjoy discussing this issue with you at length, but our time grows short. We must be ready to begin by midnight. So let me ask you this: have you seen that famous movie about the shark, Jaws?"

  A shrug from Stark. "Sure."

  "Then I ask you to consider what you would do if you were in the position of the young man in that film, being lowered into the sea in a shark cage. This water, remember, contains an immense Great White, to which you would be little more than an appetizer, if it could reach you. Now, you are in the cage, you trust the cage, the manufacturer claims that it is proof against any shark in the world. But, as you are about to be lowered into the water, someone asks you if you would like a tube of shark repellent, just for a little extra protection. Tell me, Senator - would you refuse it?"

  The two men stared at each other for several seconds. Then Stark shrugged. "You draw a nice analogy, Doctor, although I'm not sure you've established your premise." He sighed, then said, "All right, no more questions for now. We'll stay in our circles until you say otherwise. Right, M.M.?"

  Mary Margaret Doyle had been silent throughout this contest of wills. "Of course we shall," she said. "I never contemplated anything else."

  El-Ghaffar checked his watch and walked quickly over to the altar, saying, "There is still time, but I must hurry."

  A steamer trunk sat on the floor fifteen feet behind the altar. El-Ghaffar reached in and brought out a garment of black cloth with red adornments. With a quick, practiced motion, he slipped it over his head and passed his arms through the armholes so that the robe fell into place, its hem just above the floor. Stark noticed that the symbols on the robe were the same as those on the altar cloth; only the color scheme was reversed. El-Ghaffar then came up with a skullcap in the same scarlet color as the altar cloth. As the Arab carefully positioned the cap atop his head, Stark noticed that it bore the 'infinity' symbol in black, exactly in the center.

  El-Ghaffar took his position behind the altar, making sure that both his feet were well within the circle. He opened the ancient-looking book to a page that had been marked with a black ribbon. Looking over at his guests, he said, "I will perform the ceremony in Arabic, since my grimoire" - he reverently touched the book - "is written in that language. Also, it is my native tongue and I am least likely to make any mistakes that way. It will be incomprehensible to you, but be patient. You will find things becoming interesting before long."

  El-Ghaffar produced an ordinary plastic lighter and lit the altar's two candles. Then he passed his left hand over them several times, reciting something in a language that Stark assumed was Arabic, although the words themselves meant nothing to him.

  El-Ghaffar suddenly stopped speaking, drew in a deep breath through his nostrils, and blew it out forcefully through his mouth.

  Seems kinda dumb, blowing out the candles, Stark thought, after just going through all the trouble of lighting the damn things.

  But the candles were not extinguished by el-Ghaffar's vigorous exhalation. Instead, something appeared to flash through the air from the altar candles over to where the pentagram had been drawn on the floor. An instant later, the five candles at the pentagram's points sprouted tiny blossoms of flame and were soon burning brightly.

  Stark stared at the newly-ignite
d candles for a second, then shifted his gaze in time to catch the glance that the Arab sent his way.

  Yeah, I thought so. Wants to see how well the conjuring trick is going over. Well, it's not bad, although I think Penn and Teller were doing something like it last year in Vegas. You're going to have to do better than that, buddy-boy, if you want to impress me.

  Nothing very intriguing happened over the next half-hour. El-Ghaffar read aloud from his grimoire, rang the bell periodically - always for five times on each occasion - made mysterious gestures in the air and generally bored Stark half to death.

  Then, finally, he lit the brazier.

  He first dropped in powders from the ceramic bowls. Stark noticed that each substance was of a different color: first there was blue, followed by green, then brown, then, finally, red. After adding the last ingredient, el-Ghaffar held his hands, palms down, over the brazier, read another few words from the book, then clapped his hands together, hard.

  The material in the brazier burst into flame. It burned brightly for a few moments, then subsided to a glow that gave vent to a rather thick, gray smoke.

  Stark had been watching closely. That's a little better. I didn't see anything drop into the bowl while he was clapping. Of course, some substances will spontaneously combust when you combine them. Or maybe there's a heating element hidden inside that brazier. But it's a pretty good trick, anyway.

  El-Ghaffar's voice was louder now, and had taken on a rhythmic quality. Among the incomprehensible Arabic words, Stark now heard one that he recognized. He'd seen plenty of news footage of various Arab crowds denouncing America as 'the great Satan,' so the word Shaitan was familiar to him.

  There were no windows in the basement, or visible ventilation ducts. Even so, the smoke from the brazier was moving now, flowing inexorably toward the pentagram some twenty feet away.

  Now you're talking, or, rather, chanting. I can't figure this trick out at all. Wonder if M.M knows how he's doing it?

  Stark glanced at Mary Margaret Doyle and saw that her expression was grim. Her eyes were narrowed, and a vein in her neck was visibly pulsing. Stark decided to save his smartass questions for later.

  The gray smoke was gathering in the center of the pentagram and had grown noticeably thicker. El-Ghaffar's chanting was reduced to one word now, and he was saying it over and over, louder and louder: "Sargatanas. Sargatanas. Sargatanas Sargatanas! Sargatanas! Sargatanas! SARGATANAS!"

  The smoke in the pentagram's center was swirling, congealing, forming and reforming, and finally took on a shape that was vaguely humanoid. Then the gray mist began to dissipate, leaving the figure in plain view.

  Stark's suspicion that he had been watching a cleverly produced magician's illusion disappeared along with the smoke that had been shrouding the pentagram. His skepticism had been replaced by a blend of awe and fear and disgust.

  The center of the pentagram was occupied by a rotting corpse. At least, it should have been a corpse, except that it was standing, apparently under its own power, and the head was questing back and forth, as if it could see all three of them even though the eye sockets contained nothing but a steady stream of maggots issuing from the putrescent skull cavity.

  The figure was naked, which gave Stark ample opportunity to observe the precise condition of its decaying flesh, to note the places where the flesh had disappeared completely to reveal white bone, and to consider the number and variety of necrophages (beetles, worms, and the maggots, among others) that were finding the unquiet corpse a tasty treat.

  The grotesque sight had been present only for a few seconds when its odor hit them like a great polluted tide - an amalgam of rot and filth and shit and decay that almost made Stark vomit.

  "Hearken unto me, disobedient one!" el-Ghaffar said sternly. "Thou wert summoned, as per agreement, and bidden to assume a pleasing form. Do so - now!"

  The thing in the pentagram answered in a voice that was deep and cultured, like James Earl Jones at his most charming. "My form is pleasing to me."

  "Well, it pleases neither me nor my companions," el-Ghaffar said. "Change now, lest I smite thee!" He picked up the long, curved sword from the altar and held the blade an inch or so above one of the candles.

  "Peace, peace, I hear and obey." For Stark, it was the height of incongruity to hear that voice, so alive and vigorous, coming from something that you might find buried deep in a Mafia-owned landfill.

  Then, in an instant, the image of decay and death was gone, replaced by something that was manifestly, defiantly alive. The sculptors of ancient Athens could not have envisioned a figure of human perfection to rival what now stood in the center of the pentagram. The man stood about six feet, with a cap of tight black curls that matched the eyebrows which perched elegantly above piercing blue eyes. The body was literally perfect - muscular, tight, tan, and toned, without a scar or blemish.

  "Thy form is now much more pleasing to the eye, not to mention the nose," el-Ghaffar said. "Whilst thou art briefly among us, great Sargatanas, I will ask of thee certain simple tasks, well within thy powers to perform." He gestured toward Stark and Mary Margaret Doyle. "These companions of mine would know of thy power, thy wisdom, thy knowledge of this world's affairs, even of those things which certain Kings and Princes regard as their most closely-held secrets. In return, I shall reward thee as promised in our bargain, made freely and duly signed by us both, in mutual obligation."

  "I don't think that will be necessary."

  The voice was Mary Margaret Doyle's, the first time she had spoken since the ritual started. Both men stared at her in amazement which quickly turned to shock as, almost casually, she stepped outside the circle.

  Stark was mystified. She had appeared to be taking this business seriously from the beginning, whereas Stark's suspicion had evolved into tentative belief only in the last few minutes.

  Is she trying to debunk this whole thing? Is el-Ghaffar a fraud, after all? Did she notice something that I've missed?

  If Stark was confused, el-Ghaffar looked stupefied. He gaped as Mary Margaret Doyle walked briskly over to the pentagram. The demon trapped inside it seemed to be the only one who did not find her behavior unusual. Instead, he appeared to be watching with great interest.

  She approached one of the candles burning at the pentagram's five points, and, after a moment's hesitation, kicked it over.

  This brought Hassan el-Ghaffar out of his shocked silence. "You stupid cow, what are you doing?" he screeched. "Put that back where it was, immediately! Quickly, before it goes out! Do you hear me, you fucking cunt?"

  Mary Margaret Doyle turned to look at el-Ghaffar. Instead of the shocked and angry expression that Stark expected, there was a wide smile on her face.

  "Goes out?" she said pleasantly. "You mean, like this?" The smile remained in place as she raised her left foot again - and stomped the flame into extinction.

  A sudden release of energy knocked all three of the humans off their feet. There was no sound of detonation, no flying debris, just a force of immense power that burst from the center of the pentagram, and if there was any noise at all, it was something that resembled a cry of triumph, although it was a sound that had never issued from any human throat.

  El-Ghaffar was the first to regain his feet. He did so slowly, awkwardly, like a punch-drunk boxer determined to answer the bell for the last round. Blinking rapidly, he looked toward the pentagram, where the four remaining candles had been reduced to smoking pools of melted wax. The same fate had befallen the two candles atop the altar. And there was an even more important change in the basement.

  The center of the pentagram was empty.

  Mary Margaret Doyle stood up next, in a single, fluid motion, and began brushing bits of dirt off her expensive blue suit. El-Ghaffar looked at her, but the rage was gone from his face, replaced by a look of shocked incomprehension.

  Howard Stark was just getting to his feet as el-Ghaffar said, "We should... all be dead. There are accounts on record, going back centuries,
stories of demons who were conjured and then somehow got free of their fetters."

  Stark dusted himself off without speaking, left the now useless protective circle, and walked stiffly toward the altar. His face bore no expression.

  "All these stories, these legends," el-Ghaffar continued in a monotone, "say the same thing: after the demon escaped, it slaughtered every person in the conjuring chamber, usually with extreme cruelty and mutilation."

  Stark had reached the altar, but el-Ghaffar paid him little mind. If he noticed Stark's hand closing on the handle of the scimitar, he gave no sign of it.

  "It makes no sense, when you consider the malign nature of demons," el-Ghaffar said. "I can't understand why Sargatanas failed to kill us all."

  "It's simple, really," Stark said, in a deep, harsh baritone that was utterly unlike his normal voice. "This time, there are bigger stakes involved."

  In his addled state, el-Ghaffar was slow to understand. In the three or four seconds it took him to comprehend what had happened, something that had until recently been Howard Stark took two steps forward, the scimitar in its right hand. The Arab's mouth was just starting to open in a scream when Stark's arm swung in a low, vicious arc.

  There was a wet sound of impact, followed a moment later by a high-pitched scream. El-Ghaffar stared in horror as his intestines began to slide out through the long, spurting slash that had just been made in his belly. After a few seconds he looked up at them, his face showing a mixture of pain, horror and despair as he realized that, this time, the shark cage had failed him utterly. Then he collapsed to the concrete floor.

  The thing that had once been Senator Howard Stark turned to look at Mary Margaret Doyle. She stared back, her eyes wide, her body rigid as a marble statue. Then the smile lit up her face again.

  "That was nicely done," she said. "You've got quite a stroke there."