An Incident At Bloodtide

by George C. Chesbro

  His response was to shake his head. "Mary would never say . . . Your brother didn't hear anything like that from Mary."

  "If you say so. Then I must have heard it someplace else."

  "How do you know the term 'ceremonial magician'? What do you know about the craft?"

  Feigning indifference in Sacra Silver and all his works, I had apparently managed to pique his interest, and in the past I had often been downright amazed at how much curious people will reveal about themselves as they attempt to probe the lives of another person. I wasn't interested in killing this particular cat, only hooking him. I figured I had done that, and that it was time to play him on the line for a while to see if I might not be able to cast a little spell of my own. I flashed what I hoped was an enigmatic smile, rose. "I think I'll have a drink," I said, and started for the door. Then, in what I hoped was an Oscar-winning characterization of debonair indifference laced with graciousness, I paused, turned back, and pointed to his empty glass. I asked casually, "You want another one?"

  Sacra Silver was either too distracted to question this rather odd gesture of subservience or just too lazy to get up and get his own drink. He only thought about it for a second or two, then picked up his glass and held it out to me. "Yeah," he said somewhat absently. "Dewar's."

  Holding the tumbler by the base, I went to the kitchen, headed directly for the cabinet where Mary kept her plastic wrap. I had already taken note of the license plate of the car in the driveway, but somehow Sacra Silver didn't seem to me to be a green Cadillac kind of guy, and I thought the vehicle might be a company car or borrowed; besides, I wanted more than what I could get from Motor Vehicles — assuming there was more to get. I tore off a sheet of the plastic, wrapped it around the tumbler, which I placed at the back of the shelf, behind a jar of spaghetti sauce. Then I went to the bar in the living room, put some ice into an identical tumbler, splashed in some Dewar's. I poured myself a Jack Daniel's on the rocks, then headed back to the spider in the music room.

  "Ceremonial magic is a bit different from garden-variety witchcraft, isn't it, pal?" I said easily as I handed him his fresh drink. "More dangerous. The ceremonial magician works alone. You don't have other members of a coven to help you absorb the rebound you're going to get if you attack somebody you shouldn't, namely a person who can reflect the bad news back at you."

  "You're very well read, Frederickson," Silver said in a neutral tone.

  "Oh, I'm more than well read. Let's see what you know about ceremonial magic and other aspects of the craft. Here's a witch name for you: Esobus. Ever hear that one?"

  He did not reply, but he moved his chair back an inch or two, and pulled his chin in slightly, as if to protect himself. His jet-black eyes now reflected not only surprise but growing caution, perhaps even concern.

  "Okay," I continued, "that one stumped you. Let's try a few more. Sandor Peth? John Krowl? Daniel? Who's buried in Aleister Crowley's tomb?"

  "Peth, Krowl, and Daniel are legendary ceremonial magicians," Silver replied tightly.

  "Dead legendary ceremonial magicians. I could mention a few more names you might recognize, and they're dead too. Actually, they were mostly legends in their own minds — and yours, I guess. Except for Daniel and Esobus, they were real idiots, preying on idiots."

  "You're full of shit, Frederickson."

  "Oh, no, I'm not. You know I know what I'm talking about."

  I could see that he was struggling not to say the word, but it came out anyway. "How?"

  "I was once in love with a witch, who happened to save my life. Also, I once spent a few months dancing around with a bunch of creeps who had the same belief system I suspect you have. I picked up a few things. Those people I mentioned caught the biggest, damnedest rebound of all — death. Esobus, by the way, also saved my life, and I was sorry I couldn't return the favor. I was with her when she died."

  "She?"

  "Oh, yes. Esobus was a woman, and she happened to be a good friend of mine."

  "I still say you're full of shit."

  "Sure I am."

  "Who was Esobus? What was her real name?"

  "You sure as hell don't know, and you're not going to find out from me. When she died, she and I were the only two people who knew her secret. I think I'll keep it that way. I will tell you that she was a respected scientist who was trying to do a number on people like you who do numbers on other people. She looked on what she was doing as a research project, and she was under the mistaken impression that she was going to learn something valuable from the experience. All it did was kill her. I also knew Daniel, who happened to be a very good man. I can assure you the rest were idiots. I guess my point is that you should be careful who you choose as role models. I think I'm also offering you a little friendly advice about who you choose to throw bad spells at, because they're liable to bounce back and hit you right between the eyes. My experience has been that witches and ceremonial magicians who try to work the dark side of the craft are usually shits-for-brains. But hey, I'm not offending you, am I? We're just having a casual conversation about a particularly loony belief system, right? I mean, I know you don't think I'm suggesting that you're a shit-for-brains. If I did think that, I might try to catch you off guard and do a number on your head like you've done to Mary's — assuming, of course, that I cared one way or another."

  "I can inflict great suffering on you, Frederickson," the other man said in a low, tense voice.

  "The last man who said that to me died with blood running out of his mouth, nose, eyes, ears, and ass, and I didn't lay a finger on him. In a sense, he self-destructed. Just like you, he'd bought into a particularly dangerous belief system. Sure, you can hurt me, but I'm in no more danger from you than from any other pain in the ass who might come at me with a knife or gun. You're in more danger from what you believe than I am, because I don't believe it."

  "I hope I never have to prove you wrong, Frederickson. I can make very bad things happen to you, and I don't need a knife or gun."

  "For sure. You've already made something bad happen in this house, but that's because one of the people involved, Mary, believed you could make bad things happen. The healthy response when she found you on her doorstep would have been to slam the door in your face, but her faith in your powers wouldn't permit her to do that. She let you into her home, and back into her life, and both she and the man who had faith in her are now suffering because of it. Mary's wound is self-inflicted, but the pain ends up shared. You control Mary because Mary believes you have the power to control her; by believing it, she makes it happen. It's a very sad, but simple, self-fulfilling prophecy."

  "What's your faith, Frederickson? What do you believe in?"

  "Gravity, mathematics, and mystery."

  "What about God? Do you believe in God?"

  "Now, there's a mystery."

  Sacra Silver, squinting slightly, stared hard at me. I stared back. "You believe in yourself," he said at last. "And you believe in your brother. That's your faith. You believe that the two of you, working individually or together, can overcome virtually any difficulty."

  "No, I don't believe that at all. I do imagine things, and one of the things I imagine is that I have enough sense not to let your imagination get the better of me. Imagination, of course, is the third leg of the Witch's Triangle, along with will and secrecy. I don't know how much will you have, because, so far, the only person I've seen you manipulate is Mary, and Mary's very impressionable. As for power you derive from secrecy, that remains to be seen. You use a witch name in your everyday life, which interests me. Most witches don't, you know. I imagine that if I nosed around enough to find out who you really are, your background and all that, the information might go a long way toward helping people who have let your imagination get the better of them."

  He didn't like that at all. His black eyes flashed with anger, and his thin lips drew back from his teeth. "I tend to imagine horrible things happening to people who make themselves my enemies, Frederickson.
Very horrible things. And sometimes the things I've imagined actually do happen to those people."

  "That could easily be construed as a threat," I replied evenly, and smiled at him. "It's hard for me to believe that you take risks like that."

  He frowned slightly. "What risk am I taking?"

  "It's lucky for you I don't take your shade prince act too seriously, big fella. Let's just suppose I did. Suppose I believed that the next bad thing that happens to me is your fault, because you imagined it — cast a spell, so to speak. Naturally that would make me paranoid, and the focus of my paranoia would be you. Considering you responsible for the bad thing that's happened to me, I take the very unimaginative and unmagical step of walking up to you with a gun and blowing your brains out. A nonbeliever like me would call that poetic justice, but a witch would call it rebound. See what I mean about risk-taking? If I were you, I'd be downright careful about threatening anybody with as wispy a weapon as Sacra Silver's imagination."

  "I don't make idle threats, Frederickson."

  "Oh, have you been threatening me? I thought we were just having a casual conversation about having to be careful what you believe, because you tend to become what you believe."

  "You said I was none of your business."

  "I did say that, but just out of idle curiosity I'd like to know what brought you to Cairn in the first place. Was it because of Mary, or did you have some other business in town and then just happened to find out that she lives here now? Thirteen years is a long time to stay out of touch. And what do you really want from her? Money? Or do you just want to get your face on television at the next Grammy awards? What's the inside scoop on this sudden visitation?"

  "Curiosity killed the cat, Frederickson."

  "Funny, but I was thinking along those exact same lines not ten minutes ago."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  I wasn't about to tell him what the hell that meant, any more than he was likely to tell me anything I really wanted to know, but I was spared the trouble of coming up with an evasive answer when Mary suddenly appeared at the door. She looked terrible; the color was gone from her face, and her skin was blotchy. She had a tic in her left cheek.

  "Hello, Mary," I said, rising to my feet.

  Seeing me made her look even more stricken, and I suspected it had more than a little to do with the fact that I had found Sacra Silver in her house. She swallowed hard, glanced back and forth between Silver and me. "Mongo, I didn't know . . . Sacra's only been here since this afternoon."

  She was trying to tell me Silver wasn't sleeping in Garth's bed, and I was glad to hear it. I raised my hand, shook my head. "You don't owe me any explanations, Mary. I just came by to see if you were all right. Mr. Silver and I have been passing the time with a pleasant conversation about witchcraft, ceremonial magic, imagination, and how bad things can happen to people who expect bad things to happen to them. Now, can you and I talk?"

  Once again, she glanced uncertainly back and forth between the other man and me. "Mongo," she said in a small voice, "I don't think you can understand. I don't want anything to happen . . ."

  "Mary, believe it or not, I think I do understand. You don't want anything bad to happen to Garth, or to me. I think you're trying very hard to protect Garth from harm. It's all right." I paused, turned to Silver. "Is it all right if I talk to Mary, big fella? You're not worried about anything, are you?"

  "I'm not worried about a damn thing, Frederickson."

  "Good," I said, taking Mary's hand and leading her toward the door. "See you later. Don't let anything bad happen to you while we're gone."

  Chapter Four

  How's your assistant pastor?" I asked as I stroked, then feathered with my paddle to keep the canoe on a steady course as we headed upriver, against the current. We were about thirty yards from shore. It was a clear, warm night, and the river was unusually still, at least on the surface. I was a firm believer in the calming influence of large bodies of water, and when we had come out of the house I had suggested that we go out on the river. When Mary hadn't objected, I'd dragged the large, steel Grumman down the beach, seated Mary in the bow, then sat in the stern, along with a bottle of wine, corkscrew, and two glasses I'd snatched from the bar and wine rack on our way out. From her position in the bow, Mary stroked regularly and with power, her back muscles rippling beneath the light sweater she wore.

  Mary shrugged. "Sacra told you about it?"

  "He said something about the man falling down some stairs and breaking his back while he was looking for someplace to hide a flag."

  "He thinks somebody pushed him."

  "Thinks? Wouldn't he know if he was pushed?"

  "He's in a great deal of pain, and very depressed. He can't remember things clearly right now."

  "I thought that issue had been resolved a while ago."

  Mary was quiet for some time. Finally she said, "It was; the flag was to remain on the altar. Tim — our assistant pastor — just felt it was wrong, blasphemous. It ate at him. He wanted to remove it one more time, as a symbolic gesture. He believed it was what God wanted him to do. Now he's not only in the hospital, but I think the congregation is going to vote to fire him. I wish he hadn't done it."

  I imagined the assistant pastor also wished now he hadn't done it, but I didn't say so. Instead, I steered us out another fifteen yards to where two buoys constructed from plastic soda bottles marked the ends of a drift net that had either been set for the night or not picked up during the day. I grabbed hold of the closest buoy, tied on with the painter attached to the stern of the canoe. "Time for some refreshment," I said.

  Mary set her paddle down, turned around, then sat in the bottom of the canoe, resting her arms on the gunwales. I slid down, opened the wine, filled two glasses, and handed one to her. Mary sipped at her wine, then gazed out over the moon-washed river, which was still tinted red with bloodtide.

  "You don't look good, Mary," I continued quietly. "You don't look good at all."

  "I've got things on my mind."

  "Sacra Silver."

  Now she looked at me, her blue eyes glittering in the moonlight. "I know you came in and found Sacra there, Mongo, but he'd only come to the house a few hours before. Things aren't what they seem."

  "How do you know how things seem to me, Mary?"

  I waited for a reply, but there was none. She again looked out over the river. In the distance, out in the deep channel, an enormous tanker was making its way downriver, its dark bulk silhouetted against the bright lights on the Westchester shore.

  "It seems to me that you and Garth love each other," I continued. "It seems to me that the two of you were building a fine life together here in Cairn. Then one day somebody out of your past shows up, and you fall to pieces. You let the guy run off at the mouth about you belonging to him, and telling Garth he should leave so that you and the guy can take up where you left off thirteen years ago. It seems to me that you may think you're doing what you're doing to protect Garth. Sacra Silver just isn't your type, Mary."

  "I hate him!" she snapped with an abruptness that startled me, arching her neck and spitting out the words. "I hate him!"

  "Then why — ?"

  "Sacra can make very bad things happen to people, Mongo."

  "Like what? Does he beat them up? Write nasty letters? Make obscene phone calls?"

  "You don't take him seriously."

  "I take you seriously. What does Sacra Silver do to make bad things happen to people? I saw him draw a knife on my brother, and we both watched Garth take it away from him, in a manner of speaking. Don't you think Garth can take care of himself?"

  Mary shook her head. "Mongo, I love Garth more than I've ever loved any man. I don't think I ever really knew what love was all about until I met Garth. If anything ever happened to him, I think I'd die."

  "That doesn't jibe with the way you've been acting."

  "Garth has never met anyone like Sacra, Mongo. Neither have you."

  "You're quite wro
ng, Mary, but that's beside the point. I'm not about to bore you with stories about the kinds of people Garth has dealt with, real bad guys who would eat Mr. Silver for lunch."

  Again, she shook her head. "Sacra doesn't hurt people himself, at least not with his hands, or with weapons. He just makes bad things happen."

  "You mean he can will things to happen?"

  She nodded.

  "That's your first mistake, Mary — believing that Silver can just will things to happen, or that he has special powers. Right now he has power, but it's over you, and you've given him that power by believing his bullshit. The terrible irony is that something bad certainly has happened, to you and Garth. I suppose you could argue that Silver made it happen, but that isn't true. He wanted to come between you and Garth, but you granted his wish by your reaction to him. That's how witchcraft works. Garth can fight Silver, but he can't fight you; he loves you way too much for that. By trying to protect him by preventing him from protecting you, you've caused him great hurt. You've made it appear that you believe negatively in Silver more than you believe positively in Garth, and that hurt him terribly. It hurt him so much that he had to leave. Presto. Silver gets what he wants. But there's nothing magical about it, is there?"

  The wake from a passing powerboat hit us, causing the canoe to bob and the plastic bottles to scrape against the canoe's metal skin. I braced my arms on the gunwales to steady us as I met Mary's gaze. There was a different light in her eyes now, perhaps reflecting understanding, a different set to her mouth. I thought I might finally be getting her attention.

  "Does Garth think I want to be with Sacra?" she asked quietly.

  "I'm not sure. Garth isn't thinking too clearly right now. You've certainly made it appear that way. Garth isn't a jealous man, Mary, but he is a very proud man. He loves you dearly. He would fight for you, die for you without a moment's hesitation. What he won't do is fight to keep you; he would figure that it's up to you to decide who you want to be with. If you wanted to be with somebody else, he would simply accept that decision. I suspect he's thinking along those lines now, because, at best, you've been sending him very mixed signals by what you've done and not done. You've hurt his pride. He sees that you're deeply troubled, but he feels that you pushed him away when he tried to help. That's what he can't abide."