The Last Days of Magic: A Novel

by Mark Tompkins

  “Good,” sighed the legate. “It is clearly smaller.”

  “Again,” ordered Orsini.

  After the fourth application, the black blotch had been reduced to half its original size and was no longer animated. “Enough!” cried Orsini, struggling to a sitting position. “Enough. Thank you, my brothers, and you, Legate. I shall be able to serve a bit longer now, I should think.”

  . . . . .

  While Orsini was preparing himself, all the residents of Galway were at Mass. They had been ordered to attend under penalty of death. The small Christian chapel overflowed into the square, where the bulk of the populace, hearing little and understanding none of the Latin service, fretted. Looking up, the prayers they did make were not offered to the Christian God but rather to their own Gods, beseeching them to keep the sky clear, for the people had come to know that Fomorians avoided direct sunlight whenever possible and, on this bright day, would be slumbering in the depths of their loughs. When the Mass was finally over, the city gates were opened, and the people cautiously ventured forth in large groups to harvest peat for their hearths and fish the shallows for their tables.

  As the sun approached its zenith, Orsini left the city by wagon with his companions and a small contingent of guards. I did not realize that there were this many Celts left alive in Galway, the legate thought, looking at the work parties. That is good. After they see Orsini defeat the Fomorians, they will not have to be ordered to Mass, and they can carry the good word through the rest of this pagan country.

  They took the north road along the bank of the river Corrib, veering off just before it reached Lough Corrib. Within an hour they arrived at the smallish Lough Aceelagh.

  “This is our test lough,” said Orsini, climbing down from the wagon. “Bring one barrel of oil and one of salt.”

  “How many Fomorians are in here?” asked the legate.

  “Reports say twenty to thirty,” replied Orsini.

  Guards dragged the barrels to the shore. “Oil first,” commanded Orsini. A guard used his dagger to pry off the lid. As the oil was poured into the lough, a sheen spread, rainbowed in the sunlight.

  “Now the salt.”

  For a moment the water was still. Then a short wave rose and rolled across the lough, leaving eddies and whirlpools in its wake. The turbulence grew. A Fomorian crawled up the far shore and ran off. Others followed along the shoreline, four or five, the legate estimated. Another emerged halfway out, only to collapse on the bank and let loose a deep-throated scream. Using his arms, he dragged himself up a little farther, revealing that he no longer had a lower body, and died. No others emerged.

  The legate watched the churning water with fascination. Within fifteen minutes it calmed once again. “What are those?” he asked, pointing to white specks floating to the surface.

  Orsini ordered one of the guards to collect some. When the guard hesitated, Orsini gave him a shove. “You will not be hurt, unless you disobey me.” The guard cautiously dipped his foot into the water. When nothing happened, he waded out and collected a handful. They were teeth.

  Orsini slapped the legate’s shoulder. “It worked. We will exorcise all the loughs.”

  “Some did escape,” said the legate.

  “But a few, but a few. I will just have to provide more incentive for them to stay in their lough, by the promise of a worse death.” Orsini called, “Bring me some vessels.”

  Wooden crates were pried open in the wagon. “How many does Your Eminence want?” asked one of his brothers.

  “Twelve is always a good number.” Twelve bronze vessels were placed in a line on the ground in front of Orsini. He read the name engraved on the first, then drew his journal out of a pocket and consulted it. “Glasya-Labolas, he is a perfect one for this. How exciting.”

  Taking the wax tablet handed to him, Orsini pulled a silver stylus from his pocket and inscribed a symbol representing the demon’s true name while chanting in Aramaic. Black mist streamed from the vessel and formed into the shape of a large dog with the wings of a griffin.

  “Go,” ordered Orsini, in a language too old to have a name. “Keep the Fomorians in their loughs. Skin and consume any that escape.” With a snarl the demon took off in the direction of the escaped Fomorians.

  Orsini moved down the line, releasing the demons one at a time, giving them their orders, each time his voice weakening a shade, until he reached the twelfth. He slowly stood up from reading the name. He did not have to consult his journal.

  “Vepar. I should have checked them all. I should have handled him first.” With his dagger he cut a vellum page from his journal and handed it to his exorcist brothers. “This is Vepar’s page, in case you need it. Have your tablet and stylus ready.”

  “Are you all right?” asked the legate. “Perhaps this one should be left in his pot.”

  Orsini shook his head. “There was a time I could handle demons of his rank like kittens. I can deal with him still.” He began the ritual. Vepar formed, a giant worm with the head and shoulders of a man. Orsini issued his orders. Vepar began to slither off, then reversed himself. Orsini repeated his orders. Vepar smiled, baring his fangs. Orsini quickly began to redraw Vepar’s symbol. “I bind you back—” But before he finished, Vepar reared up and struck, becoming mist once again and flowing into Orsini’s mouth. Orsini collapsed.

  No one moved.

  Orsini sprang up and ran.

  “Stop him!” cried the legate. A guard swiped his sword at Orsini, catching his ankle, severing the Achilles tendon. Orsini fell to the ground again. A black hump rose from his back, bursting through his robe. The guards dropped to their knees and started praying fervently for their own salvation. The exorcists completed Vepar’s symbol and began to recite the words on the page. Black and gray mist swirled around Orsini’s flesh, obscuring it. The chant of the exorcists rose in volume. Mist streamed from Orsini’s robe into Vepar’s vessel. As the robe collapsed, the mist dragged a small, flickering ball of light into the pot. Then the robe was empty of Vepar and Orsini, the vessel still.

  The legate and the exorcists panted as their terror subsided. The guards’ frantic prayers filled the air. “Silence!” shouted the legate. Addressing the exorcists, he said, “Have the rest of the barrels brought out and start working through the loughs. I’ll take Orsini back home to Rome. There the Mother Church may be able to restore him.” The legate gingerly picked up the vessel and peered inside. There was black moving within black and a hint of a flickering light a great distance away.

  IN ROME THAT MAY, the legate and four exorcists were ushered into the office of Pope Boniface IX. The exorcists carried a glass case etched with runes, which contained a bronze vessel. The procession stopped and waited for their presence to be acknowledged. The pope, flanked by two secretaries, sat listening to a commissary read out the terms for the sale of an indulgence. Pope Boniface himself was illiterate, the legate recalled.

  “That is good. That is good,” said the pope. “Make sure you get all the gold before you turn over the document.”

  One secretary signed the pope’s name to the parchment, and the other applied the seal of the Apostolic See. Upon the commissary’s departure, the pope waved the legate forward. “Tell Us, Legate, is the Irish Church now Ours?”

  The legate advanced and kissed the pope’s Ring of the Fisherman. “There is no longer an Irish Church, Your Holiness. All of the monasteries in Ireland, as well as those in Britain and Europe that were once theirs, are now in the possession of your bishops.”

  “And the Sidhe, they are all dead?”

  “Like rats you can never kill every last one. However, the few remaining cower in their holes and hold no sway in Ireland. They will not trouble Your Holiness further.”

  “Well done, Legate. So many new monasteries to fatten Our purse. And what is this? Have you brought Us a present from Ireland?”

  “This is the vessel containing the demon Vepar, Your Holiness.”

  The pope shrank back in his cha
ir. “Why would you bring it before Us?”

  “Regrettably, Your Holiness, Cardinal Orsini was captured by Vepar and now also resides in this vessel.”

  “Really?” The pope rose and cautiously approached the glass case. He leaned down and examined the bronze vessel it held. “Orsini is in there? How interesting.”

  “Your Holiness, I request permission to have the VRS League try to get him out.”

  “We must not risk freeing the demon. Leave him in there until We appoint a new high exorcist. He will be able to free him.”

  “Yes, Your Holiness. Please do not wait long. It is impossible to imagine the anguish Orsini’s soul must be undergoing, being bound with Vepar.”

  The pope watched the legate and the exorcists carry the case out. “We are famished. Have Our lunch brought in,” said the pope to one secretary. To the other he whispered loudly, “Frankly, Orsini always made Us feel . . . uneasy. With the Sidhe defeated, We do not think We need a high exorcist for now. Strike this meeting from the record.”

  27

  Paris, France

  March 1396

  Joanna’s sitting room was larger than those of the other witches of the High Coven who resided in the Paris royal residence, as befitted her new station as Second Sorcière. A eunuch threw open the door, and Queen Isabeau, the Grande Sorcière, swept in. Joanna, dressed in a night shift, rose from her chair by the fireplace.

  “It is done,” announced the Grande Sorcière. “We have finalized terms with Richard.” She took the seat Joanna had vacated as the eunuch gathered clothing from an armoire.

  “Then we will have Ireland as well?” asked Joanna. She pulled off her shift. Thin trails of smooth pink scars snaked up her right arm, across her shoulder, and wove around half her torso; they spoke of the high cost of learning flame enchantments, paid early in her training.

  “We must be clever and patient,” replied the Grande Sorcière, and she sipped from Joanna’s half-drained wine goblet. She had always found Joanna’s scar work eerily beautiful, like an elaborate tattoo. “It was a miracle that Richard prevailed in Ireland, but he has become unloved by many of his lords at home. Not only will we have to control him, we must gain control of the English royal court, and then Ireland will be open to Us.”

  The eunuch helped Joanna into a floor-length yellow chemise—silver thread woven into its lace collar and sleeves long enough to cover her scars—then belted on a purple velvet robe. The High Coven’s witches forwent the restrictive fashions of the day for their private nighttime gatherings. “How many Sidhe do you believe are left there?” Joanna asked.

  “Enough for Our purposes, not enough to resist Us. We could not have hoped for better. We will enslave them, break them, and take their magic. Then We will not have to hide Our coven behind these pathetic kings. No one will be able to stand against Us, not even the Vatican.”

  “The VRS will be a fight.” Having checked herself in the mirror, Joanna followed her queen out.

  The Grande Sorcière waved her hand dismissively as she glided along. “Orsini has disappeared. They can do nothing to stop us.”

  The eunuch, carrying a candelabrum, illuminated their path down a long hallway. He pushed open the door to the private audience room and bowed deeply as they entered.

  The Grande Sorcière’s three oldest daughters and their tutor, the Witch of Ripabianca, sat around a chalk circle drawn on the floorboards in the center of the room. The tutor was showing Joan how to prepare a viscous, dark potion in a bowl made of ash wood. Five years old, Joan was promised for a summer wedding to John “the Wise” of Brittany. Marie, four years old, squirmed restlessly, unable to follow the complex procedure, unlike the oldest daughter, Isabella, six. In the center of the circle lay a lamb, its throat slit open, its blood drained, and its skin flayed. The tutor handed the bowl to Isabella, who slurped in a mouthful of the thick, green liquid. The child closed her eyes, and the Grande Sorcière knew she would be visualizing what she wanted from the lamb. Isabella snapped open her eyes, pursed her lips, and sprayed the lamb corpse with the now-red liquid.

  “Réveillez!” she commanded.

  The wide, lidless eye swiveled, then settled on Isabella.

  “Soulevez!” she said, straightening her own spine and lifting her palms.

  The lamb struggled onto its legs like a newborn, stood shakily, and gave a wag of its skinned tail.

  “Marchez!”

  With dainty clicks of cloven hoofs upon the wooden floor, the lamb almost made it around the circle before it tripped and crumpled to the floor in front of the Grande Sorcière.

  Marie and Joan clapped their hands enthusiastically. “Very good, Our little dove. You’re getting much better,” said the Grande Sorcière. “Now, gather around, We have great news about England.”

  Isabella spoke up, her voice hoarse from the effort of her incantation. “Does this mean that negotiations are complete, Mother?”

  “Yes, Our little dove. We have bribed Richard to take you as his new queen.” The witches erupted in laughter, which the Grande Sorcière could not help but join. “For one hundred thousand francs per year,” she managed to get out, “and a promise of peace.” The laughter intensified. Isabella jumped up and hugged her mother.

  . . . . .

  In November, upon receipt of payment, Richard married Isabella, making her queen of England, Wales, and Ireland, and the youngest queen in the history of the realm. It was five days before her seventh birthday.

  On the morning of Isabella’s departure from France, the Grande Sorcière had summoned her daughter to issue final instructions to her. Leading her into the secret chamber where Taddea’s candle burned, the Grande Sorcière began, “Always remember that the blood of Our coven’s founder, Taddea, runs in your veins, a coven that has been unassailable for over a hundred and twenty years.” From her pocket she removed a small red glass box that she had enchanted earlier. She carefully lifted the lid a fraction and flame streamed inside the box from Taddea’s candle threatening to douse it, but the lid clicked shut first.

  A glow flickered faintly through the opaque glass as she handed the box to Isabella. “You are to build your coven within the English court the same way Taddea did here. However, their royal bloodline is more fractured than the French was. Many families harbor claims to the throne. You must be thorough in establishing a foundation of control and power. When you have done that, make a candle from human tallow and light it with this flame. We will know and will send more of Our witches to join you at the English court. Then We will move on to Ireland.”

  “Yes, Mother,” replied Isabella, fidgeting with excitement.

  THE FOLLOWING YEAR on the outskirts of Dublin, a woman wearing a floppy bonnet and a frock and holding a basket of turnips watched a plain post-and-wattle house from the shadows across the dirt road. A three-year-old girl with wild red hair played in the October mud of the unkempt yard. Beyond her a woman’s muffled voice could be heard yelling inside. When the door opened, the yelling spilled out in full volume, and Captain John Cooper beat a hasty exit. “Make sure you spread my sheltering water or you’ll be sorry!” shouted Aisling behind him, her voice rising to a screech. “And when you get back—” John slammed the door closed without saying a word, causing Aisling’s voice to become indistinct again. Dutifully, he carried an earthenware jug and splashed its bright yellow contents around the yard. The woman in the floppy bonnet knew it was a potion consisting of Aisling’s urine, steeped with crushed hawthorn leaves for seven days, then infused with a curse—an old method used to prevent Sidhe from stealing human children.

  John shook out the last of the liquid and the used leaves, then quietly set the jug beside the door. He walked over to Deirdre and took an apple out of his pocket, cut it, and placed half into the girl’s outstretched hand, smiling at her. She beamed, and he ruffled her hair, then strode briskly toward Dublin Castle, eating the other half.

  The woman, her face hidden beneath the ample bonnet, retreated in the opposit
e direction. Two miles down the road, she veered toward a farm. Rounding the stable, she found Liam and Earnan sitting on a log, talking to the farmer and his wife, awaiting her. Treasa removed the borrowed bonnet and handed it to the farmer.

  “She’s getting worse,” said Treasa, pulling the baggy frock over her head and revealing her own mail vest. “We should just kill her. I know her husband would be grateful.”

  Liam handed Treasa her sword. “That decision was made long ago, right or wrong.”

  “Wrong, I think,” said Earnan, giving Treasa a quick kiss.

  Treasa grabbed Earnan’s collar and drew him in for a long kiss. “If you go crazy on me, I’ll not hesitate to slit your offending throat.”

  “And Deirdre?” asked Liam.

  “Seems happy enough. John clearly dotes on her.”

  “Good.” Liam sighed.

  Having made his periodic check on his former charge, a lingering duty Liam could not bring himself to abandon, the three mounted their horses and rode west toward home, careful to stay off the road and avoid English patrols.

  . . . . .

  Treasa had left Aisling’s house before seeing Deirdre wander over to a scrubby bush where John had splashed some of the sheltering water. Curious, the child reached toward the plant, still wet with urine. A small spark leaped out and bit her index finger. She snatched her hand back and, angry that the bush had done such a thing, frowned at it. Threads of fire blossomed, dancing among its leaves. The bush crackled, crinkled, and died before her eyes. With a satisfied smile, Deirdre returned to her mud pies, not understanding what she had just done.

  . . . . .

  Half a day’s ride through the stubbled remains of clear-cut forests brought Liam, Treasa, and Earnan within sight of Kellach’s solitary, giant oak, Gormghiolla, silhouetted on the horizon by the sunset, the stockade ringing its base. Leaves had never returned to its branches.