The Grimoire of Kensington Market

by Lauren B. Davis

  Badger trotted along. He had been rummaging through the garbage in the alleyway near the Grimoire when Maggie found him, and he’d chosen to accept her invitation to live with her. Maggie had welcomed him, malodorous and crawling with vermin, given him a bath, as much food as he needed and her love. Now they wandered round to Bellevue Square, where Badger discreetly performed the necessary functions, and then made their way back to the shop.

  As they neared the Grimoire’s narrow door, Badger lowered his head, flattened his ears and did a fair impression of a lion stalking something through tall grass. “What are you doing?” Maggie laughed, trying to ignore the chill up her spine. Badger stopped and growled. She followed his gaze. The sidewalk traffic looked normal – mothers pushing strollers, people talking into phones, a man walking a schnauzer. Maggie wondered if it was the other dog that disturbed Badger, although he was generally friendly to other animals. Then she noticed a woman.

  She looked familiar, but Maggie couldn’t place her. Her hair was a short silver halo around her head. Her gaze was downward, and Maggie couldn’t make out her features, other than a slash of dark lipstick. She wore a long wool coat, open, showing a man’s suit, and lace-up black shoes. Something about the way she moved … and then she raised her head. The ghostly skin, wide mouth, the deep dimples … the eyes, holding knowledge of some private joke. It looked so much like her … but different …

  “Well, what a nice little shop,” the woman said. “Maggie, dear girl, how are you?”

  That voice, all honey and smoke, the accent something Eastern European, Ukrainian or Russian perhaps. Srebrenka looked different, yes, softer somehow, but no older than when Lenny, Maggie’s old boyfriend, had first introduced her eight years ago. Maggie had asked her then where she was from, but Srebrenka said it was nowhere she would know and refused to say more.

  “What are you doing here?” Maggie’s mind spun. Srebrenka, from whom everyone bought elysium, knew where she lived? And she could see the Grimoire? How could this be?

  “I heard about your loss,” Srebrenka said, “and wanted to say how very sorry I am.”

  Badger growled. “Sit,” Maggie said, and the dog did, although not without a reluctant little dance first. “What loss?”

  “Oh, dear,” said Srebrenka, shaking her head. “Why Mr. Mustby, of course.”

  “How do you know him?” Maggie’s breathing was shallow and her heart beat too quickly. She took a deep breath and tried to relax her shoulders.

  Srebrenka smiled and put her hands together as though in prayer. “I was so sorry to hear about his passing. Of course, he was very old, but that’s never a comfort when we lose someone we love, is it?”

  It was odd, how even though Srebrenka was such a striking figure, no one glanced at her, although several glared at Maggie. She realized she was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, making people go around her. She moved closer to the door. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Srebrenka stepped to the side next to Maggie and smiled down at Badger. “I know a lot of people, Maggie. I have a lot of friends. And I count you among them. I’ve been hurt, frankly, that you disappeared.”

  “I had to get clean. Or die. That was the choice.”

  “A bit dramatic,” Srebrenka laughed, the sound like little bells. “But you did surprise me. I mean, to be honest, you’re the first friend to leave me like that, and I can’t imagine what I did to offend you. Wasn’t I always there for you?”

  “Look, I have to get going. I wish you all the best, okay, but I’m not interested.”

  Srebrenka tilted her head and gazed into Maggie’s eyes. She bit her lower lip. “No? Are you sure? I’m not. I’d love a cup of tea and a chat. Perhaps you could invite me in? Someone grieving, as you are, needs a friend.”

  “Some other time maybe. I have a lot of work to do.”

  Srebrenka, ignoring Badger’s growl, stepped close to Maggie and whispered in her ear, “The elysium longs for you, longs to hold you, longs to dream for you and ease your grief.”

  Her breath was like cool silk on Maggie’s ear. Badger barked, and Maggie jerked her head and spun away. “Leave me alone.”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you. Another time, then, my dear. Another time.” Srebrenka blew her a kiss and walked away.

  Maggie ducked in the shop and slammed the door, her heart a wild thing in her chest. She sank to the ground and wept.

  * * *

  THREE YEARS AND THREE MONTHS AGO SHE HAD CRAWLED, thin as a grasshopper, into the Grimoire. She was still seeing visions and had only recently put down the pipe. When Mr. Mustby, white bird’s-wing eyebrows bristling, shuffled to the front of the store to see what fate had invited in, she’d asked him, shivering, if she could just sit in a corner and read a book. His tortoiseshell glasses had gleamed and he smelled of something like cinnamon or spice cake. His grey, curly hair fluffed around his head (and around the fountain pen tucked behind his ear, which gave him a scholarly appearance) and his goatee was neatly trimmed. The knees and elbows of his brown corduroy suit bagged from long wear and, judging from the way his pockets bulged, they were stuffed with an inordinate number of objects. His shoes were polished, but one was brown and the other black. He asked her name, nodded as though he’d expected as much and said he didn’t care what she did so long as she didn’t throw up on the books. She curled up in a dusty corner with a copy of the fifteenth-century masterpiece Tales from the Sleeping Fortress, and read and slept, read and slept, all that afternoon and into the night, until Mr. Mustby finally brought her a cup of tea and toast and said, “You may sleep in the back. I’ve set up a cot near the stove.”

  The next day Mr. Strundale had come in wearing a burgundy smoking jacket and nearly fainted when he saw her. Seeing the small fox wrapped around his shoulders, Maggie assumed she was hallucinating and nearly passed out herself. “Good God!” Mr. Strundale said, “Cat’s dragged in and all that …”

  He and Mr. Mustby talked for a few minutes and then Mr. Mustby called her over and said, “I have discussed this situation with my friend and counsellor, Mr. Strundale. You are here, so apparently this is where you are supposed to be.”

  “It’s that sort of shop,” said Mr. Strundale.

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Mustby. “In any event, I think you’d best get to work organizing the section on addiction stories, subsection Dark Night of the Soul.”

  And so the Grimoire had become her home; Mr. Mustby, her foster father; Mr. Strundale, something of an uncle and Alvin, her friend … or more than a friend. Life was as full of people as she wanted, and she’d felt safe for the first time in years.

  Now, Srebrenka had come for her. But surely, Maggie told herself, she wouldn’t be back. Maggie had made herself clear. That part of her life was over. Srebrenka would give up. But of course she wouldn’t, would she? Maggie hugged Badger and shivered.

  * * *

  THE NEXT MORNING MAGGIE TOOK A MOMENT BEFORE opening the door. She would open it, she told herself, and find nothing unusual. She and Badger would go for their walk and come home and nothing would happen. She took a deep breath. She clipped the leash to Badger’s collar. He was coiled, vibrating, which she told herself was nothing more than a reaction to the unusual leash. She flung open the door, perhaps a little more quickly, with a little more flourish, than she’d intended.

  Srebrenka was just walking past, or so it seemed.

  “Maggie.” She held her arms out, palms up. “I came to apologize. I think I alarmed you yesterday, and that was the last thing I wanted to do.” She took a few steps forward, her white coat and trousers shining in the sunlight. “You must know I want to ease your pain. That’s all I wanted to do when we first met, so many years ago, and it’s all I want to do now.” She put her hands in her pockets and opened her coat. “See, nothing to be frightened of. Please, why not invite me in? Let me make amends? I’ve b
rought you a little something.”

  Maggie fought her urge to slam the door. She would not show fear. She stepped out, shutting the door behind her. She walked past Srebrenka, her shoulders high, keeping Badger close, for the dog was trembling and ready to bite. Srebrenka walked beside her.

  “This is almost rude, dear. We are old friends, and you’re refusing a gift. I give it to you freely, asking no payment.” The woman held out a small silver pipe, the bowl already filled with the shimmering black tar-like potion.

  Maggie set her jaw. She would not speak.

  Srebrenka trailed along beside her, murmuring about the sweetness of the dreams waiting. Maggie ignored her as long as she could, lasting half a block, before she ducked into Mr. Strundale’s apothecary, slamming the door behind her.

  Inside, the air smelled of peppermint and lavender. Around the walls stood shelves, some glass-fronted, containing white and blue and green jars filled with herbal and homeopathic remedies, as well as glass canisters of various herbs – burdock, dandelion root, angelica, fennel, chamomile and so forth. Gold and green scrollwork decorated the wall above the shelves and from waist-height down were drawers, each with little brass plates describing the contents. In the centre of the room rested a large, highly polished island with more drawers in it. On the island sat brass scales and weights. A chandelier with flame-shaped bulbs hung from the ceiling, creating a soft glow.

  The front door remained shut. It seemed Srebrenka wouldn’t venture in, just as she didn’t walk into the Grimoire without invitation. Mr. Strundale popped out from behind a screen at the back of the store that was ornately embroidered with dragons and birds. He smiled, although on his basset hound–face the gesture was unpersuasive, then his features settled into their natural droop. Finnick, the fox, pranced around his ankles. Finnick was a bit of a mystery. When Maggie had asked about him, Mr. Strundale had chuckled and said that Finnick wasn’t an ordinary sort of fox, by any standard, and that he had been a companion to the previous herbalist, so he’d always been in the Wort & Willow. “But,” Maggie had said, “you’ve been here for forty years so that would make him, what?” “Oh, ancient,” Mr. Strundale had said, “and so very wise.” And that was that.

  “Maggie, how lovely to see you.”

  Finnick chirped in greeting and Badger flicked his ears but kept his focus on the door. Finnick went and sat next to him, equally alert.

  “Thought I’d pop in for a cup of tea. Is that okay?”

  He frowned. “Of course, but are you all right? Badger and Finnick seem on guard about something.” He tightened the belt on his smoking jacket.

  “I’m fine. Just haven’t visited for a while.” It took effort not to check if Srebrenka was following her.

  “Don’t be silly. Look at Badger. He’s practically ready to vault at the door. What on earth is happening?”

  She didn’t want to tell him. There was a weakness, a flaw in her, that had led Srebrenka here. Like a dog wanting to kick dirt on its feces, she wanted to hide this. She wanted to take a long bath and soak away whatever Piper-filth must surely remain on her skin, sending out signals like a beacon.

  “There’s someone outside I don’t want to see.”

  Mr. Strundale’s eyebrows met above his nose. “Someone found you at the bookshop? I see. Someone from your life before you came here, yes?”

  The flush rising to her hairline gave her away.

  “Unusual that,” said Mr. Strundale. “Must be, I’m afraid to say, someone quite powerful. Stay here.”

  He moved toward the door and she reached out to stop him. “Don’t.”

  He patted her hand. “Just wait here. No one will get past me, I assure you.” He looked down at Badger and smiled. “Or Badger. And you’d be surprised how ferocious Finnick can be.” The animal bristled and chittered. “It’ll be fine.”

  When he opened the door, Finnick at his side, there was no one outside who shouldn’t be there. Just a busy street full of people. He stepped out. Looked up the street and down, Finnick mimicking his gesture. “No one there now. Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. It was …” She didn’t want to bring him into it, old man that he was, and she didn’t want to admit how uncertain of herself the visit had made her. “No,” she said, “probably not. Just old fears.” Badger lay down at her feet.

  “Well then, tea it is. Chamomile and lavender, I think.” He put his arm around her shoulders. “You know, my dear, you’re still grieving. The loss of Mr. Mustby was a great one, seismic even, and it will take a long time for you to come to terms with it. For any of us to come to terms with it. It’s quite normal to be discombobulated.”

  Is that what he thought? That she was delusional with grief?

  He smiled, led her into a little kitchen not unlike the one at the Grimoire. Like Maggie, he lived above his shop. He told her to sit at the small table as he plugged in an electric kettle. “Without my old friend the world is changed, and not for the better. But you must remember he trusted you. He left the shop to you, knowing you were the right person.” He puttered about, getting cups and saucers. “It takes a certain inner fortitude to be the proprietor of a shop that is the cosmic nexus of the world’s tales.” He chuckled and sat across from her. “So, regardless of whether the person who came to see you is a function of your grief, or a ghost from your past, or a person with malicious intent, the same advice holds: you mustn’t cower. You must, and will, be afraid many times before you’re as old as I am. Fear isn’t something you can avoid. But you can turn and face it. Bullies hate it when you simply stand your ground. Power comes from resolve, not might.”

  She hung her head. “And what if I’m not as strong as all that?”

  “Then Mr. Mustby wouldn’t have chosen you for the job. The Grimoire and, to some extent, the Wort & Willow are thin places, as the Celts say. You know, a place with a somewhat porous barrier between the sacred and the mundane. It is also powerful, and those who reside in it, who are charged with its care, are recognized by such power, and cannot help but benefit from it.” He patted her hand and the kettle began to sing. “Now, we should talk of more pleasant things and leave the morrow to the morrow.”

  When she left, Srebrenka was nowhere in sight.

  * * *

  WHEN, THE DAY AFTER, THE BELL OVER THE DOOR SOUNDED mid-morning, Maggie nearly fell off her chair, but it was only a man looking for a book of stories about the War of 1812. She found him the book and when she walked him to the door she peeked out, but saw no one who shouldn’t be there.

  Later, she opened the door again, Badger’s leash wrapped tightly round her hand.

  Srebrenka had brought a wooden folding chair and set up on the sidewalk. Maggie’s skin tightened. Srebrenka smiled, waved her fingers and then rose. “I come in peace. I can’t bear the misunderstanding between us. We were so close once. You’re like family, and you know how much that means. After all, we’re both alone in the world, aren’t we? Especially now.”

  “I’m not alone,” Maggie said.

  “Your brother, Kyle? He’s a sweet boy, and my friend.” She flicked a piece of lint off her fire-engine clothing. The colour matched her lipstick.

  Perhaps it was hearing Kyle’s name on Srebrenka’s lips, but Maggie wanted to strike the woman, to gouge out her eyes, to tear her cheeks. She stepped up to her, so quickly Srebrenka stepped back, knocking the chair into the street. Maggie was shaking, Badger taut as a steel spring.

  “Enough! Do you understand? Enough! I’m not coming back. Not now, not ever, and I’ll make the biggest scene you can imagine if you don’t leave me alone! I’m not giving up everything I’ve got. I’ll tell everyone what you’re selling and to hell with the consequences!” Badger was barking now. “How many people around here do you think have lost relatives because of you? How long would it take the cops to get here? Do you want me to make a scene? Do
you?” She’d started screaming out of desperation, and hadn’t thought it would do much, but whereas a moment before people hadn’t noticed Srebrenka, suddenly people stopped and looked and began to gather and whisper and point.

  “Pretty Maggie, calm yourself,” Srebrenka said, her eyes darting from one face to another. “No need for all this.”

  “Leave me alone! I don’t want you, I don’t want it! I’m done!”

  Srebrenka dropped her cigarette to the street and ground it out under her heel. “Well, scenes are so uncouth. You always did surprise me, dear girl.”

  “I’m calling the cops,” said a man from the Korean market. He pulled out his cellphone. Someone else was taking a video on their phone. Maggie flinched and hid her face. She didn’t like scenes any more than Srebrenka did.

  Srebrenka walked to a silver Jaguar parked at the curb. As she got into the driver’s seat she said, “You don’t think this is over, do you, pretty Maggie?” Srebrenka winked. “It’s not.”

  The car began to move away. People blinked and scratched their heads. They grinned a little sheepishly, as though they weren’t quite sure what they were doing there. They didn’t seem to notice Maggie any longer, which suited her just fine.

  The wooden chair lay in the street and then a young man with a beard and a knapsack with a U of T sticker on it stopped. “You throwing that away? I’ll take it if you don’t want it,” he said.

  “Be my guest,” said Maggie.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, MAGGIE OPENED THE DOOR A CRACK AND peeped out. Nothing. Badger’s tail wagged. All clear. And the day after that, and the day after that … Srebrenka disappeared as abruptly as she’d appeared. Maggie hoped she might, after several weeks, once again put it all behind her. She wanted it to be a small whitecap on an otherwise calm sea. Nothing to worry about.