Warlock

by Ray Garton

The top half of his body, arms outstretched over his head, hung through the door of the boxcar as it rumbled past . . .

  . . . Kassandra, who dropped her nails and broke into a stumbling run, her eyes locked on the glint of silver on the warlock’s bobbing wrist as it passed by.

  Her sixty-year-old legs pumped frantically, arms reaching, until she was almost close enough to touch the hand but—

  —she began to lose her balance, leaning too far forward as she ran, and had to waggle her arms to steady herself, clubbing the side of the boxcar with the hammer, until she regained her footing.

  Closer.

  So close she could make out the tiny charms on her bracelet, so close she—

  —lunged forward desperately and caught his wrist, holding tight, but unable to keep up her pace and her fingers started to slip, more and more, until—

  —she lost her hold and the wrist slipped away and—

  —the warlock’s hand closed on her wrist and he lifted his head so she could see—

  —his eyes.

  Kassandra lowered her head as her feet began to drag over the ground, her knees painfully dropping down and then, bumping rocks. She screamed when the warlock tightened his grip on her wrist, rolling it in his hand, making bones crunch together, bones already in the gnawing grip of arthritis.

  Although she kept her head down and her eyes on the blurring ground beneath her, Kassandra could feel the warlock’s venomous gaze.

  Lifting the hammer, Kassandra swung down blindly, striking the warlock’s arm with the clawed end.

  He cried out and recoiled, pulling himself into the train.

  Kassandra pinwheeled away from the train, tumbling to a stop against another rail.

  The train roared away, gaining speed.

  Bruised and groaning, Kassandra sat up. She knew she’d lost it. She’d blown her only chance to get her bracelet back.

  The hammer lay a few yards away from her and she crawled on hands and knees to get it.

  When she finally stood with one hand pressed to the small of her back, she held the hammer before her, staring at the peculiar glimmer of silver on the hooked end . . .

  20

  Decisions, Decisions

  Redferne stood over Malachi, who lay on the living room sofa, his eyes covered with bloodied white bandages.

  Over his head, Redferne had hung several brass keys on long strings from a hook in the ceiling. Redferne took the Mennonite’s hand and lifted it to the keys, making them tinkle together.

  “Feel?” he said. “The keys should be spun once each hour, clockways. Meddle not with the dressing. By morn the blood shall stop. You say your son will be back soon?”

  Malachi nodded painfully.

  “Give the woman the instructions. See that she does it.”

  “She won’t do it,” he whimpered.

  Redferne frowned. “Tell me, friend. Are they all like that? The women?”

  “These days,” he said with a whimpered laugh. “Not like when I was young. Of course, you . . . you wouldn’t remember the days when women stayed in the kitchen and lived by God’s law. You can’t be more than—”

  Redferne squeezed the man’s hand.

  Malachi’s face froze in a look of confusion, and then . . . understanding. His lips began to tremble uncontrollably and he pulled his hand away, breathing, “Thank . . . you . . .”

  Redferne backed away from him, wringing his hands. If all went well, Malachi would live.

  But he feared for Kassandra.

  Should the warlock catch her off guard, her fate would be sealed.

  And Redferne would be to blame because he’d chosen to save Malachi. Sending up a prayer for Kassandra’s safety, Redferne turned and faced her in the hallway.

  She stood in dusky shadows, silent for a few seconds. Finally, she asked, “How’s he doin’?”

  She sounded different, somehow.

  She was not angry; that made Redferne feel even worse because she had every reason to be angry.

  “I beg your forgiveness,” he said. “I have no excuse, save . . . well, one life may be a trifle to the warlock, but to me . . . ’tis defeat. Having seen so many die at his hand—”

  “Forget it.”

  “I shall not forget it. You were in great danger because I—”

  “Redferne,” she said, stepping forward. “I said, forget it.”

  Her wrinkles were gone.

  Her skin was fair and smooth, eyes clear.

  Her swollen body had slimmed down to a youthful curvacious figure.

  Kassandra held out her arm, bracelet dangling from her wrist, and whispered, “Got it back.”

  Redferne couldn’t move or speak; he didn’t trust himself. He wanted to embrace her, but wouldn’t allow himself; neither would he allow himself to cry out with joy, but the joy was there, nonetheless.

  “Kassandra,” he whispered, then took a deep breath and held it, silently reminding himself that he’d met Marian while tracking the warlock . . .

  “Let us tarry not,” he said, turning away from her to say goodbye to Malachi. But he just stood in the middle of the room, silently considering what the retrieval of Kassandra’s bracelet meant.

  She would leave him now.

  He would have to track the warlock alone in this alien, heartless place.

  Closing his eyes, Redferne whispered, “Thy will be done,” then knelt beside Malachi . . .

  Kassandra followed Redferne out of the house, still not trusting her good fortune; she kept moving her hands over her body to make sure she was all back to normal.

  “We’ll rebuild the compass,” Redferne said, going down the front steps toward the drive. “The goods are common—brass, copper. ’Tis this—” He held the weathervane out before him, one end dark with blood. “—his blood, that matters most.”

  Kassandra stopped on the steps and watched Redferne go on. He thought she was going with him. She’d been afraid that would happen but, in all the excitement, she hadn’t given it much thought. She knew she couldn’t go after the warlock again.

  Go after him, she thought with a chuckle. I don’t wanna be in the same fucking time zone with him.

  But neither could she just turn Redferne loose to chase him on his own. He had helped her. But they’d made a deal . . .

  “Here,” Kassandra said as she approached him, holding out her keys. “You passed your driver’s test.” He took them, tilting his head curiously. “And take this—” She handed him her credit card. “—for gas. When they hand you the slip, just scribble a name, any name. They never check.”

  “Then you truly are not coming,” he said simply.

  “Truly.”

  He stared at her with accusing eyes, so accusing that she had to look away.

  “Look, you got my car, my money . . . my best wishes. Okay, Redferne? I’ll just . . . catch a bus. And don’t worry about the car. Radio’s nearly shot. I should get a new one, anyway.”

  She started to turn away; Redferne gripped her elbow and she spun on him, angry.

  “Look, we had a deal, okay?” she said quietly. “Just until I got the bracelet back. That was it, man. That was it.”

  “You know what he’s capable of, Kassandra. You’ve seen.”

  “Why do you think I’m not going with you?”

  He stepped so close to her that she could feel his breath on her face when he said, “Hear me well. The warlock holds two parts of the book. This much he confessed. Know you what happens should he gain all three?”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “Hidden within that book—”

  “I don’t wanna know, Redferne, I don’t!” She pulled her arm from him and walked away, but he followed.

  “—within the book—”

  She slapped her hands over her ears, screaming, “I don’t fucking wanna hear it, goddamn you!”

  “You don’t want to hear it, do you,” he growled. “You wish to remain blind to it, don’t you? Ignorance is your solace. What has happene
d to people?”

  The words were bellowed in such a thunderous voice that Kassandra turned to him again and saw tears of frustration in his eyes.

  “What has happened?” he asked quietly. “I see such selfishness here, such . . . such a lack of concern for others, a blindness—self imposed!—to the suffering of other men. Even men of God have become thieving whoremongers. You give no thought to your world, only to your . . . selves.”

  Kassandra turned to the door of the house, but could not go in. She hadn’t felt such a powerful weight of guilt on her shoulders since she’d moved out of her mother’s house.

  She spoke cautiously, not trusting her voice: “I’m sorry, Redferne, but . . . I’m so . . . scared of him.”

  “I fear him, too,” Redferne said. He was standing close behind her. “But we must fight him. I can’t do it alone here.”

  “Redferne . . . I can’t.”

  “Hidden within the Grand Grimoire is the name of God, Kassandra, the lost name of God.”

  “I don’t wanna hear it, Redferne,” she whispered as tears welled up in her eyes.

  “ ’Tis the name invoked during Creation. Witches charge that, should this name—this true name of God—be uttered back to front—”

  “Please . . .”

  “—should the name be uttered in reverse—”

  “Please don’t . . .”

  “—then Creation will undo . . . ’twill reverse, Kassandra.”

  She faced him, crying. “It’s gonna uncreate, huh? That what you’re trying to tell me, here? The world’s just gonna—”

  “All worlds, Kassandra.” He let that sink in. “All.”

  “Ooohh, son of a bitch,” she groaned, scrubbing her face with her hands, “I especially didn’t want to hear that last part. Do . . . do you believe that, Redferne?”

  “I believe the book holds the name. And witches believe the name, spoken in reverse, will unravel life itself.”

  “Well . . . well . . . what the fuck do you want me to do about it?”

  “Help me. As you’ve been helping me.”

  “Yeah, but-but-but that was when I was gonna die.”

  “Now he affects not only you, but all creation. Everything and everyone around you. Is that not important? Even more important? Please, Kassandra . . . prove to me that human beings have not lost their humanity.”

  “Awww fuck. He scares the shit outta me, Redferne, and he knows it. There won’t be any spells next time. No hexes or potions. He’s just gonna kill me. I can feel it.”

  He placed a hand to the side of her face. “Kassandra,” he said and he made the name sound so beautiful. “I’ll not let him harm you. My word.”

  They stood on the porch, eyes locked, for long seconds, and Redferne began to stroke her cheek with his thumb, but then suddenly stiffened, like he had earlier, and handed her the car keys and credit card.

  “You drive,” he said, heading for the car.

  21

  Leavin’ on a Jet Plane

  Traffic moved slow as thick honey just outside of Denver.

  “Do me a favor?” Kassandra asked, leaning tensely toward the steering wheel.

  “Yes?”

  “Pray to your god that we don’t get pulled over, ’kay?”

  “But . . . He is your God, too.”

  Kassandra jerked the wheel to the left, taking them onto the inside shoulder, then she sped past the bumper-kissing cars.

  “We travel north,” Redferne said.

  “Trust me on this, okay?”

  “But if, all along, the warlock has borne east—”

  “Look, we aren’t gonna play tag with this guy anymore.”

  “What would you have us do?”

  “Little kids in sixteen ninety-one ever play a game where they jump over someone’s back? To get ahead?”

  “Leaping frog?”

  “Bingo. Instead of tag, we play leapfrog. We get to that church in Boston. They gotta have records, right? So forget about the warlock. We’ll just find the last part of the book instead. Are you sparked?”

  “But . . . what if the church no longer stands?”

  “Look, I didn’t shoot your plans full of holes.” She glared at him. “Let’s just . . . try it, okay?”

  He nodded slowly. “We shall try.”

  The warlock held the cockerel close to his chest as he started out of the small petting zoo. It was an oval corral set up in front of a dusty little market. Mothers left their children among the chickens and goats and rabbits as they went into the market to shop.

  The warlock had left the train when he began to spot buildings and people. He needed a chicken. Minutes later, he’d found the petting zoo.

  He was surrounded by children and farm animals, but he paid them no attention, wanting to find a private place quickly.

  The warlock bumped a small boy, who looked up and said, “ ’Scuse me.”

  He looked down at the boy and the goat he was petting. The goat nudged his leg with a horn, bleating happily.

  The warlock squatted down beside the boy, smiling, ruffling his brown hair. Hooking a finger under the goat’s snout, the warlock lifted its head and met its big trusting eyes—

  —and they began to spray blood over the boy and the goat squealed and writhed, slamming its head into the boy’s belly, backing up and slamming again and again as the boy screamed—

  —“Mommy! Mommy! The goat, Mommy! Mommmeeeee!”—

  —and one of the goat’s horns disappeared in the boy’s abdomen, silencing his cries.

  People began running from the store to the corral, women calling for their children and screaming at all the blood.

  But by that time, the warlock was across the street, hunkering behind some bushes. He spread his hand over the cockerel’s back, touched his lips to its head, and whispered an incantation. When he placed the bird on the ground, it stood perfectly still. Untucking his shirt, he tore a patch from his shirttail, then stuffed it back in his pants. He wrapped the torn piece around the bird’s head, blinding it.

  Finding eight small stones, he placed them around the motionless bird like the points on a compass.

  “Blinded, this cockerel, to clearly see . . . all places might he and she now be . . .” His voice was less than a whisper, his eyes on the bird. “North or east or south or west . . . find them out at his behest.” Then, in a firm deep voice: “In Zamiel Nascimur . . . Ex Deo Morimur . . . Such are the words . . .”

  Instantly, the bird became alert, its hooded head jerking this way and that.

  He watched . . . waited . . .

  The bird pecked up one pebble. Just one.

  The warlock picked up the stone and removed the bird’s hood, kicking it away with a “Shoo!”

  Then he took out his soggy green pouch of fat . . .

  “Information, what city, please?”

  “Boston, Massachusetts?” Kassandra said. Redferne stood behind her, mesmerized by the airport and all the activity around him. “Um, the West End Church?”

  After a pause, the operator said, “West End Church, please hold for the—”

  “No, no, wait. Is that, like, um, the New West End Church, or the old one?”

  “It’s on Somerset Avenue.”

  Kassandra quickly repeated the location to Redferne. “Nay, ’twould be Somerset Road.”

  “Close enough,” Kassandra said. “Thanks, operator.” She hung up, took his arm, and quickly led him into the shifting crowd. “See? It was a good idea. The church is still there and that’s where we’re goin’. Okay, still got that knife? Gimme it.”

  “My bodkin?”

  “Your knife. We’ll check it with my tote bag. C’mon, c’mon!” She held out a hand and wiggled her fingers.

  Very reluctantly, he handed her the knife and she stuffed it in her bag.

  “Now the whip.”

  “What of it?”

  “They aren’t gonna let you on board with that.”

  He stopped. “On board what?”

/>   “Just gimme the whip.”

  With even more hesitation and a great deal of suspicion, he surrendered the whip to her.

  It wouldn’t fit into her tote, so she quickly wrapped it around her waist a few times and tied it.

  “Stylin’, huh?” she laughed. “Okay, now, let’s go.”

  At the ticket counter, as the attendant—a graying woman in her fifties who chewed a wad of gum quite loudly—punched information into the computer, Kassandra got her charge card from her purse.

  “And where did you find that?” the attendant asked curiously, looking over Redferne’s shoulder.

  “Holy shit,” Kassandra groaned when she saw the weathervane strapped to Redferne’s back. “Where the hell’d you get that, Redferne?”

  “The farmhouse.”

  “Oh, it’s lovely,” the woman said.

  “It’s gone,” Kassandra said. “Get rid of it.”

  He whispered, “I’ll not abandon my every weapon.”

  “Give it to me.”

  “I’ll not!”

  The woman giggled. “You two newlyweds?”

  Kassandra leaned close to Redferne and waved her credit card threateningly for emphasis. “Look, buster, I’m in charge of this safari now, and I say the weatherva—”

  Her words were blocked by a sudden catch in her throat.

  Her eyes had strayed, for just an instant, over Redferne’s shoulder to the crowd moving through the terminal and glimpsed—

  —the warlock. It was just a glimpse and she didn’t trust it, so she looked again, searching this time and—

  —he smiled at her.

  “Keep it,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Would you not argue with me and just keep the fucking weathervane.”

  She faced the ticket counter, shoulders hunched, and watched the woman working at the computer. Her nametag said Shelly B.

  “Shelly, you think you could pick it up just a little?” Kassandra pleaded quietly.

  “I’m finished,” she said cheerfully. “The total is five ninety-six and sixty-six cents. Will that be cash or—”

  “Charge.” She handed over her card and glanced backward quickly. She couldn’t see him, but figured that probably made no difference. He was there. Somewhere.

  With their tickets, they raced through the airport to their gate. In the windowed corridor that led to the gate, Redferne stopped in his tracks, gawking out the windows at the runway outside.