The Warlock's Curse

by Hobson, M. K.

  “We’ve come for a marriage license,” said Will, his voice sounding too loud in the silence. “We’d like to get married, please.”

  The clerk took them both in at a glance, but said nothing.

  “I’m twenty-one,” Will volunteered, probably too quickly.

  “And I’m eighteen,” Jenny added, with similar haste. The clerk ground out his cigarette and smiled at them both wearily. Reaching behind his desk, he pulled out a handful of forms.

  “All right. These have to be filled out in triplicate. There’s a desk with a pen and ink over there. Bring ‘em back to me when you’re done. You have the twenty-eight bucks?”

  Will nodded, glad that Jenny had thought to leave him the cash. Having Jenny fish the money for their marriage license out from her stocking garter might have made the clerk just the tiniest bit suspicious.

  Together, they went over to a stand-up desk and filled out the papers using the dip pen that rested in an inkwell built into the table. It was not a good pen, and Will’s hand was shaking slightly. He cursed as he kept blotting the forms.

  “Should we give them our real names?” Will whispered to Jenny. He was getting flustered; embarking upon a course of misdemeanory wasn’t his natural sphere of expertise.

  “Of course we have to have our real names on there,” Jenny whispered back. “My lawyer may be crooked, but he’s not crooked enough to get my mother’s estate released to ‘Susie Smith’!”

  “All right, all right ... what’s your middle name?”

  “Elaine.”

  Will wrote their names side by side. It looked so formal: William Wordsworth Edwards and Jennifer Elaine Hansen.

  “William Wordsworth?” Jenny smirked. “Really?”

  “Named after my father, same middle name and all,” said Will. “It’s a family joke. Ma’am hates Wordsworth.”

  Jenny shook her head. “Your family sure is strange.”

  When they were done, they brought the papers back to the clerk, Will trying to control the tremor in his hands. Perusing them, a slight frown passed over the clerk’s face. He looked from Will to Jenny.

  “You live up near Walnut Grove, and you live in San Francisco?” His brow wrinkled. “But you two came all the way out here looking for a license?”

  Will and Jenny looked at each other. Jenny was the quickest.

  “I have family in Stockton,” she said. “We’re visiting them.”

  “You want to give me their name and address?” the clerk countered. Jenny gulped; the clerk narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t think so.” He paused, then looked hard at Will. “And I don’t suppose you brought anyone to vouch for you? For your ages, particularly?”

  Will’s whole body went hot, then cold.

  “Well, no,” he said. “I mean, we’re both old enough. What would we need someone to vouch for our ages for? The very idea!”

  “I’ve got my Vanguard Girls card!” Jenny offered, quickly fishing a pasteboard card out of her wallet. The Vanguard Girls was the nation’s leading organization for the advancement of young women. She showed it to the clerk. While it bore the stamped signature of the organization’s founder—Mrs. Amanda Haynes Reader—it had nothing about Jenny’s age on it. Perhaps Jenny had hoped the card would affirm the unquestionable moral rectitude of its possessor.

  The clerk looked over the card—out of politeness merely. Then he handed it back to her. “I’m afraid that doesn’t cut any ice with the county, miss.”

  “Sir, the truth of it is ...” Will leaned forward, tried to draw the man into his confidence, “Well, we’ve got some explaining to do.”

  The clerk looked at Will curiously but said nothing. Jenny also looked at him, but he put his foot on top of hers and pressed down, indicating that she should keep her mouth shut. Will leaned forward further and lowered his voice to the barest whisper.

  “My girl here is ... well, she’s in an embarrassing way, if you know what I mean. And we’ve got to break it to her dad. If I can’t show him a marriage license, he’s going to take after me with a shotgun.”

  “And rightfully so,” the clerk said. But it was clear his interest had been piqued. Will had often noticed that men who read dime novels liked a little scandal.

  “I want to do what’s right, sir,” Will said. “And I’d be much obliged if you’d help us out in this matter.” Without quite knowing what he was doing, or what the ramifications might be, Will reached into his pocket for one of the bills Jenny had given him. He didn’t realize that it was a hundred until he was sliding it across the counter, but by then it was too late to take it back for something smaller. The clerk barely glanced at the note before putting his hand over it.

  “All right, circumstances being what they are ... and it’s the holiday ... I’m going to grant you the certificate today.” He pulled out a stamp and a pad and stamped all the documents, signing his name at the bottom of each one. “You need to take these over to Judge Lawson to get them officiated. He’ll be none too pleased to see you given he’s probably nursing a hangover. He lives just off Fremont Square, a few blocks up from here.” The clerk wrote out an address. “He’ll do the service, and his housekeeper and her husband can be your witnesses. Then you bring the signed papers back to me, and it’ll all be square. But you’d better make it quick, I’m going home at four.”

  Will glanced up at the large clock above the door; it was already well past three. He touched the brim of his cap to the clerk and took Jenny’s arm.

  “C’mon!” he murmured to her. “If we want to be married today, we’ll have to run!”

  They dashed to the judge’s house, a fine expensive home that looked out onto a neatly groomed park. He was not, as the clerk had imagined, nursing a hangover; he had solved that painful inconvenience by getting drunk again. This meant that it took several tries for Will and Jenny to explain the nature of their visit, and then additional time to convince him that yes, it was indeed necessary to complete the transaction even though, technically, the day might be considered a holiday. Once the judge had been convinced of this, there was an additional amount of convolution when he learned that Will and Jenny did not intend to solemnify their vows with a visit to a priest; as a result, he insisted on reading some lines from the Bible to lend an air of sanctity to the proceedings. Throughout all this, Will shifted nervously; Jenny, to her credit, stood calm and cool and collected, with the air of one who believes that her plans will succeed. Will kept looking at the clock on the mantel; it was ten minutes to four by the time the judge pronounced them “man and wife.”

  The housekeeper and her husband, who had served as witnesses, invited Will to stay for cake and sherry, but there was no time to waste. Offering quick thanks, they ran back to the county recorder’s office, making it to the door just as the clerk was taking out his keys to lock it.

  “I guess you just made it!” The clerk took the papers from them and looked them over. “I halfway didn’t think you’d get old Judge Lawson to stay awake long enough to sign these.” He stepped inside the office and stamped all three copies. Two of these he threw into the teetering in-box to be dealt on Monday; the third copy he handed to Will.

  “There now, it’s official.” He took Will’s hand and shook it heartily. “Congratulations, son.” He tipped his hat to Jenny. “I hope you’ll both be very happy.”

  Will and Jenny staggered out of the courthouse, both of them feeling a bit dazed. It was another warm afternoon, and the brightness of the sunlight and the gentle hush of the palm trees that fronted the courthouse made everything seem very strange. By mutual silent agreement, they sat down on the courthouse’s marble steps, gazing together at the license in Will’s hand. They both stared at the paper for a long time, at its official red stamp and firm black-ink signatures. Finally, Jenny took it from him, folded it neatly, and tucked it inside her purse.

  “Congratulations,” Will said to her.

  “You too,” she returned.

  “So now what?” he asked. “Straight to
San Francisco? That’s over eighty miles, and it’s kind of late in the day to be getting started.”

  “I’m tired,” said Jenny. “And I’m hungry.”

  “We’re going to have to find someplace to sleep, then.” Will stretched out on the stairs, putting his hands behind his head. “We could just bum it.”

  She stared at him in angry horror. “William Edwards, I am not going to spend my wedding night sleeping in a public park!”

  “Well then?” Will propped his head on his elbow and looked up at her. “What’s it going to be?”

  Jenny didn’t say anything, but chewed her lip anxiously. Every detail of Miss Murison’s training was clearly militating against the very thought of checking into a hotel with a boy—even if they were just friends. So, she was beginning to understand the temperature of the soup she’d gotten herself into, was she? Her mostly misplaced virginal hesitancy gave Will a moment of unkind satisfaction. Sitting there with her, in the failing light of a November evening, the scope of their mutual impulsiveness was beginning to dawn on him too, and he didn’t want to be the only one suffering from it. But then again, fair was fair. He’d agreed to this as well, and they’d sworn a partnership on a spit-shake. It was too late for second thoughts or recriminations.

  “All right, how about this,” he spoke with careful casualness. “The Hotel Stockton is just up the way, and it’s awful nice.”

  Jenny nodded, but did not speak.

  “We’ll get a couple of rooms, then we’ll go find dinner, and see a show or something. There’s lots of places I know from coming here with Pask. Okay?” When Jenny didn’t answer, he nudged her ankle with the toe of his shoe. “C’mon, Scuff. You’re not going to go all soft on me now, are you?”

  She looked up at him, but still did not speak.

  “There’s always something good at the Yosemite Theater,” he said. “Last time I was here with Pask, we saw an old warlock who could sorcel up fireworks that would make your eyes pop.”

  Jenny remained silent.

  “And look, I even got money. My own money, I mean. I’ll treat you.” He dug the silver dollar out of his pocket, the one his father had given him. He flipped it at her and she caught it, looked it over.

  “Another birthday present from my father,” said Will. “So as you can see, he’s not only a bastard, he’s a cheapskate too.”

  Jenny turned the silver dollar over and over in her hand, examining it for a long time before she finally spoke.

  “But don’t you understand, William? This is a wonderful present.” She looked up at him. “Don’t you know what this is?”

  Will shrugged. “It’s just an old silver dollar.”

  “No, it’s more than that. It’s more than just what a dollar can buy, or the silver in it, or the beautiful engraving of Liberty enthroned beneath thirteen stars. It’s a trade dollar.”

  “So?”

  She tilted her head and looked at him. “Haven’t you ever heard of Gresham’s law, William?” It was a purely rhetorical question, for she continued on immediately: “It refers to the tendency for bad money to drive good money out of circulation. Gold and silver fluctuate in value depending on how much of them are on the market at any given time. In the 1870s, we had all those big silver strikes in Nevada, and silver flooded the market. That made silver into bad money ... because there was more supply than there was demand. Because there was less gold and more silver, people spent silver and kept gold. Do you follow me?”

  “Sure,” said Will, though he wasn’t entirely sure why they were taking the journey in the first place.

  “Now this coin,” Jenny continued, holding it up to the light, “was created by a man named John Jay Knox—a San Francisco banker. He knew that there was a great demand for silver coins in Asia, especially China. So Mr. Knox created these—purely for export, mind you. Trade dollars.”

  “But they started to show up in circulation here in the States, because silver producers—who still had far too much silver on their hands—could have their silver minted into trade dollars. And they didn’t bother sending them overseas, they just dumped them into the market. Over time, as more and more silver was found, and the price of silver decreased, their value just kept going down. At one point, the value had fallen so far you couldn’t get even eighty-six cents for this dollar! And employers, wise to this opportunity for arbitrage, began buying them at a discount and using them to pay their workers—Gresham’s law at work!”

  After this, she fell into a silent contemplation of the coin, so entranced that Will finally had to snap his fingers in front of her face to get her attention. When her blue eyes rose to meet his, they were sharp and bright.

  “So the point of your story,” he summarized, with a wry smile, “is that I should like this coin because it was created out of greed and became less and less valuable over time?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m saying that you should respect it because it is fascinating. Because it makes you think about everything money really is. Money is the ability to do things—but only if you believe in it. And more importantly, if other people believe in it. What makes a silver dollar with eighty-six cents of silver in it worth eighty-six cents ... when a pennyworth of paper printed by the United States Treasury is worth an actual dollar? Why will one give you more power to do things than the other?”

  “I have no idea,” Will said. “Hey, weren’t we going to go find a hotel or something? Or are we going to spend our wedding night talking about John Jay Knox and the price of silver in China?”

  Jenny grinned as she flipped the dollar back to Will.

  “Don’t you dare spend that,” she said. “It’s a very special thing, and someday you’ll be glad you have it.”

  Will shrugged as he tucked the silver away. He didn’t believe her, but it was nice to see Jenny smile again.

  “The Stockton sounds good to me,” she said. “But no magic. It gives me the creeps. I want to go dancing.”

  Will grinned. “Now that’s more like it, Mrs. Edwards.”

  Chapter Four

  Dancing with the Dorians

  The Hotel Stockton rose up behind a galleria of shops that ran along Weber Avenue. It boasted the most modern accoutrements, including refrigerated air, a glass-enclosed rooftop garden, and a fine restaurant overlooking the deepwater channel to the Pacific.

  When Will and Jenny went to see about rooms, Will was surprised when the deskman greeted Jenny with warm recognition.

  “Miss Hansen! How lovely to see you again! Are you in town to see your sister?” The man looked sidelong at Will. “Is your father joining you?”

  “No,” said Jenny. “I’m here alone.” She paused, catching herself. “I mean, I’m here with my husband.” She took Will’s arm and hugged him close. “We’ve just been married today.”

  Will thought the desk clerk would float to the ceiling, he was so entranced by this notion. He actually clapped his hands together with delight.

  “Oh, how lovely! Many, many congratulations!” The man beamed at them. “This calls for a celebration. I will put you in one of our best suites.” He snapped his fingers for the bellhop, but the only luggage they could produce was Jenny’s calfskin handgrip and Will’s leather toolbag.

  They and their meager belongings were shown upstairs to what was certainly one of the hotel’s most impressive suites. There were three rooms—sitting room, bedroom, bath, all enormous. Like the rest of the hotel, they were done up in the old mission style, with heavy fumed-oak furniture upholstered in soft sueded leather, creamy stucco walls accented with bright glazed tile, and hammered bronze light fixtures with mica shades. Along one wall, behind curtains of silk, tall French doors opened onto a broad pillared balcony. No sooner had the bellhop left than a porter arrived, bearing a bottle of French champagne in a tub of ice and two crystal flutes on a silver tray. “With the hotel’s compliments,” he said, tipping his red cap smartly after he’d laid these out.

  Will sank down onto one of the leather s
ofas. “Is that it? Or should I be expecting the mayor to walk through the door with the key to the city?” He paused, watching as Jenny unpinned her hat. “Call it a guess, but I think you’ve stayed here before.”

  Jenny laid her hat aside, setting the hatpin neatly atop it. “I wasn’t lying when I said I had family in Stockton. My sister Claire is here, at the Stockton State Hospital, just up California Street. Dad and I have been here a half dozen times since the hotel opened, visiting her.” She tried to open the bottle of champagne, but the cork was too slippery and her hands were shaking too much. Will took it from her and buried it back in the ice.

  “Nix on the booze,” he said. “We should eat something first.”

  “Right.” Jenny glanced at herself in a nearby pier mirror, made a face. “I’m going to get cleaned up.”

  While Will waited, he cursorily examined the appointments of the room—lifting a knick-knack or two—then stepped out onto the balcony, leaning on the rail to look out over McLeod Lake and the deepwater channel beyond. As he was gazing at the bustling commercial piers and heavy freight steamers, an idea struck him. The room also had a telephone. Hurrying back inside, he picked up the receiver and spoke to the hotel operator. She said that, yes, she could certainly get him a line to Detroit. It would be well past dinnertime there, Will knew, but Mr. Waters had always said that Mr. Grigoriyev kept odd hours.

  Pressing the smooth cool rubber of the receiver against his cheek, Will listened silently as the operator contacted several of her sisters across the United States, intricately negotiating a connection across many different exchanges.

  Finally, heart pounding, he heard the cracking, distant, quiet sound of a deep, basso “This is Grigory Grigoriyev speaking.” Will waited for the operator at the far end of the line: