The Summoning

by Robert Wingfield

  As she dawdled over the preparations, Ankerita had the amusing thought that cooking wasn’t that different from casting spells. Supposing she made the wrong mixture with the gravy and conjured up a demon, or something worse? She imagined that Genet would have had that problem. No wonder she was thin, if she didn’t dare make a wholesome meal, for fear of opening the Pit of Doom by accident.

  Lunch, however, went off reasonably smoothly, and the only demonic act involved was the partial destruction of the tray with the roasters on, when she forgot how to set the timer correctly. As she munched through the overcooked beef, she congratulated herself. “Not as good as George’s best cooking,” she said, “But not as bad as it could have been.”

  An hour later, Ankerita had tidied up, dusted the house, vacuumed the carpets, rearranged George’s pile of motorcycling magazines, and peered out of every window, checking for suspicious passers-by, albeit not at all as thoroughly as she might have done. She was kicking her heels on the skirting-boards, wondering how to she was going to spend the rest of her time.

  She got changed, and went down into the gym. After a few minutes pedalling she was hot and sticky, so she got off the exercise bike and went for a shower. By the time that was over, another half hour had passed.

  “Bored,” she complained to herself. “I know... auras. I’ll look for George’s notes.”

  The printout was in the tray, as George had said. Ankerita glanced through it; it seemed that the first thing to do was to learn how to see her own aura.

  “First get comfortable,” said the paperwork. “Wear loose clothing, or ideally remove it altogether. You have to eliminate all external distractions.”

  Ankerita shuddered at the thought of George practising in the buff. He wasn’t in the finest of physical shape. Never mind; she was on her own. She could do what she liked.

  “Find a large mirror,” said the notes.

  “Ah, you mean that one on the landing,” said Ankerita. “I suppose if I get a cushion, turn up the heating, and relax, that will have to do.”

  Having angled the big oval mirror at the end of the upstairs corridor, Ankerita checked all the doors again. They were locked, but this time she had the keys. “Gym gear will have to do,” she decided. “Even with the empty house, I won’t be comfortable with nothing on.”

  She returned to the mirror, and sat cross-legged on one of the seat cushions from the suite downstairs. Her reflection gazed back and she defocused, looking through it, beyond the image. After a few minutes, her eyes slowly closed. She yawned.

  “This is not the way to do it,” she muttered. “I need something to keep me awake. How does George manage? I know, coffee.” She stiffly got up from the cushion and wrapped her dressing gown around her. “Creak, ow ow ow.” The aches of the recent exercise session made her wince as she descended to the kitchen. “Now how does George make a quickie? I’m in the mood, but can’t be bothered to wait for the machine. I’ll use what he called the French Press.”

  She spooned four helpings of coffee grounds into the container and poured boiling water on it. “How long to leave it? Five minutes should be enough.”

  Ten minutes later, Ankerita remembered that she had to operate the plunger to get the liquid out, and poured a mug. She sipped at the black concoction. “Ugh, that’s bitter. Probably needs a few spoons of sugar.”

  It was not the best drink, but she persisted and finished all but the last layer of sludge in the bottom of the mug. She started to shake. She was not used to caffeine. “Right, upstairs again. This will keep me going.”

  The buzz in her head, and the pounding of her heart, suggested that falling asleep was not an issue. Ankerita took a breath and bounded up the stairs, two at a time, and along the corridor to the mirror. She felt as though she could fly, but forced herself to settle on the cushion. She took several deep breaths, and focused on her reflection.

  After a very short while, she was pleased to see a pale blue outline form around her shoulders and neck. She smiled. “This is easy.” The aura vanished as she lost concentration. “Ah. Try again.”

  The second time, it was harder to tease the glow out of herself. “I must be concentrating too much... Try to relax.”

  It was the relaxation that seemed to work. Despite the buzz from the coffee, Ankerita forced herself to stare beyond the image, and was pleased to see the aura start to build up. There it was, the slight tinge of colour around the edge of her shoulders. She slowly traced it from one shoulder to the other and then over the rest of her body. Other colours began to form: the suggestion of pale blue around her chest, fading to pale green over her stomach. Ankerita relaxed and studied the energy field around her. Eventually, she saw a white mantle extend outwards; other colours played and swirled around her body: yellows, greens, blues and purples. “This must be why I don’t like people too close to me,” she murmured. “According to the notes, the auras clash.”

  The light around her went deep red. Black wisps threaded their way through the colours. Ankerita tried to tear her eyes away from the mirror, but it held her gaze. As she stared, her face and body slowly dissolved. Sitting in her place was a wizened old man, surrounded by a grey outline. At first, there was no face, but gradually features formed, features twisted in anger.

  The drum sounded again. Boom, boom, boom.

  “I am trapped,” snarled the man. “And you can free me!”

  15. Empty Chair

  A

  nkerita stared, aghast, at the face in the mirror. “Who in the Lord’s name are you?”

  “That is not your concern.”

  “It is my concern, if thou art the fustilarian has been pestering me these nights.”

  “So you listen to me, now.”

  “What dost thou want?”

  “You can free me.” The old man’s expression twisted.

  “I will do no such thing.” Ankerita snorted, indignantly.

  “It is your duty.”

  “Why is that?” She was recovering from the shock. Was this simply another of those spirits she used to see? If so, she almost smiled; the dagger is doing its ‘thing’ again, where it connects to the other world.

  “That is what you are here to do,” the old man hissed. His aura went black. Ankerita’s head started to swim.

  “You are a brazen hussy,” continued the man, “sitting there in those whore-clothes.”

  Ankerita defensively folded her arms across her chest. “I was trying to see my inner light,” she said. “You are in my vision. Go away.”

  “Hah. You want auras; I want to walk again. I’m confined here, but not now. I thought my drum would get your attention. I need someone to hear it, to be susceptible, to be open. Silly girl. I’ll have your life from you.”

  “No, I’ve done that before. I’m not changing places with you.” Ankerita tried to resist, but she was being slowly drawn into the glass. The old man’s eyes held her, hypnotically. She could not break that stare. She tried to concentrate on her own life, but all that was in her mind was his face and his intense gaze. “Let me go!”

  “I’ve got you, tramp. See how you like being in this trap.”

  “No, you aren’t escaping me like that!” There was another voice. Standing beside the old man was a darkly handsome woman in a smart business suit... the woman Ankerita had seen in the crystal.

  “What?” The man blinked, and the spell was broken.

  “You are not taking her,” said the woman. “She is mine.” The dark eyes rested on Ankerita. “I don’t know where you are, my dear, but I will find you, however long it takes.”

  “Why?” Ankerita tried to say, but as the grip of the mirror released, it came out as a squeal. She was alone, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Her aura was plain to see, a muddy grey. She sat, trembling, and tried to control her body. Slowly, the grey lightened and as she relaxed, returned to the original pale blue.

  “That woman again.” Ankerita hastily collected her
last few possessions from the master bedroom. She carried them into the room across the corridor, avoiding the mirror as she passed. The new room, although smaller, also had an en-suite, and in addition, a view of the garden, which was more pleasant than the road in front.

  “I don’t know why I didn’t do this before,” she muttered as she arranged her clothes and shoes in a pine wardrobe.

  There was a blanket on a shelf inside. “I have an idea to confuse you, you old haggard.” The girl dragged it out, and avoided catching her reflection as she draped the material over the mirror outside. The corridor seemed to take a whole new ambience as she did so. The low winter sun came in through the big window at the end, and the menace seemed to die away.

  A few days passed, and Ankerita spent her time watching TV, working out in the gym, and reading. Since she moved bedrooms, there had been no more drums or visitations in the night. Her gazes into the crystal had revealed nothing more. She was wondering if she had lost what little talent she did have in that last experience.

  Food was running low. The freezer that George had stocked with food, was looking decidedly bare. Ankerita resorted to fish-fingers, and suspicious-looking ready-meals she had tried to ignore. The ice-cream had long since gone, and the bags of frozen Christmas turkey were depleted. The tipping point came when what she thought were frozen sausage-rolls turned out to be pieces of cut parsnip.

  “That’s it,” she said after chewing her way through one of the sticks of the tough vegetable, “I have to go out and get something I can eat.”

  The strange face of a surgeon with a chef’s hat on a fridge-magnet advised her... “You don’t have to be mad to eat here, but make sure you know where the stomach-pump is kept.”

  “I’m not that bad,” she mused. “I’m doing okay with the leftovers, considering. I haven’t poisoned myself yet... I’m going stir-crazy. I have to talk to someone. Otherwise I’ll go mad and start talking to myself.”

  The memory of her conversation with the old man in the mirror, and the appearance of that woman did not comfort her.

  The following day, Ankerita took a deep breath and a shopping bag, and unlocked the front door. Before closing it behind her, she made sure her key was on a lanyard around her neck. The winter air hit her sharply, after being inside for so long. She shivered, pulled her thick faux-fur coat around her more tightly, and clasped her hands together in the muff that George had found as a complement to the coat. The ring, constantly on her finger, gave her some comfort, and seemed to be helping to warm her hands.

  She could hear George’s voice reminding her, “If you have to go out for extra supplies, Caileag, make sure you wrap up. You are still weak after your last adventure. The nearest shop is only along the road. Turn left at the gate and keep your head down. You can’t miss it.”

  “That’s what they all say,” she had replied. “Guarantee that I will. Should I take the car?”

  “Best not. A vehicle without dents will only attract attention around here.”

  It was a few minutes after 9 in the morning. Ankerita’s previous experience with similar areas told her that anyone who could be dangerous to her would certainly not be awake before mid-day, and so she felt reasonably confident. There were a few people about; mostly ladies in colourful robes, or others in black, with only their eyes showing. Those made her shudder, reminding her of the images of assassins from childhood stories. None of them took any notice, though, and the girl passed quickly up the litter-strewn street towards a grocery shop. It was not far, as George had said.

  The store inside was bigger than it looked. It did contain everything that one could possibly want or need, including a stock of ‘pre-owned’ washing machines and cookers. There was a pile of wire baskets, so Ankerita helped herself to one and walked up and down the aisles, filling it with food she liked the look of.

  At the counter she stood for a while, waiting for the two girls behind it to finish a lively conversation in a language she didn’t recognise. This seemed to be going to last, so eventually she took her hands out from the muff and cleared her throat. The girls jumped.

  “I am sorry,” said one. “I didn’t see you there. How I may help you?”

  “I may you help me; I pay like would to,” said Ankerita, annoyed at being ignored, and imitating the girl’s speech and tone. “Unless the food, it is free here and I pay not need to.”

  The girl looked puzzled. “Sorry, no. You do need to pay.”

  “How much?”

  The girl looked scornfully at the items in Ankerita’s basket. “Forty pounds.”

  “What?”

  The other girl said something to her, and took the basket. She ran the items through the till. “Sorry, my friend is new here. £15.40 if you don’t mind.”

  Ankerita handed over a note and packed her bag. She looked at the pile of coins the shop-girl gave her, and handed them back. “Keep them,” she said. “I can’t be doing with that stuff weighing me down. I mean, are we in the sixteenth century or something?”

  The girl grinned, and slipped them into her apron pocket.

  As she started to leave, Ankerita felt something was wrong. She turned quickly, but the girls were deep in their conversation again.

  For some reason, the sign in the window worried her, and she made the short distance home at a brisk trot.

  In the safety of the house, Ankerita continued to fret about the experiences she’d had so far, and that nagging feeling that unpleasant things were going on in the background. She knew she had to wait until George returned, but the inactivity was preying on her mind; she had to do something, to start moving again, and keep ahead of whatever this new threat was. She also knew she should be helping Jo, but there was nothing she could do. The monk had not returned, despite her calling him, and even with the ‘Sword’ and the Ring, she had no success in mentally tracking her friend down.

  There was one page in the Book of Ghosts that Ankerita could read. It was in Latin, but she was able to make out information that everyone had what was called a ‘spirit guide’. Apparently, this entity was someone who had passed on, but was there to help and give advice if needed. It could be a wise person from the past, or an ancestor, or possibly a little warty demon; Ankerita shuddered as she remembered Didiubas, the creature who had previously turned her life into a whirlwind of confusion.

  “Thank the Lord he’s where he belongs,” she muttered. “I couldn’t be doing with any more of those adventures. No, what I need is to find my real guide. He or she... or it, might help me discover what to do next.”

  In her mind, Ankerita had tried to make contact for a while. The previous time, she had imagined following a path. It had led her across a bridge and into a castle. She shuddered as she recollected how it had also led her to near death on a clifftop. She did not want a repeat.

  The Book, however, confirmed that everyone had a proper guardian angel, that didn’t scheme their downfall. She decided to try again. Perhaps within the confines of the house, she would be less at risk. “If ever I needed direction,” the girl muttered to herself, “Now would be a good time.”

  The Book was saying that, although the guardian was always there, trying to advise what the best way forward was, most people ignored what it was trying to tell them. Ankerita hoped there was something moving her on, but she could not be sure whether to take notice. After the vision in the mirror, she was even more unsure.

  “One way to find out,” she decided finally. “Talk to it, and talk to it now.”

  The library was a comfortable place in the house for meditation. It was quiet, deadened by the walls of books, and it was as far away from the upstairs mirror as she could get, without actually leaving the building.

  Ankerita found her usual cushion, put an extra heater on in the room, and closed the curtains. She leaned against the door. “Brrrr, cold,” she muttered and found another soft cushion to put behind her. Gradually the room warmed, and she replaced her garments with a si
lk dressing gown. She sat in the semi-darkness with her feet flat on the thick carpet, hugging herself. When she was warm and ready, she leaned back, rested her hands, palms down, on the floor, closed her eyes and tried to focus.

  A throbbing in her index finger made Ankerita look down at the ring. Was it her imagination, or was there a faint glow from it? She took it off, placed it on the carpet in front of her and felt a feeling of calmness descend.

  “According to the Book, all I’ve got to do is blank my mind,” she murmured. “Not easy, with the worries of discovery, and everything else. Must try to relax...”

  She took in a long breath, held it and finally released, feeling the stress leach through her hands and feet into the floor. She began to explore each one of the fibres of the carpet, and descended into a cocoon of warmth and peace.

  She began to count her breaths, lost the numbers at twelve, and started again. The second time, her mind wandered, and she shuddered as she remembered the sign in the shop. Why had that scared her? It was simply a name, wasn’t it? The false smile of the girl behind the counter came back. What was her secret?

  “No!” Ankerita forced the thoughts out of her head, and returned to the ritual. She began to count her breaths again, forcing herself past the twelve. Her next target was twenty.

  The second time, she nearly made it, but a car roaring down the street outside distracted her. That was unusual. Who would have a big car around here, at least, still with wheels on? Hopefully it was only passing through, although where it would pass to, she could not guess. There was only one way into the estate, and that passed her house.

  “I’m not letting myself be distracted again,” she murmured, and got up stiffly. The library held a music centre, and included a collection of CDs. “Mostly rubbish,” she muttered as she flicked through the collection. Her hand rested on one particular case. It simply said ‘Tranquillity’. “That’s what I need,” she said.