The Witching Hour

by James Gunn

  She seemed to be in her early twenties, which gave me almost a decade on her. The other women didn’t look much older, it was true, but there was a maturity to them, and a youthfulness in her that revealed itself in an impish grin. She knew she was being inspected, and she didn’t care.

  She laughed again. It was a pleasing, girlish sound. “Have a program, Gabriel.”

  She handed me a booklet from a stack beside her. I took it, wondering if her eyesight was unusually good. It would have to be to read my name plate. I still had it in my hand.

  I leaned forward to read the name on the card attached to the exciting slope of her white, knit dress.

  “Call me ARIEL,” it said, “or pay me five dollars.”

  “Ariel?” I said. “Where’s Prospero?”

  “He’s dead,” she said simply.

  “Oh,” I said. That was the trouble with being an uninitiate. You couldn’t say anything for fear of saying the wrong thing. “Thanks for the program, Ariel. And the support.”

  “Any time,” she said.

  I started to turn away. A large, jovial man with white hair barred my path.

  “Ariel,” he said over my head. “It was sad news about your father. The society won’t seem the same.”

  She murmured something while I glanced at the card on the broad chest in front of me. It demanded that it be called Samael.

  “It’s a disgrace that he’s got you here passing out programs like a neophyte,” Samael said. “You should be up on the platform with the others.”

  “Nonsense,” she said. “I volunteered. And in spite of what my father was, I’m just an apprentice.”

  “Tut-tut,” he said. I listened with fascination. I didn’t think anyone said “Tut-tut” anymore. “You’re an adept if there ever was one. I’d match you against any of them.”

  “Excuse me,” I said, trying to squeeze past.

  “Samael,” Ariel said. “This is Gabriel.”

  The large, red face swiveled around to inspect me. “Gabriel, eh? I’ve heard fine things about you. Great things are expected. Great things indeed.”

  He’d heard about me? “You haven’t heard anything until you hear me blow my trumpet.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Exactly.” He turned back to Ariel. “How did your father die, my dear?”

  “Oh,” she said slowly, “he just seemed to wither away.”

  “Wither!” the word had connotations to the red face that bleached it white. “Oh, dear. Withered, eh?” He was backing away, shaking his head in distress. “Very sad. Very sad indeed. Ah, well, we all must go. Good-by, my dear.”

  I looked at Ariel. She was staring sadly after the rapidly disappearing white hair. “That’s what always happens,” she said.

  Just then I saw my man come out of a small door in back of the platform and climb to the top of the stage. “Who’s that?” I asked quickly, incautiously, touching her arm.

  “I wish I knew,” she said slowly.

  “He’s a stranger?” I said, surprised.

  “Of course not.”

  “Then who is he?”

  “He’s the Magus.”

  “The Magus.”

  “That’s what we call our chairman.”

  “But what’s his name?”

  “He calls himself Solomon.”

  “Or pays five dollars. I know,” I sighed. “See you around, Ariel.”

  The seats had begun to fill up, but the back row was still empty. I wandered over and sat down. Overhead the crystal chandeliers tinkled their eternal music. In spite of the fact that I couldn’t feel a breeze.

  I wasn’t playing it smart. I was blundering along, giving myself away at every opportunity. The girl, now — she knew I didn’t belong here. But she didn’t seem to care. How many others knew?

  It had all seemed so simple at first. Here’s a thousand bucks. Find out a man’s name.

  A name, a name. What’s in a name? Gabriel, Ariel, Prospero, Samael, La Voisin (and how the hell did she sneak in?), and now Solomon, the Magus. I should have told the old lady that. I should have said, “What’s in a name?”

  I sat there alone in the office for a long time, talking to myself the way I’d got in a habit of doing. It was a bad habit, but it was better than listening to the spiders spinning their webs in the corners and across the door. I sat there flipping a quarter, because it was my last quarter, and telling myself that, if it turned up heads, I would walk out of the office for the last time and go down and spend the quarter for a hot dog and a cup of coffee and then start looking for some honest work.

  But no matter how many times I flipped it, it always came up tails. Finally I let it lay on the blotter.

  Casey, you’re a dope.

  “You’re telling me.”

  Private detective! Private sucker! You can be talked into anything.

  “Don’t rub it in.”

  “Why waste your life teaching? Start living. Get where the money is!” Junior partner! Junior moron!

  “I know. I know.”

  He’s gone. The money’s gone. Neither one of ‘em’s coming back. Get out of here. Get a job. Start teaching again.

  “In the middle of the semester?”

  Get a job, then, where you don’t need brains. Because you haven’t got any.

  And I stared down at the quarter and thought about a joint bank account that was no more and a partner who was in South America or South Africa or south New Jersey, and when I looked up the little old, gray-haired lady was looking lost in the big chair. It was the one respectable piece of furniture in the office, except for the desk and that was somewhat marred by my heels. The chair, of course, was due to be repossessed any day now.

  I must have looked startled. I hadn’t heard her come in.

  “I knocked, but you didn’t seem to hear me,” she said. Her faded blue eyes twinkled. “Shall we talk business?”

  “Business?” I said.

  “I want you to find a man.”

  “Who?”

  “If I knew that, I wouldn’t need a detective, would I?” she asked briskly. “He’ll be coming into the lobby of the hotel around the corner between nine-thirty and ten o’clock tomorrow morning. You won’t have any trouble recognizing him. I’m sure he’ll be tall and slim, with dark hair, graying around the temples, very distinguished-looking. He’ll be wearing evening clothes.”

  “At ten o’clock in the morning?”

  “Oh, yes. And he’ll have a pentacle in his lapel.”

  “A what?”

  “A five-pointed star, made of gold and engraved with symbols.”

  I nodded as if I understood. It was a good piece of acting. “What do you mean, you’re sure he’ll look like this and that? Haven’t you seen him before?”

  “Oh, yes. I saw him yesterday. I’m sure he won’t trouble to change.”

  “Change what?” I asked with heavy sarcasm. “His clothes or his face?”

  “Either. But I can see I’m confusing you. Oh, dear.”

  Confusing me. That was the understatement of the year. My head was spinning like the wheels of a slot machine. I should have called the whole thing off right then, but I looked down at the top of the desk and hit the jackpot. Beside the quarter was a rectangular piece of paper printed green. In each corner was a figure “1” followed by three lovely symbols for nothing. One by one the wheels clunked to a stop. This I could understand. I picked up the bill and turned it over. I crinkled it gently. It seemed genuine.

  I looked at the little old lady sitting in the chair, her spectacles perched on the end of her nose, and I didn’t remember seeing or hearing her get up to approach the table.

  “Will that be enough?” she asked anxiously.

  “To start on,” I said, and I was lost. “Let me get this straight. He’ll be coming into the hotel lobby about ten in the morning. I spot him. I tail him — ”

  “And make very certain he doesn’t know you’re doing it. Very certain. It could be dangerous.”

 
; “Dangerous, eh?” I stared at the bill in my hand. Maybe it wasn’t so big after all. Not that I’m afraid of danger. Not in moderate amounts. I just wasn’t sure I wanted a thousand bucks’ worth. “I tail him, and then what?”

  “You find out his name.”

  “His name?”

  “His real name.”

  “I see, he’s going under an alias.”

  She hesitated. “I guess that’s what you call it. But you must remember that he’s very skillful at — at disguises. If you see him get in a car and see someone get out later looking much, much different, you mustn’t be surprised. His name will be the one I want.”

  “I get it,” I said. I really did. The old lady had a monomania. She had been looking under her bed for so long that she had started seeing things. And now she wanted to know his name. You wouldn’t have suspected it, just looking at her, but monomaniacs are usually completely normal except on one subject. Nobody would show up in the lobby. I would charge her for a day’s work and expenses and give the rest of the money back to her. Hell, if I turned her down, she might go to someone who wasn’t ethical, who would give her a fake name and keep the whole thousand. It was the only thing to do. Also I was hungry. “Where will I get in touch with you, Miss — Miss — ?”

  “Mrs.,” she said. “Mrs. Peabody. You won’t.” She hopped up spryly. “I’ll get in touch with you.” I got a final faded-blue flash of twinkling eyes as she swept out the door and was gone.

  I leaped to my feet and reached the door in three strides. I tore it open and looked down the corridor both ways. Blankly. The corridor was empty. I had wanted to ask her something. I had wanted to ask the name the man was going under, his alias. Mrs. Peabody had really hired herself a detective.

  Casey —

  “Shut up!” I snarled.

  I went back to the desk and studied the bill for a long time. I almost didn’t make it to the bank.

  Solomon. That was his name. So what? There were lots of people named Solomon. I knew one myself. Sol the Tailor. But he had a last name. You don’t go up to a person and say, “I’m Solomon.” Not unless you want the other person to reply wittily, “And I’m the Queen of Sheba.” It wasn’t such a hot alias.

  I looked down at the program. It had a shiny black cover. Across the top it said:

  THIRTEENTH ANNUAL

  COVENTION OF THE MAGI

  October 30 and 31

  In the middle was a seal, an odd-looking thing of two concentric circles enclosing what looked like the plan of an Egyptian burial pyramid. Not the pyramid itself but the corridors and hidden chambers and transepts, or whatever they’re called. In the corridors and between the two circles were printed letters in a foreign alphabet I did-n’t recognize.

  The seal looked familiar. I looked at my name card. The same seal.

  I leafed through the program. There were the usual advertisements. I read them with interest. They would give me a clue to the society.

  One of them was illustrated with engraved five-pointed stars. “PENTACLES OF GUARANTEED EFFICACY,” it said. “Consecrated. Guaranteed. P. O. Box — ”

  Pentacles. I didn’t know what they were, but if I ever needed one, I’d know where to get it. Guaranteed, too.

  Another ad touted a book entitled: One Hundred Spells for All Occasions. Revised, with Mathematical and Verbal Equivalents Printed Side by Side. “Satisfaction or Your Money Back.”

  Spells? I frowned.

  There was a long list of books that could be obtained from the Thaumaturgical Book Shop for prices ranging upward from one hundred dollars. All were listed as manuscript copies. Heading the list were The Grand Grimoire, Constitution of Honorius, Magia Naturalis et Innaturalis, Black Raven, D. Joh. Faust’s Geister und Hollenzwang, Der Grosse und Gewaltige Hollenzwang.Farther down, the list shifted into Latin: Sigillum Salomonis, Schemhamphoras Solomonis Regis, De Officio Spirituum, Lemegeton…

  At the bottom, all by itself, was Clavicula Solomonis. “The true Key of Solomon. In his own hand.” That was priced at ten thousand dollars. At that, it was dirt cheap. I shook my head. A manuscript written by Solomon himself!

  I skipped over the page of the day’s program and continued my inspection of the ads. You never realize the fantastic things you can buy until you chance upon a specialized bulletin like this.

  Magic wands (cut from virgin hazel with one blow of a new sword), quill pens (from the third feather of the right wing of a male goose), arthames (tempered in mole blood), black hens and hares, nails (from the coffin of an executed criminal), graveyard dust (guaranteed …

  It was fascinating. Also, it identified the nature of the society. It was a professional organization for stage magicians. The names they used were their stage names. The things advertised were their tools, their props. Still, it was all so serious. “Guaranteed. Satisfaction or Your Money Back,” The words and phrases were everywhere. Nothing was labeled as an illusion.

  I shrugged. It was some kind of esoteric joke. I turned back to the list of the day’s activities and puzzled over it for a moment. It was headed October 30, and it was the only page. Where was the one for October 31? I shrugged again. I decided I had been given a defective program.

  I glanced down the page:

  OCTOBER 30

  10:30 SPELL and GREETINGS by the MAGUS

  10:45 WITCHCRAFT - A DERIVATION

  10:50 SAFETY IN NUMBERS - THE COVEN

  11:00 THE ELEMENTS OF THE ART (with examples)

  11:30 CONTAGION - WHY SPELLS ARE CATCHING

  12:00 IMITATION - THE SINCEREST FORM OF SORCERY

  12:30 CALCULUS, THE HIGH ROAD TO BETTER FORMULAE

  1:00 Recess

  3:00 PRACTICAL USES FOR FAMILIARS

  4:00 ALEXANDER HAMLTON’S CORBIE

  5:00 LYCANTHROPY - A DEMONSTRATION

  That stopped me. I was sweating and the sweat was cold. I knew what lycanthropy was. It meant people turning into werewolves, and they were going to demonstrate it. They were crazy, all of them, and the sooner I was out of here, the happier I would be.

  “You don’t belong here,” someone said softly.

  I looked around quickly. Ariel was sitting beside me, her head close to mine. In other circumstances I would have enjoyed it. Now I drew back a little. “You’re telling me,” I said. “I mean, why do you think that?”

  “It’s obvious. You didn’t know Solomon. You act like a stranger. And I happen to know that Gabriel is dead.”

  “Did he wither away?” My voice was shaking.

  “No, he was hit by a car while he was crossing a street. I don’t think anybody else knows.”

  I was wearing a dead man’s card. “That does it,” I said, getting up. “I’m leaving.”

  She had hold of my coat. She was yanking it vigorously. “Sit down,” she whispered, looking around anxiously. I sat down. “You can’t leave now,” she said. “They’d get suspicious. And they don’t take any chances. I won’t give you away. Wait until recess, when everybody leaves.”

  I pointed a shaky finger at the program. “But this — this — ”

  She looked at me, and her eyes were wide and blue and innocent. “It’s only magic.”

  “Magic!” I squeaked. “Real, honest-to-God magic?”

  “Of course,” she said. “What did you think it was?”

  I had ideas on the subject, and they didn’t coincide with hers. Magic? Madness was more like it. The only question was who was crazy: she, all of them, or me? She didn’t look crazy. The rest of them didn’t look crazy. They looked like handsome, intelligent people gathered together to discuss their profession. Magic? Oh, no! Not today. Not here and now in a big metropolitan hotel with the sun shining and cars in the street outside and airplanes flying overhead and people going about all the little details of their everyday business.

  Spells and magic wands and graveyard dust. Witchcraft and formulae and sorcery.

  “Ouch!” I said.

  “What’s the matter?” Ariel asked anxiously. />
  I rubbed my thigh. I was awake all right. It was bad news. If I wasn’t asleep and they weren’t crazy, I was the one who was off his rocker.

  The man called Solomon was on his feet, standing behind the lectern. Everybody else was seated, and the place was almost filled. Against the black drapes, Solomon’s face floated whitely above a triangular expanse of shirt front, and his disembodied white hands hovered in the air for silence. They got it.

  He began to speak. His voice was low and resonant and clear, and I couldn’t understand a word he said. His fluttering hands gestured a strange accompaniment. He finished, smiled, and launched into a general welcoming speech to the society that could have been repeated word for word to any professional meeting in the country.

  Ariel leaned toward me. “The first thing was an Egyptian spell,” she whispered. “Asking that we be blessed every day.”

  “Damned decent of him,” I growled, but it was to hide the fact that I did feel happier. Well, not happier exactly. There was a word for it, but I didn’t want to use it. Blessed.

  The first five speakers on the program were as dry as only the learned can be when they are discussing their specialties. Even the audience of initiates grew restless as they expounded their technicalities and quibbled over minutiae.

  And I sat in a state of shock. They were being dull about magic. They were being pedantic about sorcery. And a pragmatic belief in its existence as a practical, usable force lay behind everything they said.

  One of them demonstrated, etymologically, that witchcraft is the art or craft of the wise. Another pointed out the significance of the medieval satanist groups of thirteen, which were called “covens,” and why their annual meeting had been named as it was this year, and the thirteen rows of chairs in the room, each with thirteen chairs in it, and the number of people in attendance — exactly one hundred and sixty-nine.

  The audience murmured. Ariel stirred beside me. “I don’t like it,” she said. “I was afraid of this.”

  If I had not been dazed by a continual bombardment of the impossible, I might have come out of the meeting with a liberal education in the theory and practice of magic. The next three speakers went into it thoroughly.