Conjure Wife

by Fritz Leiber

  “This distinction between physics and magic is only an accident of history. Physics started out as a kind of magic, too — witness alchemy and the mystical mathematics of Pythagoras. And modern physics is ultimately as practical as magic, but it possesses a superstructure of theory that mnagic lacks. Magic could be given such a superstructure by research in pure magic and by the investigation and correlation of the magic formulas of different peoples and times, with a view to deriving basic formulas which could be expressed in mathematical symbols and which would have a wide application. Most persons practicing magic have been too interested in immediate results to bother about theory. But just as research in pure science has ultimately led, seemingly by accident, to results of vast practical importance, so research in pure magic might be expected to yield similar results.

  “The work of Rhine at Duke, indeed, has been very close to pure magic, with its piling up of evidence for clairvoyance, prophecy, and telepathy; its investigation of the direct linkage between all minds, their ability to affect each other instantaneously, even when they are on opposite sides of the earth.”

  He waited a moment, then went on.

  “The subject matter of magic is akin to that of physics, in that it deals with certain forces and materials, though these —”

  “I believe it is more akin to psychology,” the voice interrupted.

  “How so?” He still looked at the wall.

  “Because it concerns the control of other beings, the summoning of them, and the constraining of them to perform certain actions.”

  “Good. That is very suggestive. Fortunately, formulas may still hold good so long as their reference is clear, though we are ignorant of the precise nature of the entities to which they refer. For example, a physicist need not he able to give a visual description of an atom, even if the term visual appearance has any meaning when applied to an atom, which is doubtful. Similarly, a sorcerer need not be able to describe the appearance and nature of the entity he summons — hence the common references in the literature of magic to indescribable and nameless horrors. But the point is well taken. Many seemingly impersonal forces, when broken down sufficiently, become something very much like personality. It’s not too far-fetched to say that it would take a science resembling psychology to describe the behavior of a single electron, with all its whims and impulses, though electrons in the aggregate obey relatively simple laws, just as human beings do when considered as crowds. The same holds true of the basic entities of magic, and to a much greater degree.

  “It is partly for this reason that magical processes are so unreliable and dangerous, and why their working can be so readily impeded if the intended victim is on guard against them — as your formulas have to our knowledge been nullified since Mrs. Gunnison stole your notebook.”

  His words possessed for him an incredibly strange overtone. But it was only by maintaining a dry, scholarly manner that he could keep going. He knew that if he permitted himself to be casual, mental confusion would engulf him.

  “There remains one all-important consideration,” he went on swiftly. “Magic appears to he a science which markedly depends on its environment — that is, the situation of the world and the general conditions of the cosmos at any particular time. For example, Euclidean geometry is useful on Earth, but out in the great depths of space a non-Euclidean geometry is more practical. The same is true of magic, hut to a more striking degree. The basic, unstated formulas of magic appear to change with the passage of time, requiring frequent restatement — though it might conceivably be possible to discover master-formulas governing that change. It has been speculated that the laws of physics show a similar evolutionary tendency — though if they do evolve, it is at a much less rapid rate than those of magic.

  For example, it is believed that the speed of light may slowly change with its age. It is natural that the laws of magic should evolve more swiftly, since magic depends on a contact between the material world and another level of being — and that contact is complex and may be shifting rapidly.

  “Take astrology, for example. In the course of several thousand years, the precession of equinoxes has put the Sun into entirely different celestial houses — signs of the Zodiac — at the same times of year. A person born, say, on March 22nd, is still said to be born in Aries, though he is actually horn when the Sun is in the constellation Pisces. A failure to take into consideration this change since the formulas of astrology were first discovered, has rendered the formulas obsolete and invalidated them for —”

  “It is my belief,” the voice broke in, like a phonograph suddenly starting, “that astrology has always been largely invalid. That it is one of the many pretended sciences which have been confused with true magic and used as a kind of window dressing. Such is my belief.”

  “I presume that may be the case, and it would help to explain why magic itself has been outwardly discredited as a science — which is the point I am getting at.

  “Suppose the basic formulas of physics — such as Newton’s three laws of motion — had changed several times in the last few thousand years. The discovery of any physical laws at an” time would have been vastly more difficult. The same experiments would give different results in different ages. But that is the case with magic, and explains why magic has been periodically discredited and become repugnant to the rational mind. It’s like what old Carr was saying about the run of cards at bridge After a few shuffles of a multitude of cosmic factors, the laws of magic change. A sharp eye can spot the changes. but continual experimentation, of the trial-and-error sort, is necessary to keep the crude practical formulas of magic in anything like working order, especially since the basic formulas and the master-formulas have never been discovered.

  “Take a concrete example — the formula I used Sunday night. It shows signs of recent revision. For instance, what did the original, unrevised formula have in place of the phonograph needle?”

  “A willow whistle of a certain shape, which had been blown only once,” the voice told him.

  “And the platinum or iridium?”

  “The original formula mentioned silver, but a heavier metal serves better. Lead, however, proved altogether ineffective. I tried it once. It was apparently too unlike silver in other respects.”

  “Precisely. Trial-and-error experimentation. Moreover, in the absence of thorough investigation. we cannot be sure that all the ingredients of a magic formula are essential in making it work. A comparison of the magic formulas of different countries and peoples would be helpful in this respect. It would show which ingredients are common to all formulas and therefore presumably essential, and which are not essential.”

  There was a discreet knock at the door. Norman spoke a few words, and the figure drew down its veil and turned toward the window, as if staring stolidly at the passing fields. Then he opened the door.

  It was lunch, as long in coming as breakfast had been. And there was a new face — coffee-colored instead of ebony. Evidently the first waiter, who had shown growing nervousness in his previous trips to the compartment, had decided to let someone else get the big tip.

  With a mixture of curiosity and impatience, Norman waited for the reactions of the newcomer. He was able to predict most of them. First a very quick inquisitive glance past him at the seated figure — Norman guessed they had become the major mystery of the train. Then a longer, sideways glance while setting up the folding table, ending with the eyes getting very wide; he could almost feel the coffee-colored flesh crawl. Only hurried, al most unwilling glances after that, with a growing uneasiness manifested in clumsy handling of the dishes and glassware. Then a too-pleasant smile and a hasty departure.

  Only once Norman interfered — to place the knives and forks so they lay at right angles to their usual position.

  The meal was a very simple one, almost ascetic. He did not look across the table as he ate. There was something worse than animal greediness about that methodical feeding. After the meal he settled hack and star
ted to light a cigarette, but —

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?” the figure said. The question was uninflected.

  He roused himself, got up and put the left-overs into a small cardboard box, covered them with a napkin he had used to wipe the dishes clean, and placed the box in his suitcase beside an envelope containing clippings from his own fingernails. The sight of the clean breakfast dishes had been one of the things which had helped to disturb the first waiter, but Norman was determined to adhere strictly to all taboos that Tansy seemed to desire.

  So he collected food fragments, saw to it that no knives or other sharp instruments pointed toward himself or his companion, had them sleep with their heads nearest the engine and their destination, and enforced a number of other minor regulations. Eating in private satisfied still another taboo, but there was more than one reason for that.

  He glanced at his watch. Only half an hour until Hempnell. He had not realized they were so close. There was the faint sense of an almost physical resistance from the region ahead, as if the air were thickening. And his mind was tossing with a multitude of problems yet to be considered.

  Deliberately turning his back, he said, “According to the myths, souls may be imprisoned in all sorts of ways — in boxes, in knots, in animals, in stones. Have you any ideas on this subject?”

  As he feared, this particular question brought the usual response. The answering words had the same dull insistence as when he had first heard them.

  “I want my soul.”

  His hands, clasped in his lap, tightened. This was why he had avoided the question until now. Yet he had to know more, if that were possible.

  “But where exactly should we look for it?”

  “I want my soul.”

  “Yes.” It was hard for him to control his voice. “But how, precisely might it he hidden? It would help if I know.”

  There was rather a long pause. Then, in robot-imitativeness of his lecture manner: “The environment of the soul is the human brain. If it is free, it immediately seeks such an environment. It may be said that soul and body are two separate creatures, living together in a symbiotic relationship so intimate and tight that they normally seem to be only one creature. The closeness of this contact appears to have increased with the centuries. Indeed, when the body it is occupying dies, the soul is usually unable to escape and appears to die too. But by supernatural means the soul may sometimes be divorced from the body it is occupying. Then, if it is prevented from re-entering its own body, it is irresistibly drawn to another, whether or not that other body possesses a soul. And so the captive soul is usually imprisoned in the brain of its captor and forced to view and feel, in complete intimacy, the workings of that soul. Therein lies perhaps its chief torment.”

  Beads of sweat prickled Norman’s scalp and forehead.

  His voice did not shake, but it was unnaturally heavy and sibilant as he asked, “What is Evelyn Sawtelle like?”

  The answer sounded as if it were being read verbatim from the summary of a political dossier.

  “She is dominated by a desire for social prestige. She spends most of her time in unsuccessfully attempting to be snobbish. She has romantic ideas about herself, but since they are too highflown for any reasonable chance of satisfaction, she is prim and moralistic, with rigid standards of conduct. She believes she was cheated in her husband, and is always apprehensive that he will lose what ground she has gained for him. Being unsure of herself, she is given to acts of maliciousness and sudden cruelty. At present she is very frightened and constantly on guard. That is why she had her magic all ready when she received the telephone call.”

  Norman asked, “Mrs. Gunnison — what do you think of her?”

  “She is a woman of abundant vigor and appetites. She is a good housewife and hostess, but those activities hardly take the edge off her energies. She should have been mistress of a feudal domain. She is a born tyrant and grows fat on it. Her appetites, many of them incapable of open satisfaction in our present society, nevertheless find devious outlets. Servant girls of the Gunnisons have told stories, but not often, and then guardedly, for she is ruthless against those who are disloyal to her or threaten her security.”

  “And Mrs. Carr?”

  “Little can be said of her. She is conventional, an indulgent ruler of her husband, and enjoys being thought sweet and saintly. Yet she hungers for youth. It is my belief that she became a witch in middle age and therefore feels a deep frustration. I am uncertain of her deeper motivations. Curiously little of her mind shows above the surface.”

  Norman nodded. Then he nerved himself. “What,” he asked quickly, “do you know of the formulas for regaining a stolen soul?”

  “Very little. I had a large number of such formulas jotted down in the notebook Mrs. Gunnison stole. I had the shadowy idea of working out a safeguard against some possible attack. But I do not remember them and I doubt if any of them would work. I have never tried them, and in my experience formulas never work at the first attempt. They must always be refined by trial and error.”

  “But if it were possible to compare them, to find the master formula underlying them all, then — ?”

  “Perhaps.”

  There was a knock. It was the porter come for the bags.

  “Be in Hempnell in five minutes, sir. Shall I brush you in the corridor?”

  Norman tipped him, but declined the service. He also told him they would carry their own bags. The porter smiled jerkily and backed out.

  Norman crossed to the window. For a moment there was only the giddily-whirring gravel wall of a gully and dark trees flashing indistinctly above. But then the gravel wall gave way to a wide panorama, as the tracks swung around and down the hillside.

  There was more woodland than field in the valley. The trees seemed to encroach on the town, dwarfing it. From this particular point it looked quite tiny. But the college buildings stood out with a cold distinctness. He fancied he could make out the window of his office.

  Those cold gray towers and darker roofs were like an intrusion from some other, older world, and his heart began to pound, as if he had suddenly sighted the fortress of the enemy.

  17

  Suppressing the impulse to slink, Norman rounded the corner of Morton, squared his shoulders, and forced himself to look across the campus. The thing that hit him hardest was simply the air of normality. True, he had not consciously expected Hempnell to manifest any physical stench of evil, any outward sign of a poisonous inward neurosis — or whatever it was he was battling. But this abnormal, storybook wholesomeness — the little swarms of students trooping back to the dormitories and over to the soda fountain at Student Union, the file of girls in white bound for a tennis lesson, the friendly familiar look of the wide walks — it struck at the very core of his mind, as if deliberately trying to convict him of insanity.

  “Don’t fool yourself,” his thoughts told him. “Some of those laughing girls are already infected, with something. Their very respectable mammas have given them delicate hints about all sorts of unusual ways of Making Wishes Work. They already know that there’s more to neurosis than the psychiatry books tell and that the economics texts don’t even scratch the surface of the Magic of Money. And it certainly isn’t chemistry formulas they’re memorizing when that faraway look comes into their eyes as they sip their cokes or chatter about their boy friends.”

  He turned into Morton and quickly mounted the stairs.

  His capacity for surprise was not yet exhausted, however, as he realized when he saw a group of students emerging from the classroom at the other end of the third-floor corridor. He glanced at his watch and realized that it was one of his own classes dispersing after having waited ten minutes — the usual tardy professor’s grace — for him to appear. That was right, he reminded himself, he was Professor Saylor, a man with classes, committee meetings, and appointments. He slipped around the bend in the corridor before he was noticed.

  After standing in front of the doo
r for a few minutes, he entered his office. Nothing seemed to have been disturbed, but he was careful in his movements and on the alert for unfamiliar objects. He did net put his hand into any drawer without closely inspecting it first.

  One letter in the little pile of accumulated mail was important. It was from Pollard’s office, ominously requesting him to appear at a meeting of the trustees later this week. He smiled with grim satisfaction at this evidence that his career was still skidding downhill.

  He methodically removed certain sections from his files, stuffed his briefcase full, and made a package of the remainder.

  After a last glance around, during which he noted that the Estrey dragon had not been restored to whatever had been its original position on the roof, he started downstairs.

  Outside he met Mrs. Gunnison.

  He was acutely conscious of the way his arms were encumbered. For a moment he did not seem able to see the woman clearly.

  “Lucky I found you,” she began immediately. “Harold’s been trying every which way to get in touch with you. Where have you been?”

  Suddenly she registered on him as her old, blunt, sloppy self. With a sense of mingled frustration and relief, he realized that the warfare in which he was engaged was a strictly undercover affair, and that outwardly all relationships were the same as ever. He found himself explaining how Tansy and he, week-ending with friends out in the country, had gotten a touch of food poisoning, and how his message to Hempnell must have gone astray. This lie, planned some time ago, had the advantage of providing a reason for Tansy’s appearance if anyone should see her, and it would enable him to plead a recurrence of the attack as an excuse for neglecting his academic duties.