The Amulet of Samarkand

by Jonathan Stroud

  Each morning, at dawn, he was woken by the fluting clamor of pigeons on the roof above. A small skylight was set in the ceiling. Through it, if he stood on a chair, he could see out over the gray, rain-washed London horizon. The house stood on a hill and the view was good; on clear days he could see the Crystal Palace radio mast far away on the other side of the city.

  His bedroom was furnished with a cheap plywood wardrobe, a small chest of drawers, a desk and chair, and a bedside bookcase. Every week Mrs. Underwood placed a new bunch of garden flowers in a vase on the desk.

  From that first miserable day, the magician’s wife had taken Nathaniel under her wing. She liked the boy and was kind to him. In the privacy of the house, she often addressed the apprentice by his birth name, despite the stern displeasure of her husband.

  “We shouldn’t even know the brat’s name,” he told her. “It’s forbidden! He could be compromised. When he is twelve, at his coming of age, he will be given his new name, by which he will be known, as magician and man, for the rest of his life. In the meantime, it is quite wrong—”

  “Who’s going to notice?” she protested. “No one. It gives the poor lad comfort.”

  She was the only person to use his name. His tutors called him Underwood, after his master. His master himself just addressed him as “boy.”

  In return for her affection, Nathaniel rewarded Mrs. Underwood with open devotion. He hung on her every word, and followed her directions in everything.

  At the end of his first week at the house, she brought a present to his room.

  “This is for you,” she said. “It’s a bit old and dreary, but I thought you might like it.”

  It was a painting of boats sailing up a creek, surrounded by mudflats and low countryside. The varnish was so dark with age that the details could hardly be made out, but Nathaniel loved it instantly. He watched Mrs. Underwood hang it on the wall above his desk.

  “You’re to be a magician, Nathaniel,” she said, “and that is the greatest privilege that any boy or girl could have. Your parents have made the ultimate sacrifice by giving you up for this noble destiny. No, don’t cry, dear. So in turn you must be strong, strive as hard as you can, and learn everything your tutors ask of you. By doing that you will honor both your parents and yourself. Come over to the window. Stand on that chair. Now—look over there; do you see that little tower in the distance?”

  “That one?”

  “No, that’s an office block, dear. The little brown one, over on the left? That’s it. That’s the Houses of Parliament, my dear, where all the finest magicians go, to rule Britain and our empire. Mr. Underwood goes there all the time. And if you work hard and do everything your master tells you, one day you will go there too, and I will be as proud of you as can be.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Underwood.” He stared at the tower until his eyes ached, fixing its position firmly in his mind. To go to Parliament … One day it would be so. He would indeed work hard and make her proud.

  With time, and the constant ministrations of Mrs. Underwood, Nathaniel’s homesickness began to fade. Memory of his distant parents dimmed and the pain inside him grew ever less, until he had almost forgotten its existence. A strict routine of work and study helped with this process: it took up nearly all his time and left him little space to brood. On weekdays, the routine began with Mrs. Underwood rousing him with a double rap on his bedroom door.

  “Tea outside, on the step. Mouth, not toes.”

  This call was a ritual stemming from one morning, when, on his way downstairs to the bathroom, Nathaniel had charged out of his bedroom in a befuddled state, made precise contact between foot and mug, and sent a tidal wave of hot tea crashing against the landing wall. The stain was still visible years later, like the imprint of a splash of blood. Fortunately his master had not discovered this disaster. He never ascended to the attic.

  After washing in the bathroom on the level below, Nathaniel would dress himself in shirt, gray trousers, long gray socks, smart black shoes and, if it was winter and the house was cold, a thick Irish jumper that Mrs. Underwood had bought for him. He would brush his hair carefully in front of a tall mirror in the bathroom, running his eyes over the thin, neat figure with the pale face gazing back at him. Then he descended by the back stairs to the kitchen, carrying his schoolwork. While Mrs. Underwood fixed the cornflakes and toast, he would try to finish the homework left over from the night before. Mrs. Underwood frequently did her best to help him.

  “Azerbaijan? The capital’s Baku, I think.”

  “Bakoo?”

  “Yes. Look in your atlas. What are you learning that for?”

  “Mr. Purcell says I have to master the Middle East this week—learn the countries and stuff.”

  “Don’t look so down. Toast’s ready. Well, it is important you learn all that ‘stuff’—you have to know the background before you can get to the interesting bits.”

  “But it’s so boring!’

  “That’s all you know. I’ve been to Azerbaijan. Baku’s a bit of a dump, but it is an important center for researching afrits.”

  “What are they?”

  “Demons of fire. The second most powerful form of spirit. The fiery element is very strong in the mountains of Azerbaijan. That’s where the Zoroastrian faith began too; they venerate the divine fire found in all living things. If you’re looking for the chocolate spread, it’s behind the cereal.”

  “Did you see a djinni when you were there, Mrs. Underwood?”

  “You don’t need to go to Baku to find a djinni, Nathaniel—and don’t speak with your mouth full. You’re spraying crumbs all over my tablecloth. No, djinn will come to you, especially if you’re here in London.”

  “When will I see a freet?”

  “An afrit. Not for a long time, if you know what’s good for you. Now, finish up quickly—Mr. Purcell will be waiting.”

  After breakfast, Nathaniel would gather his school books and head upstairs to the first-floor workroom where Mr. Purcell would indeed be waiting for him. His teacher was a young man with thinning blond hair, which he frequently smoothed down in a vain effort to hide his scalp. He wore a gray suit that was slightly too big for him and an alternating sequence of horrible ties. His first name was Walter. Many things made him nervous, and speaking to Mr. Underwood (which he had to, on occasion) made him downright twitchy. As a result of his nerves, he took his frustrations out on Nathaniel. He was too honest a man to be really brutal with the boy, who was a competent worker; instead he tended to snap tetchily at his mistakes, yipping like a small dog.

  Nathaniel learned no magic with Mr. Purcell. His teacher did not know any. Instead he had to apply himself to other subjects, primarily mathematics, modern languages (French, Czech), geography, and history. Politics was also important.

  “Now then, young Underwood,” Mr. Purcell would say. “What is the chief purpose of our noble government?” Nathaniel looked blank. “Come on! Come on!”

  “To rule us, sir?”

  “To protect us. Do not forget that our country is at war. Prague still commands the plains east of Bohemia, and we are struggling to keep her armies out of Italy. These are dangerous times. Agitators and spies are loose in London. If the Empire is to be kept whole, a strong government must be in place, and strong means magicians. Imagine the country without them! It would be unthinkable: commoners would be in charge! We would slip into chaos, and invasion would quickly follow. All that stands between us and anarchy is our leaders. This is what you should aspire to, boy. To be a part of the Government and rule honorably. Remember that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Honor is the most important quality for a magician,” Mr. Purcell went on. “He or she has great power, and must use it with discretion. In the past, rogue magicians have attempted to overthrow the State: they have always been defeated. Why? Because true magicians fight with virtue and justice on their side.”

  “Mr. Purcell, are you a magician?”

  His teacher smoothed
back his hair and sighed. “No, Underwood. I was … not selected. But I still serve as best I can. Now—”

  “Then you’re a commoner?”

  Mr. Purcell slapped the table with his palm. “If you please! I’m asking the questions! Take up your protractor. We shall move on to geometry.”

  Shortly after his eighth birthday, Nathaniel’s curriculum was expanded. He began to study chemistry and physics on the one hand, and the history of religion on the other. He also began several other key languages, including Latin, Aramaic, and Hebrew.

  These activities occupied Nathaniel from nine in the morning until lunch at one, at which time he would descend to the kitchen to devour in solitude the sandwiches that Mrs. Underwood had left out for him under moist Saran Wrap.

  In the afternoons the timetable was varied. On two days of the week, Nathaniel continued work with Mr. Purcell. On two other afternoons he was escorted down the street to the public baths, where a burly man with a mustache shaped like a mudguard supervised a punishing regimen. Along with a bedraggled posse of other small children, Nathaniel had to swim countless lengths using every conceivable style of stroke. He was always too shy and exhausted to talk much to his fellow swimmers, and they, sensing him for what he was, kept their distance from him. Already, by the age of eight, he was avoided and left alone.

  The other two afternoon activities were music (Thursday) and drawing (Saturday). Nathaniel dreaded music even more than swimming. His tutor, Mr. Sindra, was an obese, short-tempered man whose chins quivered as he walked. Nathaniel kept a close eye on those chins: if their trembling increased it was a sure sign of a coming rage. Rages came with depressing regularity. Mr. Sindra could barely contain his fury whenever Nathaniel rushed his scales, misread his notes, or fluffed his sight-reading, and these things happened often.

  “How,” Mr. Sindra yelled, “do you propose to summon a lamia with plucking like this? How? The mind boggles! Give me that!” He snatched the lyre from Nathaniel’s hand and held it against his ample chest. Then, his eyes closed in rapture, he began to play. A sweet melody filled the workroom. The short, fat fingers moved like dancing sausages across the strings; outside, birds stopped in the tree to listen. Nathaniel’s eyes filled with tears. Memories from the distant past drifted ghostlike before him….

  “Now you!” The music broke off with a jarring screech. The lyre was thrust back at him. Nathaniel began to pluck at the strings. His fingers tripped and stumbled; outside, several birds dropped from the tree in a stupor. Mr. Sindra’s jowls shook like cold tapioca.

  “You idiot! Stop! Do you want the lamia to eat you? She must be charmed, not roused to fury! Put down that poor instrument. We shall try the pipes.”

  Pipes or lyre, choral voice or sistrum rattle—whatever Nathaniel tried, his faltering attempts met with bellows of outrage and despair. It was a far cry from his drawing lessons, which proceeded peacefully and well under his tutor, Ms. Lutyens. Willowy and sweet-tempered, she was the only one of his teachers to whom Nathaniel could talk freely. Like Mrs. Underwood, she had little time for his “nameless” status. In confidence, she had asked him to tell her his name, and he had done so without a second thought.

  “Why,” he asked her one spring afternoon, as they sat in the workroom with a fresh breeze drifting through the open window, “why do I spend all my time copying this pattern? It is both difficult and dull. I would much rather be drawing the garden, or this room—or you, Ms. Lutyens.”

  She laughed at him. “Sketching is all very well for artists, Nathaniel, or for rich young women with nothing else to do. You are not going to become an artist or a rich young woman, and the purpose for your picking up your pencil is very different. You are to be a craftsman, a technical draftsman—you must be able to reproduce any pattern you wish, quickly, confidently, and above all, accurately.”

  He looked dismally at the paper resting on the table between them. It showed a complex design of branching leaves, flowers, and foliage, with abstract shapes fitted snugly in between. He was re-creating the image in his sketchbook and had been working on it for two hours without a break. He was about halfway finished.

  “It just seems pointless, that’s all,” he said in a small voice.

  “Pointless it is not,” Ms. Lutyens replied. “Let me see your work. Well, it’s not bad, Nathaniel, not bad at all, but look—do you not think that this cupola is rather bigger than the original? See here? And you’ve left a hole in this stem—that’s rather a bad mistake.”

  “It’s only a small mistake. The rest’s okay, isn’t it?”

  “That’s not the issue. If you were copying out a pentacle and you left a hole in it, what would happen? It would cost you your life.You don’t want to die just yet, do you, Nathaniel?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then.You simply mustn’t make mistakes. They’ll have you, otherwise.” Ms. Lutyens sat back in her chair. “By rights, I should get you to start again with this.”

  “Ms. Lutyens!”

  “Mr. Underwood would expect no less.” She paused, pondering. “But from your cry of anguish I suppose it would be useless to expect you to do any better the second time around. We will stop for today. Why don’t you go out into the garden? You look like you could do with some fresh air.”

  For Nathaniel, the garden of the house was a place of temporary solitude and retreat. No lessons took place there. It had no unpleasant memories. It was long and thin and surrounded by a high wall of red brick. Climbing roses grew against this in the summer, and six apple trees shed white blossom over the lawn. Two rhododendron bushes sprawled widthwise halfway down the garden—beyond them was a sheltered area largely concealed from the many gaping windows of the house. Here the grass grew long and wet. A horse chestnut tree in a neighboring garden towered above, and a stone seat, green with lichen, rested in the shadows of the high wall. Beside the seat was a marble statue of a man holding a fork of lightning in his hand. He wore a Victorian-style jacket and had a gigantic pair of sideburns that protruded from his cheeks like the pincers of a beetle. The statue was weather worn and coated with a thin mantle of moss, but still gave an impression of great energy and power. Nathaniel was fascinated by it and had even gone so far as to ask Mrs. Underwood who it was, but she had only smiled.

  “Ask your master,” she said. “He knows everything.”

  But Nathaniel had not dared ask.

  This restful spot, with its solitude, its stone seat, and its statue of an unknown magician, was where Nathaniel came whenever he needed to compose himself before a lesson with his cold, forbidding master.

  9

  Between the ages of six and eight, Nathaniel visited his master only once a week. These occasions, on Friday afternoons, were subjects of great ritual. After lunch, Nathaniel had to go upstairs to wash and change his shirt. Then, at precisely two-thirty, he presented himself at the door of his master’s reading room on the first floor. He would knock three times, at which a voice would call on him to enter.

  His master reclined in a wicker chair in front of a window overlooking the street. His face was often in shadow. Light from the window spilled round him in a nebulous haze. As Nathaniel entered, a long thin hand would gesture toward the cushions piled high on the Oriental couch on the opposite wall. Nathaniel would take a cushion and place it on the floor. Then he sat, heart pounding, straining to catch every nuance of his master’s voice, terrified of missing a thing.

  In the early years, the magician usually contented himself with questioning the boy about his studies, inviting him to discuss vectors, algebra, or the principles of probability, asking him to describe briefly the history of Prague or recount, in French, the key events of the Crusades. The replies satisfied him almost always—Nathaniel was a very quick learner.

  On rare occasions, the master would motion the boy to be silent in the middle of an answer and would himself speak about the objectives and limitations of magic.

  “A magician,” he said, “is a wielder of power. A magician
exerts his will and effects change. He can do it from selfish motives or virtuous ones. The results of his actions can be good or evil, but the only bad magician is an incompetent one. What is the definition of incompetence, boy?”

  Nathaniel twitched on his cushion. “Loss of control.”

  “Correct. Providing the magician remains in control of the forces he has set to work, he remains—what does he remain?”

  Nathaniel rocked back and forth. “Er …”

  “The three S’s boy, the three S’s. Use your head.”

  “Safe, secret, strong, sir.”

  “Correct. What is the great secret?”

  “Spirits, sir.”

  “Demons, boy. Call ’em what they are. What must one never forget?”

  “Demons are very wicked and will hurt you if they can, sir.” His voice shook as he said this.

  “Good, good. What an excellent memory you have, to be sure. Be careful how you pronounce your words—I fancy your tongue tripped over itself there. Mispronouncing a syllable at the wrong time may give a demon just the opportunity it has been seeking.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So, demons are the great secret. Common people know of their existence and know that we can commune with them—that is why they fear us so! But they do not realize the full truth, which is that all our power derives from demons. Without their aid we are nothing but cheap conjurors and charlatans. Our single great ability is to summon them and bend them to our will. If we do it correctly they must obey us. If we make but the slightest error, they fall upon us and tear us to shreds. It is a fine line that we walk, boy. How old are you now?”

  “Eight, sir. Nine next week.”

  “Nine? Good. Then next week we shall start your magical studies proper. Mr. Purcell is busy giving you a sufficient grounding in the basic knowledge. Henceforward we shall meet twice weekly, and I shall start introducing you to the central tenets of our order. However, for today we shall finish with your reciting the Hebrew alphabet and its first dozen numbers. Proceed.”