by Robin Jarvis
When enough of a parting had been made in the thicket the alchemist put Jupiter on the ground then knelt down. Bringing the lantern closer to the stone he passed his hand over the carvings. “There is an inscription here,” he murmured, squinting at a moss-covered patch. “Some of the letters have worn and crumbled, the others are clogged with soil.” He fell silent as he clawed the grime of nearly a hundred years away with his fingernails. “There,” he muttered, “that ought to be... aaah, yes. Listen to this.
“Under me lie the mortal bones of Magnus Augustus Zachaire.
May the Grace of God Almighty give mercy to his blackened soul.”
Doctor Spittle gave a small chuckle of satisfaction then struggled to his feet. “All is well,” he announced to Will. “Now that I am certain, we can begin.”
“Do you mean to... to dig him up?” asked Will nervously.
The old man regarded him with some surprise. “And what use would that be pray?” he cried. “Do you think he was interred with his secret written on the lid of his coffin? I should think that highly unlikely—I am more than fortunate to have found his resting place. The mob might have left him in the Fleet to drift out to the open sea. No, there will be no use digging up old bones—I have another plan in mind.”
Will felt cold; it was obvious that the alchemist would definitely have made him dig if he thought there was anything to gain by it. Was there nothing this wicked old villain would stop at? The boy looked down at the kitten and wondered why it had been brought—was Doctor Spittle really attempting to train it as a familiar?
“Give me the bag!” the alchemist said abruptly. “It is now well past midnight and we have much to do before sunrise.” He took the bag from Will and foraged inside. “Book, candles—one, two, three, four—chalk, string, banishing bell, knife, powders, containing vessel, wand. Yes, I think we can begin.” He took out a large book, bound in battered old leather, and flipped through the vellum pages. When he had found the desired place, he lay the volume on the grass and brought the lantern a little closer.
Will peered at the open pages; there were no words there—only intricate patterns. The old man looked up and saw the puzzlement on his face. “I believe I told you of my intentions this night,” he began.
“You said you were going to call on Magnus Zachaire.”
“That is still my aim.”
“But he’s been dead for years and years!”
The alchemist grinned and nodded slowly. “Even death is no barrier to one who has studied as I have done.”
“I don’t understand,” breathed Will although the truth was beginning to dawn on him.
“I told you it was no use digging up old bones,” cackled Doctor Spittle. “Far better to speak to the man himself. Do you not agree my young dog?”
Will gasped, “That’s impossible!”
“For you and the rest of the rabble in this stinking rat hole of a city perhaps,” returned the old man pompously, “but not for Elias Theophrastus Spittle!” Taking a knife and a small pouch from the bag he rose and, with a dramatic sweep of his arm, wrapped the robe about him. “Enough talk!” he roared. “We must commence.”
Brandishing the knife over his head the alchemist called out, “Bless this blade O Illuminati, guide my hand that it may cut straight and true.” From the sack he pulled out a quantity of black cloth; it resembled the habit worn by monks and he folded this, then lay it upon the ground before the headstone. Around the garment he proceeded to inscribe a large triangle in the soil with the knife and declared, “Let this be the appointed gateway.”
With the hairs rising on the back of his neck, Will watched as Doctor Spittle delved into the pouch and sprinkled some grey powders into the narrow furrows. “What is that?” he ventured.
“Simply a mixture of charcoal and salt,” the other replied, “harmless to us but effective against—other forces.”
“What forces?” the boy asked with a sick feeling in his stomach.
Doctor Spittle turned a grim face on him. “I am going to summon up the spirit of Magnus Zachaire,” he whispered. “Now be silent! I shall need all my wits about me for the next procedure.” He took another look at the book and studied the designs on the page. “Should I make one mistake in marking out the field of force then we are doomed. Stand here and bring Jupiter with you. Now take hold of this.” He passed one end of a long piece of string to Will and tied the other around the handle of the knife. “Keep it pressed firmly to the ground,” he instructed. “On no account leave go or your very soul shall pay the consequence.”
Carefully he drew a large circle with the blade, making sure that the line was unbroken. Then he wound some of the cord around the handle so that the next circle he traced was smaller. With great pains Doctor Spittle gouged esoteric marks and symbols in the space between the two rings, scrutinising his work keenly to be certain all was perfect.
“Now heed my words,” he told Will. “You must not move outside these markings until I give you leave. Do you understand?”
The boy swallowed nervously and nodded.
“Very well, and be sure to keep my familiar with you—if even he breaks the circle all is lost.” Will took Jupiter in his arms and held him tightly. The alchemist then poured the powders into the grooves he had laboriously etched into the soil.
Will shuddered—this was worse than digging up a grave. He had heard about conjurers and necromancy but he had never thought to meet one let alone participate in such a frightening ceremony. He was afraid to stay, yet even more afraid to run.
Now Doctor Spittle placed the four candles around the outer circle and lit them from the lantern. In this eerie ring of light he took up a slim wand and said to Will, “How strong is your courage, dog?”
“I am not certain, sir,” the boy replied warily. “I used to think I could meet any peril that this world might fling at me but...”
“Just so,” hissed the old man. “You are wise to make the distinction. What you may see tonight will require a steady nerve for you must remain silent throughout. Do nothing to distract me once the ritual has begun and on no account cross the outer circle.”
Doctor Spittle then stroked Jupiter. “And you my little familiar, you must also remain where you are. Your task tonight is to watch and learn—see how your master achieves his goals.” The kitten purred back at him, its golden eyes following his every movement.
The alchemist held up the wand and began the incantation. “Here me O lords of the Underworld!” he shouted. “Elias Theophrastus Spittle invokes thee! All you sufferers of good and creators of evil listen now to my words!” He called out several Latin phrases then pointed the wand at the candles. The flames spluttered and sparked. Spitting white fire they grew taller and tapered high into the dark heavens.
Will shrank to the ground, his lip trembling with dread. He bowed his head and prayed to be spared this night. “Mercy on us,” he breathed.
Doctor Spittle flung his arms out and with a commanding voice boomed, “Magnus Augustus Zachaire! I call you from the cold earth. Escape the bonds of Death and come forth. By the great names of power I summon you. Enter the Sign of Fire and appear before me!”
Abruptly the trees and bushes began to sway as a strong wind rushed through them. It gusted around the churchyard and tore between the tombstones.
“APPEAR!” Doctor Spittle commanded forcefully.
The very ground trembled at the sound of his voice; the candles began to shake and their flames dwindled down to their normal size. The alchemist held his breath and stared intently at the triangle in front of him.
Within that simple shape a faint mist began to form. At first it curled up out of the ground, softly hissing from the soil, gathering into a thick carpet of grey fog. Yet it remained within the allotted space, forming a perfect triangle; and although it bubbled and billowed upwards it could not cross those lines drawn by the blade. Gradually it stole over the black gown that had been placed there. Fine wisps of smoke pulled at the cloth and
then, very slowly, the garment began to move. The grey mist engulfed the material, smothering and oozing through its folds until it soaked into the fibres.
Will watched in disbelief as the habit rose off the ground and was lifted into the air. The pale mist wreathed itself about it and, by degrees, the shape filled out. It was as though some invisible figure had pulled the gown over its head. But beneath the hood there was no face—the unearthly vapour swirled where the head should have been and between the hem of the gown and the grass below there was only empty air.
Doctor Spittle surveyed the faceless spectre appreciatively. With a pleased smile on his lips he lowered his outstretched arms and asked, “Is this in truth the shape of Magnus Zachaire that stands before me?”
From the darkness under the hood there came a soft, sibilant answer, “In truth it is.” The voice was hollow and echoed as though calling from a long way off. Goose-pimples pricked out over Will’s skin for that sound chilled him to the marrow—it was like hearing a snake speak in a human voice.
“Do you know why I have called you from the grave?” asked Doctor Spittle.
“I do.”
“Then tell me the solution to the riddling message. Reveal unto me the secret of the Philosopher’s Stone.”
“Verily it shall be done,” said the apparition. “Rivers of gold shall flow under thy hand. Thou shalt be blessed with wealth undreamt of by mortal men. The treasuries of all the kingdoms in the world will be as nothing compared to thine. The key to the ultimate fortune is the prize I offer to thee.”
“Yes! Yes!” drooled the old man feverishly. “What is the answer to the riddles?”
“Give me a parchment and the means to write and the secret shall be thine.”
The alchemist rubbed his hands together and gave a greedy chuckle. Crouching down he snatched up the book and tore out one of the end pages.
A sleeve of the habit reached out and a ghostly hand formed at the end of it. The long fingers extended and groped the air impatiently. “Give it to me,” the disembodied voice told him.
Doctor Spittle was still hunting for a chalk in his pockets. “Beyond the dreams of avarice,” he sniggered to himself.
Will was terrified, yet his eyes were transfixed upon the supernatural figure which beckoned the old man forward. In the boy’s arms Jupiter wormed and struggled to get free. Then, with one great kick of his hind legs, the kitten darted out of his grasp and before Will could stop him, ran between the alchemist’s legs.
“All the wealth of the world,” Doctor Spittle chuckled. “Here good spirit, yield thy knowledge to me.” He moved towards the phantom figure when suddenly a fierce squeal stopped him in his tracks.
The old man glanced down, startled out of his all-consuming greed. There was his familiar—he had trodden on his tail. Doctor Spittle growled angrily at the cat for getting underfoot, then he choked. Only now did he realise the enormity of his folly. The perimeter of the outer circle was only a fraction away from the toe of his boot. He had been about to step over the line!
Quivering with alarm he dragged himself back into the safety of the inner circle and Jupiter hurried after him. The alchemist stared at the kitten with overwhelming gratitude then glared at the wraith that still waited with its hand outstretched.
Trickster!” he bawled. “Thou evil fiend, begone from this world—I did not summon thee. Thy time is over, return to the Pit from whence thou earnest.”
Foul laughter issued from beneath the hood and the figure leaped into the air. “I am not so easy to dispel, puny mortal!” crowed the wailing voice.
The mist flowed out from the gown and beneath the hood two points of light glimmered into existence. The voice continued to laugh, only the sound was clearer now and grew louder with every passing moment. Plumes of thick, black smoke shot up from the candles as they crackled and the flames became red as blood.
With the infernal glow glinting in his ginger fur Jupiter snarled and arched his back. His hackles stood on end and he prowled around the inside of the circle pawing the air with his claws as the apparition took on its true form.
With a rush of blistering heat, fierce flames shot out of the soil and blazed within the triangle. The reek of sulphur flooded the churchyard and the gowned creature stamped its hoofs on the baking ground, revelling in all its evil splendour. Then, at last it threw back the hood and fixed its gleaming eyes upon the fools who had summoned it.
Will’s scream pierced the night itself as he fell to the ground and hid his face. Doctor Spittle cowered back from the awful sight of the fiend before him. All his strength drained away as the horror he had released unfurled great wings of darkness and towered over him. In a panic he stumbled backwards, tripping over the bag in his haste. A dull ring sounded as his boot struck something metal. The alchemist hesitated, staring down at the thing which rolled out by his foot. As the shadow deepened about him and as the vile, nameless creature beat its wings, the old man raised his head and a defiant grin lit his face.
“Begone!” he shouted. “Avaunt from my sight!”
Only cruel, mocking laughter answered him and the hellish fires burned more furiously than ever.
Doctor Spittle snatched the object from the ground and waved it over his head. At the touch of the cold metal his old confidence returned. It was a brass hand bell that he held aloft and in a steady voice he said. “Now do I banish thee!” And he rang the bell with all his might.
The clanging noise had an immediate effect upon the nightmare that confronted them. It covered its ears and shrieked with pain and then, it was gone. An empty black gown dropped to the ground.
The cemetery was as quiet and still as if nothing had happened.
Doctor Spittle dragged his hands over his eyes and let out a relieved and thankful sigh. “It is over,” he told Will. “You may look about you. Our unwelcome visitor has departed.”
Will lifted his head and peeped through his fingers. The candle flames were back to normal once again and there was not a trace of that eerie mist or the awful stench of sulphur. But the earth inside the triangle was black and scorched.
“What was that thing?” he stammered.
The alchemist cleared his throat. “That, my young dog, was only one of the minor demons. They are forever artful and always try to deceive. I fear that I am too credulous; for a moment I was deluded. If I had stepped outside the circle then... well I won’t make myself ill by dwelling on that.” He bent down and picked up his familiar. “How fortuitous that Jupiter was more vigilant than I. A happy chance it was that joined the separate threads of our lives. I bless the night you brought this little fellow to my shop. Do you realise that he saved both our souls? Well done my fine furry friend.”
Jupiter purred and rubbed his chin against the old man’s hooked nose.
Will hugged his knees; it was colder than ever now. “Can we return to the shop?” he asked.
“Return to the shop?” cried Doctor Spittle. “Have you forgot our task, dog?”
“But you’re not going to continue?”
“I most certainly am,” he sniffed. “One mischievous demon isn’t going to put me off. Besides, we shall see no more of those tonight. This entrance is closed to them now—they cannot abide the sound of bells you know.” The old man pulled the robe about him to keep out the chill, then brandished the wand again.
Chanting the same incantations he made curious signs in the air and roared, “Magnus Augustus Zachaire—come forth! I grow weary of this charade but am prepared to continue till judgement day if need be!” And he stamped his foot petulantly.
The blackened earth of the triangle groaned and a small crack appeared along the breadth of it. Out of this fissure a shimmering blue shape emerged. It was not mist this time, more like the surface of a river when the moonlight strikes it. Tiny stars of sapphire drifted up through the ground and zoomed in the air like angry fireflies.
Will gaped as this new manifestation crept out of the cindered soil. Who would believe the horrors
he had witnessed this night? he thought to himself. He had come a long way since he left the peaceful village of Adcombe, and the road had been a dark and forbidding one. With every desperate turn the path of his life seemed to get grimmer, although he doubted if he would ever again be as afraid as he had been this night.
A glimmering cloud now hung in the air. The stars within it pulsed and flashed, their soft radiance falling upon the boy’s face.
“Who is it that calls Magnus Zachaire?” came a weary voice.
“Elias Theophrastus Spittle.”
The stars dimmed. “I do not recognise that name. Did I know thee in life?”
“I was not even born when you were of the body.”
“What year is this?”
“1665.”
The shapeless cloud stirred. “Hath it indeed been that long?” came the distressed and sorrowful voice. “Why dost thou wrench me from my rest? Who art thou to disturb me so?”
Doctor Spittle folded his arms. “I have come to discover your secrets,” he declared, “if you are in truth who you claim to be.”
At the centre of the glowing vapour the light welled up as the stars melted into one another. From this brightness a face appeared, as clear as blue glass, yet with all the features well defined. It was the face of a man.
He was lean, with a large Roman nose and piercing eyes. A neat little beard covered his sharp chin and the dark hair was swept far back above his forehead. About his neck there was a ruffed collar, of the type worn many years ago when Elizabeth was England’s monarch. The cloud dissolved into a damasked doublet that was slashed at the sleeves to show the silk underneath. This vision floated above the ground, flickering from time to time, fading then shining.
“Verily I am Magnus Zachaire,” it snorted, “or rather was.”
“Excellent,” murmured Doctor Spittle, “then you shall tell me—”
“Hold!” interrupted the spirit. The deep blue eyes glittered as they regarded the alchemist. “That robe you wear—is that not mine own?”