Magic Times

by Harvey Click

  “I dunno. It was still running when I got here.”

  “Why didn’t you say so? This may tell us what happened.”

  Hatter sat on the sofa beside Jason and switched the tape to rewind.

  “I think we best leave it alone,” Jason said. “I’m s’posed to be guarding things here, and that includes the tape recorder.”

  “Hell’s bells, kid, use your head. There may have been a crime involved, for all we know. Don’t we have an obligation to find out what happened?”

  It took a while for the tape to rewind to the beginning, and then Hatter hit the play button.

  Chapter Nineteen

  DREW: Friday, October five, 1979, 8:48 a.m. I’m about to embark on a spirit quest, and since there’s always some small risk involved, especially for a man of my age, I want to make a few explanatory remarks for anyone who, um…may find me. In that highly unlikely event, I hereby state my express wish that these remarks should be made available to Jason Bottom of Glum Fork, West Virginia, as they are intended particularly for him. Jason, I’ve written a little song that I think will explain things pretty well.

  [Drew clears his throat, hits a few warm-up notes on his accordion, then begins to play and sing.]

  Oh, Poppa laid sweet Marmalade

  and made a little bastard—

  he never had a chance to live,

  Pretty Baby Jasper.

  Da da da da, da da da,

  Pretty Baby Jasper!

  A motorcycle in the hills,

  a pregnant maid on back—

  in slippery rain we take a spill,

  that’s how my life turned black.

  My little Jasper never born,

  an unborn ghost to haunt me—

  poor Marma’s broken, bruised and torn,

  yes, that’s how Yoho taunts me.

  Da da da da, da da da,

  yes, that’s how Yoho taunts me!

  Oh, Marma, Marm, my Marmalade,

  she’s sweeter yet than honey—

  I spread her on my crisp hot toast,

  she tastes so warm and runny!

  Poor Poppa’s back was black and blue,

  too bad he wasn’t dead—

  oh, Marma’s through and baby makes two,

  two died in one cracked head.

  Da da da da, da da da,

  two died in one cracked head!

  Oh, I remember Marmalade,

  my lovely fated bride—

  I’ll love her merry broken bones

  until my bones are dried.

  Through hills of my old brain I roam

  in search of what is gone—

  but then at last he finds my home,

  his blue eyes fresh as dawn.

  Da da da da, da da da,

  his blue eyes fresh as dawn!

  Oh, Marma, Marm, my Marmalade,

  she’s sweeter yet than honey—

  I spread her on my crisp hot toast,

  she tastes so warm and runny.

  Da da da da, da da da,

  she tastes so warm and runny!

  [The accordion ends in a discord. Long pause.]

  Well, there you have it, my dear boy. I trust you can make sense of the story. Even a scientist such as myself has to take notice of coincidences when they’re strung together like beads. First there’s your golden hair, just like hers, and your blue eyes, just like hers. Then there’s the fact that she died in West Virginia. The accident happened halfway across the state from where you were born but, as Bram Stoker wrote, the dead travel fast. Then there’s your birthday, just about exactly the day our baby was supposed to arrive.

  But the clincher was your nickname, Jasper. I wanted a daughter, so I was thinking of girl names, but Marma wanted a son, so she kept thinking of boy names. She must’ve come up with fifty or more, but I’m sure one of them was Jasper. I can’t say I’m positive—it’s been so many years—but I’m ninety-percent sure. Jasper, a precious stone in the throne of God.

  Okay, I admit this doesn’t add up to proof positive, but how many coincidences does it take to screw in a light bulb? But I’m a scientist and I do want proof positive—I want to know for certain whether you’re the reincarnation of my son—and this is why I’m about to embark on a spirit quest. I have performed eight spirit quests in the past, and all of them have provided accurate answers to my questions.

  As for the specifics of the quest, in a few minutes I’ll apply an ointment to my body composed of henbane, Mandragora, Atropa belladonna and a pinch of Datura, the variety known as Gabriel’s trumpet. The exact recipe and method of preparation are described in detail on pages 1,921 and 1,922 of my manuscript. I’ve used this ointment eight times before, and though it’s hallucinogenic it’s quite harmless in the dosage I use.

  I’ve already prepared the ointment. I know the ingredients are pure because Rue Anne brought them to me, and her herbs and berries are always of the highest quality. I requested them three days ago, and she surprised me very early this morning by bringing them by. I say surprised because she and I had a terrible row a couple days ago. This gift from her is a token of our enduring friendship, a sign that she bears no grudge, and I’m grateful for it. I’ve discovered that she has done some terrible things, but deep inside she’s a kind and sensitive woman, and I’m certain I can help her find her better self again.

  I’m going to shut off the recorder now and apply the ointment.

  [Clicking sound as recorder is shut off and back on.] 9:15 a.m. I’m back, sitting here in my underwear. It’s chilly, but I’ve found that a cool temperature is best for a spirit quest because the ointment has a feverish effect. Precisely five minutes ago I smeared three point five ounces of it on my arms, torso, and legs. It should begin to take effect very soon now. So far I feel nothing except the usual burning sensation on my skin, maybe a slight wooziness. I’m going to take my pulse.

  [Pause.] It’s difficult to get a precise reading because my fingertips are becoming numb, but my pulse seems faster than normal, about one hundred. My stomach is feeling very queer. Maybe it’s the ointment or maybe it’s the ham I ate for breakfast. It’s been in the refrigerator quite a while. This room’s damned chilly, in nothing but my underwear.

  [Pause.] I’m beginning to experience unusually vivid memories, as clear as the day they happened. Marma and I had a favorite place we’d go. It was off a twisty back road eight or ten miles outside of Athens, Ohio. We’d climb a steep hill, and at the top was a meadow with a few trees and a large rock to sit on. There was an apple tree that had the most beautiful blossoms in the spring, but in the fall the fruit was hard and sour. Marma used to call it the Place of No Sin because we both liked to imagine it was a prelapsarian paradise, our own personal Eden. Sometimes we saw deer and a few times foxes. Sometimes we’d bring a small picnic lunch and a bottle of wine. Nobody else ever came there, so if the weather was warm we could take off our clothes and dance naked in the grass, and many times we made love on a blanket beneath the apple tree. I can see the place more clearly right now than I can see this living room.

  [Pause.] I feel woozy. It must be the henbane. I feel like I’m floating. Whee! This is fun! Whee!

  [Pause.] My God, what a stinking mess you’ve made of this planet! Millions of people in wheelchairs, millions blind, deaf, maimed, insane, mangled, millions without arms or legs, millions with no homes, millions starving, millions of miserable bastards rotting in the sewer. What the hell’s wrong with you, Yoho? Are you a sadist or just inept?

  [Short pause.] Do you mind that I call you Yoho? Is that too familiar? I’ve never pronounced the four sacred letters, that should tell you I have some respect. Yes, I’m a pretty good toady when all’s said and done, and I demonstrate my respect for you in a thousand ways—you have to admit it. I cross myself and mumble countless prayers and beg forgiveness for every little moment of miserable pleasure I happen to find, and if you hadn’t taken away my legs I’d even be happy to genuflect a dozen times a day. But look what you’ve don
e to me! You’ve reduced me to rubble—I sit in a damned wheelchair and tell fortunes for a living. What are you, some sort of playground bully? A prison warden with a taste for torture? Well, maybe I’ve not been a model prisoner, but I’ve done my time—yes I have. I’ve done many years of hard time in your stinking prison, and I’m getting sick of it.

  [Pause. Shouting.] For God’s sake, get it off me! It’s crushing me!

  [Pause.] Good lord, what am I saying? Hallucinations, beastly visions, goblins and gremlins. I’m feeling sick. Weak and giddy. This is awful. The ointment has never made me sick before. Something is wrong.

  [Pause.] I’m coming unbound, all my pieces are coming apart. Everything is being released, I can see through all the layers. Faces from the past, old places… ripples in a lake, going on forever. There’s my mother. Hi, Mom! She can’t see me. There’s Aunt Maggie, dead all these years now, old prim and proper dried-up prune. I’m falling through time, sinking, sinking fast like a bird with dying wings. There’s my old school room, third grade I think, there’s my old Teddy bear.

  [Pause.] Something is wrong. Terrible headache, dizzy. I’m so sick…weak and giddy. I’ve been poisoned! I’m certain of it. Cyanide—I recognize the symptoms. Rue Anne put poison in the herbs! Need to call an ambulance.

  [Clatter as phone falls to floor.] Damned thing. Can’t reach it, too weak. Looks like it’s a mile away…hands too weak to grasp. Terrible feeling, sharp pain in my chest and arms.

  [Shouting.] For God’s sake, get it off me! It’s crushing me! Somebody help me! Yoho! I’m dying. Heart thudding like a hammer. Pulse rate…three hundred and sixty.

  [Pause. Words slurred and faint.] Give me your crooked, your bent, your broken…. Give me your sick, your sore, your sad…. Give me your cancer, your canker, your scab, your scar, your blindness, your madness, your boils, your bedsores, your broken spine, your broken heart, your tremors, your tumors. I’ll suffer them unto me, I’ll suffer them forever, you can be rid of them. I mean it, Yoho, I’ll take all the pain the world has to offer so there won’t be any left for the living. I’ll do that, Yoho, I’ll suffer all the shit forever.

  [Pause.] I don’t know, forever’s a hell of a long time.

  [Hoarse laughter.] Get it, Yoho? A hell of a long time.

  [Long pause. Words badly slurred and fainter.] Forgive me, forgive me. Get it off me, can’t you? It’s crushing me. I want my Teddy bear.

  [Pause. Words slurred and faint.] Well, I’ll be damned. I’m so light, I don’t weigh a thing. My God, it’s happening, I’m dying, I’m really dying. Terrible pain, but I don’t feel it, it’s miles away. My heart is seizing up. I’m healed and I’m dying. Whee! This is fun. Is the recorder on? I don’t weigh a thing. I can prove it, I’m going to stand up and walk.

  [Dull thud as he falls to floor. Words very faint as if distant.] There you are, Marmalade, rocking in the porch swing. What’s that you’re reading? May I sit down? Here, put your feet in my lap. Let me rub them…. Let’s have a picnic on the hilltop. Here on this high mound, the sun’s so bright I’ll get sunburn on my ass. Look, the hills are bouncing! Your hair smells like pomegranate. Lips like milk and honey. Oh sweet girl, all these years I thought you’d gone away somewhere. Kiss my forehead, kiss my tired eyes, they’ve cried so much. Milk and honey on my eyes…a seal upon my heart. I’ve worn it all these years just to give it to you. Here, it’s a necklace made of tears.

  [Pause. Faintly.] “For love is of God, and everyone that loves is born of God and knows God.” Thank you, my Lord. You’re a good God.

  Chapter Twenty

  As soon as Drew stopped speaking, Hatter checked his watch and left the tape player running. He and Jason sat in silence until they heard the sound of Jason knocking on the door.

  “Three minutes and ten seconds,” Hatter said.

  They listened quietly to the sounds of Jason trying to revive Drew.

  “That’s it!” Jason said when he heard the sort of belching sound that Drew had made as he exhaled his first breath. “That’s when he come back to life.”

  “Six minutes and thirty-five seconds total,” Hatter said. “That’s how long he was dead.”

  They kept listening until the ambulance workers arrived, and then Hatter shut off the recorder. Drew’s hoarsely whispered words kept whispering in Jason’s ears: “You must promise. It’s urgent, very urgent.”

  “So first she tried to murder him and now she wants to steal his life’s work,” Hatter said. “It’s a hell of a note. Look, kid, I’m going to repeat my offer—I can keep it safe for you. I promise you I’m not thinking of my book, I’m thinking of Drew’s.”

  “Nope, I swore to guard it,” Jason said.

  “Well, you’ve got my number if you need any help kicking the living crap out of this dame. Let me write down yours.” He wrote down the number on the dial of Drew’s phone and said, “Okay, I’ve got to run. I have a lunch date with Emily.”

  “Who’s Emily?”

  “You know, the grad student with the shapely rump. She’s decided to devote her whole master’s thesis to my work, so I’ve given her all my pseudonyms and the titles of all my published works, even little poems and such. My long winter of obscurity may finally be coming to an end.”

  Hatter grinned. It wasn’t a pretty sight; his teeth were yellow from cigarette smoke.

  “It turns out she’s a pretty smart girl,” he said, “though she’s way too caught up in all this current critical theory nonsense. It’s appalling what colleges are teaching these days, deconstructionism and post-structuralism and more idiotic claptrap than you can imagine.”

  “So that’s why you been grinning,” Jason said. “Don’t think I ever seen you smile before today.”

  “I try to avoid it, but sometimes it sneaks out.”

  “I wonder if Rue knows he didn’t die,” Jason said. “Maybe she was parked down the street and seen the ambulance come.”

  “Interesting question.” Hatter got his coat from the rack and said, “If I get time today maybe I’ll run over to the hospital and see if they’ll let me visit Drew.”

  Jason stared out at the hard rain after Hatter left. There were cars parked in nearly every parking place on both sides of the street, and any one of them could be Rue’s, since he had never noticed what kind she drove. He tried to see if anyone was sitting in one of them, but with the dark rain he couldn’t tell.

  The door lock wasn’t a deadbolt and could easily be jimmied with a credit card. Jason and his juvenile delinquent buddies had jimmied plenty of them just like it back in his “wild days,” as he liked to call them. There was a little crossbar that he slid after he shut the door, but it didn’t look very sturdy. He checked the back door in the kitchen, and it was the same deal: an easily jimmied lock and a feeble crossbar.

  Next he checked every window. Drew had left some of them unlocked, but Jason fixed that. At least if Rue broke a window, he’d most likely hear her even if he was asleep.

  In the study he examined Drew’s manuscript to make sure she hadn’t already sneaked in somehow and stolen it. It was heaped in four tall piles on the table and looked like enough pages for ten books, so if she was planning to steal it she might need a wheelbarrow. He tried to read a couple pages just to see what the big deal was, but the words were so enormous they made his hex feel worse.

  The clock on the study wall said 11:25, and Jason wondered what he was going to do during the long hours to come. Though he felt sick he was too restless to sleep, and there was absolutely nothing else to do. What if Drew ended up in the hospital for several days? Several days in this dump with nothing to do, assuming the hex or clap or whatever it was didn’t kill him first.

  And was that skinflint Drew planning to pay him anything for this dreary ordeal? Probably not, though if money wasn’t forthcoming Jason was going to insist on a quart of love potion at the very least and several special spells.

  It seemed rude and downright uncivilized for Drew not to have a television, and J
ason wondered if all magicians and witches avoided them, since Rue didn’t have one either. Maybe TV sets somehow interfered with magic spells like the way short-wave radios caused interference on ordinary radios.

  Before long he grew so bored he began to look through the bookshelves. All the books on two walls seemed to be about magic or philosophy or even religion, and they had dreadful-sounding titles, some of them not even in English, but on another wall there were some that seemed to be meant for pleasure, or at least whatever faint and boring pleasure words on paper could offer.

  He pulled out one he had noticed three days ago, The Story of O, and as he leafed through it he realized it wasn’t about zero at all. In fact it was like the books his pa kept hidden in the back of his closet. It looked pretty good too, but he decided he’d better save it for another time since his groin was so achy today.

  On the same wall were some science-fiction books by writers named Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury, Jack Vance, Theodore Sturgeon, David R. Bunch, and Philip K. Dick. Jason liked science-fiction movies and was about to settle on something titled Starman Jones when he noticed some horror novels by writers named H. P. Lovecraft, M. R. James, Richard Matheson, Shirley Jackson, Algernon Blackwood, Arthur Machen and J. S. LeFanu.

  But things were creepy enough right now without adding any spook stories to the mix. On the next shelf the title Swords and Deviltry caught his interest, and he read the back cover carefully and glanced through a few pages. It seemed to be about a big red-headed guy named Fafhrd who roamed around fighting monsters and witches with his small wizard friend, the Gray Mouser. Beside it were a few more books with similar titles by the same guy, Fritz Leiber, and beside them was something by Robert E. Howard titled Conan the Cimmerian.

  Jason pulled it from the shelf and stared at the cover. A half-naked woman with long blonde hair was clinging to a half-naked man with long black hair. The man was huge and muscular with a massive bloody sword in his right hand which he was jabbing into the eye of an enormous snake with an ugly human face.