The Magic Circle

by Donna Jo Napoli

  I realize suddenly that I have not brought the plaice fish. I spin around and face the burgermeister. “Bring me . . .” I am about to speak of his sword, but I catch myself in time. The burgermeister is the financial officer of this region, but he rose from a humble source. He may not have a noble’s sword. I must not shame him. “Have you anything blessed?”

  The man looks frightened. “My sword.”

  Relief fills me, but the frightened man’s face is unchanged, of course. He does not know his answer is the best it could be. I wonder where he has banished his wife. He would be embarrassed to show such fear in front of her. “It will be of use,” I say. He hesitates still. “Because it is blessed,” I add to comfort him.

  He leaves and returns with the sword. The hilt is bedecked with amethysts. Asa was born in February, like my mother, whom she is named after. The amethyst is her stone. It is a good sign. And the amethyst wards off drunkenness. I have never been drunk. Yet I know power can make one drunk. The very thought of having the power to heal the child threatens to sodden me like beer. I feel tipsy. Giddy. Yes. I am in need of the amethyst. Oh, yes. It will keep my vision clear. I accept the heavy sword and know that God is pleased.

  “Take everyone from this house,” I say. I look meaningfully at Asa and Bala, who still stand behind the burgermeister. I turn back to the man. “Sit in the shade near water. In the damp and dark.” I know I am using the devil’s words against him. I know that Astaroth will not go near the burgermeister’s family, will not go near Asa and Bala, if they stay in the damp and dark. I feel proud of myself for being so shrewd. Then I quickly repent of my pride. It is God’s shrewdness, not my own, that speaks from my lips. I touch the amethysts of the sword in gratitude and say in a more gentle tone, “I will call you.”

  The burgermeister opens his mouth, but the protest doesn’t come out. I can see the fear that makes his skin clammy. I look past him.

  The walls of this room are covered with maps. But not just maps of the locality. Not just the lands the burgermeister collects taxes from. Also distant lands—with mountains and lakes whose names I have never heard before. I am surprised. A table stands near one wall with a large book open upon it. The burgermeister has earned his post: He is both a cartographer of sorts and a scholar, to at least a small degree.

  I look again at his eyes. They are not now the calm eyes of a man of letters. He is discombobulated by the very fact that he has summoned a sorceress. He thinks I am a lunatic. But he is willing to talk with lunatics if his son will be saved. I can see how much he wants to save his son. I can feel his parched throat. I can hear his banging heart. I almost tell him that he doesn’t need me. He wants to save his son so badly that he could call the devils himself. He doesn’t need a sorcerer. Anyone can tame the devils if their want is strong enough. But this burgermeister would have to enter into a pact with the devils if he were to call them on his own. I do not. I am in league with God. It is my purity that empowers me. The man does need me, after all.

  “Go,” I command. This poor man needs to be ordered. He is beyond judgment and reason. “Go!”

  When we are alone, the boy pulls a wooden boat out from under the bedclothes. He moves it across the coverlet in jerky spasms. He makes it rise and fall, cresting the unseen waves. I think of the boat I crossed the North Sea in with my mother so many years ago. I put the sword down carefully on the floor and watch the little boat’s progress. The boy speaks without taking his eyes from the boat. “Are you a witch?”

  His question is guileless and vulnerable. I am in awe of the control he must exercise to keep himself from screaming if he thinks he is in the presence of a witch. “A witch works for the devils.” I smile kindly. “I am a sorceress—the devils work for me.”

  The boy’s face shows no emotion, no relief at my words. He makes his toy boat founder in the waves of the coverlet. His hands fly around the distressed vessel as if the crew were jumping helter-skelter into the cold sea. Excitement brings color to his cheeks. His fingers are long and thin. His hands seem skeletal. Suddenly he rights the boat and looks up at me. I see the face of the angel he will become. He opens his mouth to speak. I lean forward to learn his secret. He says, “What is your name?”

  A simple question. One any child might ask of any person. The wind of death has transfigured this boy’s body, but inside he is still human, after all. Inside he is still a boy who plays with a toy boat. “They call me the Ugly Sorceress. What is yours?”

  “Peter.”

  “Peter.” I smile at the ordinariness of this boy’s name. I had expected Hogarth or Hubert. A grand name, befitting the son of our chief elected official. I press my lips together and hesitate before the plunge. Then I dare to say the words I have practiced silently. “I’ll heal you, Peter.”

  “You can’t heal me.” The boy’s words are without self-pity. He tucks his boat under the covers and settles back onto his pillows. His face becomes placid. He looks like a miniature man. Almost wizened. “But if you can make me die swiftly,” he says, “without pain, then I won’t object to my father’s paying you.”

  I move closer to the bed, drawn by the hopeless words, It is wrong for one so young to feel alone. It is wrong for anyone to be hopeless. Hopelessness is the bedchamber of the demons. I ache with the need to restore this child’s faith. “Why do you say I can’t heal you, Peter?”

  “You are a hunchback. If you could heal, you would heal yourself.”

  I shake my head at his logic. I can see the burgermeisters discipline in his son. “It is my hump that has made me special all my life. It is God’s mark on me. I carry it willingly.”

  “Then is not this disease I carry also God’s mark?”

  “No,” I say. “It is the work of a devil that inhabits you.”

  “And how do you know?” says Peter, levelly. His fever-ravaged lips split at the quick movements of speech. “Just how do you know the difference? How can you tell what is the work of God and what is the work of the devils?”

  “You aren’t the child I expected,” I say, feeling that if I let my hands loose, one from the other, they will flutter and fly away. There is a corner of a book sticking out from under the boy’s pillows. The edges of the pages are dark and worn. As I look at this book, I realize Peter reads. Yes. He has the logic of one who reads. Not haltingly, as a schoolboy, but with hunger and facility. I am sure words on pages orient Peter’s life. I am absolutely sure of this. I want to reorient him now. I want to waken the child inside, the child that pushed the boat across the imaginary waves just moments ago. I want him to have a child’s innocent hope as we face our fates together. “What is the book, Peter?”

  “This one?” Peter taps the corner of the book but doesn’t pull it out. “I read all the time. My father’s men search for books for me. Sometimes they are gone a whole week, they travel such distances.” His fingers feel the leather of the book cover. They caress. His eyes stay on me. “This is a storybook of a special land, where wolves eat grandmothers.” He stops for effect. I am encouraged. It is good that he wants me to care. I try to look properly impressed. He licks his split lip. “And young beggar girls get to be princesses for a night.” His voice is almost happy, though it lacks timbre. I know from the quality of his voice that his chest is full of infection. I nod. Peter talks more. His dull eyes would shine if they could. “There are enchanted forests where humans dare not tread.”

  “A strange mixture,” I say.

  “A wonderful mixture. Beautiful girls run away from wicked stepmothers and talk to animals and ride on deers’ backs and . . . oh.” His face is wistful. “I would like to ride on a deer’s back.”

  The child within is awake again. I can proceed. “Where is this land?” I ask, though my mind is no longer on this conversation. My mind struggles now with other questions, with questions Peter has brought to me: How do I know that it is truly Astaroth that brings the disease to Peter? How can I be sure that God doesn’t want this disease to be with Peter?

&nb
sp; Peter is still talking, giving directions. He is pointing at a map on the wall near the door. He finishes with “. . . nestled before that set of mountains, and there you are.” He is silent for a moment. “It takes many days, but a healthy person could walk there. Even you. Even a child, if he were healthy.” His voice has a touch of heaviness again.

  I must keep his mind moving. I ask aimlessly, “Have you read about demons?”

  “Much,” says Peter.

  I take interest. “What do you know about them?”

  “Too much to put in a thimble.” Peter coughs and leans back into his stacked pillows. He puts his hands together like a philosopher. I can tell he likes the idea of having a grown-up conversation. He fancies himself an authority. He lifts his chin. “Be specific, Ugly Sorceress. Ask precisely what you want to know.”

  “Be careful,” I say. “Do not speak the name of a demon.”

  Peter nods. “I will be careful.”

  “Tell me, Peter, when do you feel the worst?”

  Peter smiles sadly. “On a morning like today. It is the hot, sunny days, when the other children run and climb and swim and have the most fun, that I am the worst off. In winter sometimes I pass whole days painlessly.”

  “The darkest days?”

  “Yes.”

  “The dampest days?”

  “Yes,” says Peter. His voice shows cautious interest. He coughs the wet, deep cough I expected.

  I sniff. “And the smell of your bedclothes?”

  “It’s not my bedclothes,” says Peter. “It’s me. I’m rotting.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s him.”

  Peter looks at me with the first glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You know who he is?”

  “I know,” and before the word passes to silence, the air itself takes on weight. It presses on my chest and head. It crushes. My throat constricts. I fight to fill my lungs.

  Peter gags. The weight is too much for his weakened frame. He clutches both hands to his throat. I am strong enough for this battle—he is not.

  I take the hollow reed from the bowl of broth, grab the sword from the floor, and rush to the head of the bed. I pry the boy’s hands from his neck. His eyes meet mine, and suddenly, as though in tacit agreement, he puts his hands behind his head and arches his back. For a brief moment I realize he believes he is surrendering himself. I pray he is wrong. I pierce his throat with the tip of the sword. The blood gushes forth. I know that if this fails, if the boy dies, I will be hanged for murder. I jam the reed into the bloody opening of his throat and blow on one end. His chest rises and falls. I blow again. His chest rises and falls. Rises and falls. Finally the air passes through the reed on its own. I need not blow now.

  Peter slowly eases his back down into the bedclothes.

  “It is important, Peter, that I summon the devil properly.” I am panting. “His name must be pronounced exactly right.” And I must hurry, I think. I must hurry before the rigid reed collapses under the heavy air.

  Peter touches his lips. I realize he wants to speak. I blow extra air into the reed; then I cover the end so that when he exhales the air will not exit from the reed, but pass instead through his voice box and out his mouth.

  His eyes are glued to mine. He trusts me. “Demons do things . . .,” he whispers.

  I blow again into the reed and again I cover the end.

  “. . . in reverse,” he says.

  “You’re right,” I cry. Oh, how could I have been so foolish? I have not practiced Astaroth’s name in reverse in my head. But if I don’t call properly, he will not come. What a miserable woman I am! How could I expect to take on the devils when I have never studied the devils? I know less than this bedridden child. Now there is no hope.

  As if the devils can read my thoughts, the air is at once weightless again. Astaroth is no longer alarmed. He tastes success. I know he laughs at me. He wants the burgermeister to enter the room now and see his son swathed in blood. He wants the burgermeister to breathe the light air. He steals all support from my excuse. I look at the red-dipped sword helplessly.

  I should drop this sham and run.

  But, oh, then the boy would die. His skin speaks of imminent death. The hole in his throat provides Astaroth another entry. I must help Peter. He has entered my heart. And he trusts me now. His hope is alive. It doesn’t matter what I know or do not know of devils. The boy has saved me from the error of mispronouncing Astaroth’s name. God wants me here; otherwise, he never would have put the plaice fish in Asa’s hands. Otherwise, he never would have given Peter the interest in demons that allowed him to save us both this time. God is with me. I know this.

  I look out the window. The sun is high. It is afternoon. The shadows will come soon. I cannot run and hide and practice the devil’s name in reverse inside my head. And if I try to come another day, the burgermeister will turn me away. He will never allow me to come near Peter again after I have used his own sword on his son. He will lose faith in me. And woe be to the sorceress who loses the faith of the people, for it is among the gravest of crimes to put yourself forth as a sorcerer and not succeed. You will be condemned as not truly a servant of God.

  I am dressed in my brown cloak, and I dare not strip down to my white shift in front of this boy. He is young, but not that young. It wouldn’t seem right. But even though I’m not dressed in the traditional white of the sorceress, my cloak is good, I know. It has no buttons, buckles, hooks. It has no knots. There is nothing in my cloak that would stop the flow of power from my body.

  I pick up the sword. I marvel to see my hand does not shake. Peter keeps his eyes on me. His respiration is loud and labored. I draw a magic circle around the bed. As it nears completion, the reed in Peter’s throat suddenly squashes shut. I complete the circle as fast as I can. I sit on the bed with Peter, holding both his hands in mine. His chest is still now. He doesn’t breathe. The flow of blood on his throat has slowed to a sluggish welling of drops. His eyes are hot, but he fights the panic. “Htoratsa,” I whisper. The word is flawless. Hallelujah, “Leave this child’s body. Be gone!”

  A hiss of steam rushes around the reed, making it flap piteously. Peter writhes. I pull the reed from his throat and press my thumb over the gaping hole. “Cough, Peter. Cough.” I put my face to his and command, “Cough!”

  Peter’s knees jerk upward and press against his belly. He curls around his middle. It is all I can do to keep my thumb over the hole in his throat. Peter’s mouth stretches open wide—wider than I have ever seen a person’s mouth open. It is as though his jaw is hinged, like a snake’s.

  “Cough!” I shout.

  He rocks and twists and finally spasms. A yellow river of phlegm shoots out and hits the floor. A foul odor fills the room. Peter coughs again and again, each time adding to the pool of phlegm. His chest is like a barrel that must empty.

  Finally, the coughing stops. Slowly, slowly Peter uncurls. He lies back on his pillows. The hole in his throat is closed, though a purple scar has formed. A scar the color of amethyst. He breathes normally.

  One look at Peter’s eyes tells me Astaroth is gone. “God be with you,” I call, to make sure he doesn’t return.

  Peter looks at me in exhaustion. Then the resilience of youth manifests itself. He rises from the bed. He stands unsure, as though the floor might shift under him. He puts both hands to his face and smells. “The rot has stopped.” He runs one hand up his arm. “My skin is cool again.” The whites of his eyes, yellow moments ago, are now the color of thick cream. I know they will be white as clouds before long. He looks at me with wonder. He laughs. He hugs me. “Oh, beautiful sorceress.” Then he runs outdoors, shouting to his father.

  I am stunned at the word. No one has ever used the word beautiful for me before. No one ever will again. It is not the word for a hunchback. I bask in the word for a moment. Then I go outdoors to join the others.

  There is much rejoicing all day.

  At dusk I am sent home with Asa and Bala. Asa’s teeth are smeared with
chocolate. She licks it away slowly, lingeringly. She pulls from her pocket a new candy circle of mint and sings a song about it all the way home. She puts it over the doorway, beside the other. Bala has a miniature star sapphire. I have an amethyst from the burgermeister’s sword. I will use it to draw magic circles in the future. After all, the plaice head has begun to deteriorate.

  Asa and Bala go to bed happy.

  I lie awake and think of Peter. Two things trouble me from today. The easier one is most perilous to my body. I think of how it was Peter’s chance words that made me call Astaroth in reverse. Had I said his name normally, the demon would not have come. I could never have driven him off. Peter would have died. And I would have been slain for falsely portraying myself as a sorceress.

  I must learn as much as I can about sorcery. I must visit Peter and read his books. I cannot let ignorance endanger my life. God tells me now to do these things. God will not tolerate my bumbling in the future.

  But the more troubling thing was Peter’s question: “How can you tell what is the work of God and what is the work of the devils?” I must be able to discern the difference or I may run afoul of God. Who am I to think I have the wisdom to tell the difference?

  I pass a second night tossing and turning.

  In the morning Asa brings me a bucket of crabs. “I used the fish head for bait,” she says. “Look how many.”

  We roast the crabs and eat them. Asa laughs. Her laugh is as clear as a gold bell.

  And now I know the answer. Much knowledge can be gained from reading Peter’s books, but not this kind of knowledge. No. It isn’t up to me to recognize the demons of this world. That is not a human task. God will tell me. All I have to do is listen.

  four

  BAAL

  I sit on the dry grass and look at our cabin. There are circles of green mint stretching from the top of the door up to the pointed roof and down along the eaves all across the front—payment from the many nobles whose families I have served. From here I cannot see the sides of our cabin, but I know the garland of mints goes along the eaves all the way to the back of the house. Perhaps one more year of healing would have brought enough mints to make them meet at the back of the cabin. But the garland will never be complete now.