The Crafters Book One

by Christopher Stasheff

  “You know, Master Amer,” he said, “I’m beginning to like you quite well.”

  “That’s not surprising,” Amer said.

  Death looked at him sharply. “Sorcerer,” he said, in a tone of great severity, “have you been casting more spells in my direction?”

  “Oh, no! Nothing of the sort,” Amer said. “It’s merely that absinthe makes the heart grow fonder.”

  “I’ll overlook that remark,” Death said, “if you’ll fill my glass again. But wormwood this time.”

  “Try it with some juniper-flavored gin.” Amer poured three measures into a glass.

  “I notice that you are showing no more effects of your drinking than I do,” Death noted.

  “Mashter’zh on’y had two shnifterzh o’ brandy,” Willow slurred.

  “I haven’t much tolerance,” Amer confessed. He followed the gin with a dash of wormwood, and handed it to his guest.

  Death tasted a drop. “Not bad.” He tasted another. “In fact, it’s quite good. Is this your own invention, Master Amer?”

  “It is,” Amer said, very pleased. “What do you call it?”

  “Well, I named it for the saint on whose day I first tried the mixture.”

  “And that was . . . ?”

  “Saint Martin’s Day.”

  “It appears to be excellent,” said a fat, rasping voice.

  “May I have some?”

  “Why, certainly,” said Amer. He had poured the wormwood into the glass before it occurred to him to wonder where the voice had come from.

  He turned and saw an enormously fat man dressed in a huge black cape and conical, flat-topped, broad-brimmed hat with a tarnished brass buckle. His whole face seemed to sag, giving him the mournful appearance of a bloodhound. But the sadness of his face was belied by his mouth, which curved in a wide grin of insane glee.

  “Amer,” said another voice, a feminine one. “May I introduce you to Master Moggard, Warlock-General of New England and Vice-Chairman of the Universal Brotherhood of Sorcerers.”

  Amer turned and saw Samona standing nearby, the glow of victory in her eyes.

  “Who is it?” said Death, for he sat facing the fireplace in a high-backed wing chair, and Samona and the sorcerer were behind him.

  “Samona and a—um—friend,” Amer said, looking at Death. “They seem to have . . .” But he stopped there, for he saw pits of fire at the back of the skull’s hollow eyes.

  “Master Moggard,” Samona said, “this is Amer, the man of whom I told you.”

  Moggard waddled forward, holding out a stubby, hairy paw. “Charmed,” he croaked.

  “I’m glad you are,” Amer murmured, rising to grasp the acid-stained appendage.

  “No, no,” Moggard said. “Not I. It’s you who are charmed—or will be shortly.”

  “Indeed?” Amer said, freeing himself of the warlock’s clammy grasp. He turned and poured the juniper gin into the glass with the wormwood. Turning again, he placed it in Moggard’s hand.

  “Would you care for something, Samona?”

  “I believe I would,” she said. “Amontillado?”

  “Of course.”

  Moggard waddled about the cabin, inspecting apparatus, thumbing through notebooks, examining powders. He turned back to them as Amer was handing Samona her glass.

  “Excellent, excellent,” he said, rolling up to them. “You have a superb laboratory, Master Amer.”

  “Thank you,” Amer said, bowing in acknowledgment of the compliment. He remained wary.

  Moggard turned to the bookshelf and leafed through another notebook. “Yes, indeed! You have amassed an amazing deal of knowledge, Master Amer.” Then, thoughtfully, “Perhaps a bit too much.”

  “Oh?” said Amer. “May I ask exactly how I am to interpret that statement?

  Moggard sighed—or rather, wheezed—as he replaced the volume.

  “You are not, if I am correct, a member of the Brotherhood, Master Amer?”

  “The Brotherhood?”

  “That is to say, you have gathered your knowledge with no other—ah—‘being’s’ help?”

  “Certainly. 1 have extracted all of it by myself.” Amer’s voice rang with a note of pride.

  “Ah. So I feared,” Moggard said. “I am sure, Master Amer, that you can appreciate our predicament. We cannot have a man practicing without—ah—having been initiated.”

  Amer’s gaze sharpened. “I wasn’t aware you had any jurisdiction over the situation.”

  “Not technically, perhaps.” Moggard’s smile turned toothy. “But we have ways of influencing affairs, for people who disagree with us. For example, I’m certain you have realized that your expulsion from Salem was not purely spontaneous.”

  Amer frowned. “That the goodfolk did not originate the notion of my being a warlock? I was aware Samona had put the idea into their heads. . . .”

  “But you also must have realized that a female, so young and with so little influence, would not have sufficed to arouse so fierce a movement.” Moggard crowded closer. “No, no, she had a great deal of support from some very influential citizens, very influential.”

  “Such as . . . Goody Coister? And Sexton Karrier?”

  “Them, yes.” Moggard nodded vigorously. “And others—there were several others, all substantial citizens.”

  “And all members of your coven.”

  “Not mine, no; my coven is elsewhere. But of the Salem coven, yes. We did wish it to be lethal . . .”

  Samona looked up, shocked.

  “. . . so that the problem you represent would have had a final solution—but unfortunately, you were too adroit for the mob.”

  “The action was ill-considered.” Amer frowned. “It will rebound on you—not immediately, perhaps, but it will rebound.”

  “Oh, I think you underestimate us—as we underestimated you. No, the knowledge and skill you have demonstrated make you a problem of great significance.”

  “Why, thank you!”

  “I assure you, though it is a compliment, it is also a statement of menace—so you will understand that we must revoke your powers.”

  Amer smiled slowly. “May I ask how you propose to accomplish this?”

  Moggard pursed his blubber lips thoughtfully. Then he said, “It’s somewhat irregular, but a man of your ability merits the courtesy.”

  Meaning, Amer realized, that Moggard hoped to frighten Amer out of his dedication to God and goodness, and add both him and his powers to the coven.

  Grinning again, Moggard said, “Master Amer, all your powers are based on knowledge of certain laws which your investigations have revealed, are they not?”

  “They are.”

  “Then I am certain you realize what the consequences would be if these laws were suspended in a certain area and if that area were to surround you, rather like a cloud, no matter where you were to go.”

  The smile faded from Amer’s lips. “You have the power to do this?”

  “Yes, my—ah—superior has arranged it for me.”

  “And of course you would not hesitate to use it.”

  “Of course.” Moggard’s grin widened. “Unless, of course, you were to apply for membership in the Brotherhood.”

  “I see.” Amer’ s voice was calm, but his face was white. He turned away and looked at the fire in the grate. “And if I don’t choose to apply, you will cancel my powers by suspending all natural and supernatural laws within my immediate area.”

  “That is correct.”

  “The forces that hold the tiniest bits of matter together would lose their hold—and everything about me would turn to dust.”

  “To a dust so fine that we could not see it,” the warlock agreed.

  “Including food.”

  “Ah, I see you have grasped the essence of the situation,”
Moggard chortled.

  “In short, if I refuse to sell my soul, I die by slow starvation.”

  “Indeed you would! Admirable perception, sir! Really, you delight me.”

  “Starve!” Samona turned to the warlock sharply. She was white-faced, and her lips trembled as she spoke. “No, Moggard! You said you would do no more than make him powerless!”

  “True, my dear, but at that time I had no idea that he had garnered so much—ah—wisdom.”

  “I’ll not let you harm him!”

  A new glint appeared in Moggard’s eye, and he waddled up to her with a rapt, fascinated stare.

  “Oh, do try to stop me, my dear!” he gurgled. “Such an act would make you liable to discipline” —and his voice dropped to a low, giggling tone— “of my choosing.”

  Samona backed away from him, revolted and trembling. Giggling, Moggard followed her.

  “Let her be!” Amer shouted, brandishing the poker. Moggard spun, and then he waddled up to Amer, and his giggling became almost hysterical.

  “So you, too, wish a display of my powers?”

  Amer fell back. A bony hand shot out and closed round his wrist. He stared down into the flaming eyes of Death.

  “Loose me!” Death said in a low, angry voice. “Loose me and I’ll rid you of him forever!”

  Amer stared at Death, and then he looked up at Samona, pressed blanched and trembling against the wall. He shook his head slowly.

  “Are you a fool?” Death hissed. Then, in a tone of mild disgust, “Don’t worry, these two have convinced me you’re no sorcerer.”

  Amer just shook his head again.

  “Why?” Death’s voice was hoarse with rage. But then he realized that Amer was looking at the witch, not the warlock. He sat back in his chair, glowering at the alchemist.

  “I see,” he said bitterly. “Thus are men made powerless. I’d thought better of you than that, Amer.”

  “Come, sir!” Moggard gurgled. “Will you sign your name in our—ah— ‘captain’s’ book? Or will you die?”

  Cold determination crystallized within Amer. He stood straight and tall, giving the sorcerer a stony glance. “I have never had any dealings with the Devil, Master Moggard, and I will not have any now—even at the cost of my life.”

  “As you will, then,” Moggard giggled, and his voice had the sound of twigs crackling in a fire. He stretched out his paw and spoke a polysyllable that was mostly consonants, and Amer saw the objects around him dissolve as all laws, natural and supernatural, ceased. In a few seconds everything near him was powder.

  Including the miniature skeleton, the wire, and the table and with them, the spell that held Death bound.

  Death shot to his feet, and the skeleton hand closed on Moggard’s neck. The sorcerer turned to stare into the flaming eye sockets, and his face had scarcely registered his horror before he fainted.

  “You see what comes of cowardice, Amer,” Death said. “Had you loosed me when I asked, I might have spared your witch for you. But now she too must come with me.” And he stalked toward Samona.

  “Wait!” Amer shouted. “Give her a chance. Can’t you spare her if she gives up her witchcraft?”

  Death halted. He fixed his blazing stare on Samona.

  “Your absinthe was good,” he said. “This one time I’ll be clement.”

  Amer breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Come then, she-devil,” Death said. “Which will it be? Life or damnation?”

  Samona looked from Death to Amer and back again, and then she stood away from the wall and straightened her back.

  “I don’t have much choice, do I?” she said, and the look she threw at Amer was pure hate. “Yes, I renounce the darkness.”

  “Well enough!” Death turned and stalked to the door, dragging Moggard along like a rag doll. He paused with his hand on the latch and turned to Amer.

  “Farewell, alchemist. You’ve won your witch. But I wish you luck, for you’ve made a bad bargain.” And Death threw open the door and in two long strides was lost in the stormy night. The cabin returned to normal, but only for seconds. Then the wind shrieked in joy and tore into the cabin.

  It raced around the room, overturning furniture, smashing glassware, and triumphantly hurling notebooks into the fire. It fanned the flames and howled with glee.

  Amer fought his way to the door and shoved it closed. The wind screamed in rage as the door pinched it off, and blasted the cabin with the finest imprecations in its vocabulary as the alchemist shot the bolt.

  Amer leaned against the door, catching his breath. Then, with a smile which, considering the smiler, could be judged as sizzling, he turned to Samona. But the smiled faded and Amer fell back against the door as he looked at her, for the wind had blown her hair back over her shoulders, and Amer suddenly became acutely aware of her femininity.

  Samona frowned, puzzled—Amer had never behaved in such fashion before.

  “Wha’sa matter?” Willow asked.

  “My protection drug,” Amer gasped. “It wore off an hour ago!”

  Then Samona realized her advantage. She advanced on him relentlessly, with a smile on her lips and victory in her eyes, and she pulled his mouth down to hers and kissed him very thoroughly.

  And in her arms we must leave our friend Amer, for he has finally been completely and very capably bewitched.

  The Art of magic, Crafter’s joy,

  From Nature’s passion takes its part,

  The spirit’s talents to employ,

  And celebrates the gifted heart.

  Yet purest Art, the Crafter’s flame,

  Allowed to blaze without control,

  Much like the fires of Hell, can maim,

  Can char the kindler to the soul.

  Science of magic, Crafter’s pride,

  Calls laws of Nature to its aid,

  And, using reason as its guide,

  Treads patterned paths by logic laid.

  Yet strictest Science, Crafter’s rule,

  Can claim emotion as its price,

  And intellect, if kept too cool,

  Might wither feeling with its ice.

  Holding but one, the Crafter’s bane,

  Works contrary to Nature’s way.

  Unbalanced strivings, all in vain,

  Bring darkness to midsummer’s day.

  Yet blending both, the Crafter’s goal,

  Achieves the harmony required

  To form from parts a balanced whole

  And spells both reasoned and inspired.

  Anno Domini 1684

  SAMONA sat putting up her hair by the light that filtered through the waxed parchment window. The dark wisps around her face were dry, but the heavy ringlets stayed a little damp. Amer loved her hair—at least, at night, in bed, he did. In daylight hours, he was a different man altogether, rarely noticing any of the things she wore to please him.

  Samona slipped another comb into her coiled braid and sighed. Amer Crafter. Her husband—finally. So many years, so many mistakes.

  Her reverie was interrupted by a vigorous knocking at the door of their log cottage. Knowing that Amer would take care of it, Samona took her time fastening a fresh collar onto her blue dress.

  She came out the bedroom doorway to find her husband sitting in his chair, a piece of parchment in his hands. Beside him stood three men, merchantmen from the look of their rough clothes. Like Amer, none of the men wore wigs or powder. The biggest, a fellow with a long, lugubrious face and frizz of orange ponytail, was speaking.

  “ . . . and as we’re men of peace, with a good proposition in hand, Goodman Crafter, here we are to parley with ye Ye’11 see that there charter to scavenge for buried treasure is signed by King Willie hisself, all nice ’n’ legal like. Allowing as we give the king his one-fifth part—oh, pardon, ma’am.”
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  “My wife, Samona Crafter,” said Amer, his blue eyes never leaving the paper. “Samona, this is Master Caleb Brown, a retired seaman, he says. And here are his partners, Frederick Churcher and—?”

  “Seth Markham,” said the third man, small and swarthy with pox-marked skin. “And very pleased to meet ye, Goody Crafter.”

  “It’s needing a dowser we are, ma’am,” said Brown.

  “We’ve had it confirmed that Peggity Hank Barlo’s bunch buried an iron pot filled with gold bullion and Spanish pistoles along a certain inlet of the Schuylkill River—”

  “—and the witches of these parts are of no use on such a project,” added Churcher, a slope-shouldered man with nervous movements, “We heard your husband was the best ‘cunning man’ along the coast, so we come to ask him to take a short voyage with us on the Fortunate Osgood, docked just there in Boston harbor.”

  A thrill went up Samona’s spine to hear men talk so casually of treasure. What little money she and Amer had came mostly from the white magic Amer did for the people of the Salem countryside: removing the coven’s curses, dowsing for wells, some medicinal and magical remedies. But it wasn’t much—it wasn’t much at all. “This, then, is a paying voyage?” she asked in her most businesslike voice.

  Brown rubbed his chin. “Well, we ’us thinking, maybe a small deposit now, but then one-twentieth of whatever we find. And it looks certain to make us wealthy men, missus, that it does.”

  Oh, one-twentieth, thought Samona. As if in response, she felt a small flutter in her belly. Before she could say a word, however, Amer rolled up the parchment and handed it back to Caleb Brown.

  “No, gentlemen. I’m sorry for you to make the trip for naught, but I won’t be able to help you with the dowsing.”

  “But—?” said Samona.

  “One-tenth,” said dark little Markham. “And not a bit more.”

  “No,” said Amer again. His lips were set in a straight line. He rose and ushered the men out the door.

  Samona stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched, and watched them go. She knew she was glowering in the way Amer hated, but she couldn’t help herself. “Amer,” she said in a low voice. “That could have made us rich. What were you thinking about?”