by Sam Hooker
“Er, all right.”
Bartleby floated into the room, his massive black cape billowing slowly in a wind that wasn’t there. Sloot’s coat did a version of the same thing, but it was far less impressive.
“A nice place you’ve got here,” said Bartleby, his gaze transfixed on the cloudy ceiling. “There are powerful spirits here, yes?”
“That’s true,” said Sloot. “Lord Hapsgalt, anyway. The younger one.”
“I didn’t know there vas a younger one.”
“It wasn’t important until the Fall of Salzstadt.”
“I heard about that. I’d like to talk vith him later, if that’s all right.”
“I don’t see why not.”
Sloot led Bartleby through the corridors to the parlor, where Myrtle and Nicoleta were engrossed in conversation.
“Er, ladies—”
“Sloot, look out!” shouted Myrtle, pointing behind him. “Vampire!”
Bartleby melted into a big, fangy grin.
“This is Bartleby,” said Sloot. “Agather sent him.”
“Oh,” said Myrtle. “You’re the necromancer?”
“I am,” said Bartleby. “You’re the demon?”
“Sloot! Really!” Myrtle was on her feet, hands firmly on her hips. “You’re telling everyone who walks through the door now?”
“What? No!”
“Agather told me,” said Bartleby. “You really didn’t know that you vere a demon your whole life?”
“I don’t think I was.”
“You didn’t think you were a demon at all,” said Sloot, “until we went to see Agather.”
“Thank you for that,” said Myrtle with a scowl. Realizing what he’d said, Sloot was suddenly very thankful for his complete lack of blood. At the very least, it would have run cold, but given that he’d just angered a demon, “the very least” was probably too much to hope for. She'd probably boil it, or turn it into seawater, or something.
“Unusual,” said Bartleby, “but not impossible. Vhen did you die?”
“At the Fall of Salzstadt,” Myrtle replied.
“There vas a lot of veird magic flying around that day. I vish I’d been there! But alas, I vas in a crypt in Nordheim at the time.”
“Am I missing something?” asked Nicoleta. “Why is Agather sending us necromancers?”
“Your magic doesn’t vork anymore, does it?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Don’t vorry, it happens to everybody. Living vizardry doesn’t vork in the Hereafter.”
“Why didn’t they tell me that at the University?”
“Marketing,” said Bartleby with a shrug. “If vord of that got around, it might hurt enrollments.”
“I have to ask,” said Myrtle, “why do you look so much like a vampire?”
“Vampires are cool,” said Bartleby. He did the crazy stare thing again.
“We’ve heard otherwise,” said Sloot.
Bartleby shook his head in slow disapproval. “No accounting for taste.”
There was, though. Sloot has taken courses, though he really couldn't grasp more than the basic concept without a deeper understanding of fashion.
“So, you can help me get my magic back?”
“Not exactly, but I can teach you some necromancy. It’s like vizardry, only … vell, dead.”
“How do you know Agather?” asked Sloot. “Pop in on her carpet, did you?”
“No, I just valked into the Vitchvood.”
“So you’re alive.”
“I vas—” Bartleby drew in a breath as to say something else, then stopped to squint at the ceiling. “It’s complicated. Do you know many necromancers?”
“Only Gregor,” Myrtle growled.
“Ha! That old stick in the mud. I vas vondering why the Slithering Shades asked if I vas using his name.”
“You know him?”
“Ve both served the same master,” said Bartleby, “but that vas years ago. Centuries, in fact. No one has seen him in a few plagues.”
“Sloot,” said Nicoleta, “where are you going?”
Sloot’s inherent sense of discomfort had been subconsciously driving him toward the door. He didn’t notice it himself until he was nearly past it.
“Er, it’s Willie,” said Sloot. “I’ve got to get this business with his powers sorted out.”
“Better you than me,” said Nicoleta. “I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
Yes. Well, thought Sloot.
“Vhen in doubt,” said Bartleby, “start at the pub.”
“I don’t think there are any pubs in the Hereafter,” said Myrtle.
“Of course there are! Do you think I vould spend so much time hanging around here if there vere no pubs? I’m obsessed vith the dead, but I still have a life.”
According to Bartleby, finding a pub in the Hereafter was easy. All you had to do was dwell on your feelings of dissatisfaction with the world and your place in it, and wish desperately to escape.
“Well, that was easy,” said Sloot.
Turk’s was a dark, grey place, but in a dingier way than the rest of the Hereafter. It was worn, dirty, and overgrown in a way that gave Sloot the impression that it had always been there. It looked old enough to have been visited by the first people ever to have died, whose first thoughts upon seeing it must have been “wow, I wonder how long this place has been here?”
He went inside. There was no smoking in the Hereafter, owning only to the absence of anything to smoke. There were no smells either, but be that as it may, the distinct impression that the room had been used as an ashtray for centuries nearly knocked Sloot flat. He started coughing.
His coughing drew stares. Not new ones, mind you, but the faces of patrons that appeared to have been staring off into space for years directed themselves toward Sloot.
“Don’t get much of that anymore,” said the man behind the bar, presumably Turk. “You must be new.”
“How—” Sloot coughed, sputtered, and did his best to find his composure. “How is this hap—cough, hack—pening?”
The room darkened slightly. A faint rumbling sound emanated from everywhere at once. A look of alarm clambered onto Turk’s face, giving a much needed but unwanted break to the bored one that had undoubtedly been on duty for far longer than Sloot could reckon.
“Whatever do you mean?” blurted Turk loudly, as if for the benefit of someone listening in. “There’s certainly nothing unusual happening here, lad! Why don’t you come and have a drink, then?”
“A drink?” Sloot sat on the barstool that Turk had offered him. He was puzzled but intrigued, and that was new for him. He’d always been risk averse in a way that called upon him to mistrust anything he knew nothing about. The only good surprises were the ones he’d taken great pains to plan for himself.
“A drink,” Turk confirmed. “You know, beer in a mug? That sort of thing. You’re an odd duck, pretending not to know about drinks.”
“No, I know about drinks, I just didn’t think you could get them here.”
“Here? You mean Turk’s?”
“No, I meant the Here—”
“—we go again with your odd duckery!” Turk interrupted. “You can’t fool me, you know.”
“I can’t,” said Sloot flatly, unsure himself whether it was a question.
“You obviously know about drinks,” Turk continued, holding a mug under a tap. “You wouldn’t have walked into a pub if you didn’t, and that’s exactly what this is. A perfectly normal pub.”
Turk appeared to have finished pouring the drink, but the mug that he set in front of Sloot was empty.
“Yes,” said Sloot. “I, er … well, I do know about drinks.”
“I can see that you’re still a bit out of sorts,” said Turk with a sympathetic nod. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you while you enjoy that perfectly standard drink?”
“Because I can’t,” said Sloot, as plainly as he could.
“Ah,” said Tu
rk, who was using a towel to rub down a bit of the bar as though something had spilled upon it, “you’re one of them glass half empty types, aren’t you?”
“In most cases, yes,” said Sloot, “but this particular glass happens to … be … entirely …”
Sloot allowed his sentence to end unfinished, in response to the wide-eyed look that he was getting from Turk. The big man had his hands on the bar and was leaning toward Sloot pointedly, in a joint effort with his expression to insist that Sloot not finish that particular thought.
“Yeah,” growled Turk, just above a whisper, “there are lots of places in these parts where someone might wax literal about the nature of things, and that’s all fine and dandy. But those places aren’t pubs, see?”
“Right,” said Sloot, who was still as confused as ever.
“Pubs get a bit of extra scrutiny, see? What with all the booze flowing freely and good folk tying one on, it stands to reason that if anyone were going to commit any serious breaches of the Agreement, this would be a likely scene of the crime.”
Sloot nodded. From what he knew of the Agreement, it was basically a sort of collective consciousness that brought order to the Hereafter where the laws of physics apparently didn’t apply outside the Narrative. The most troubling part of this new line of inquiry was the “who” of it. Specifically, who was keeping their eye on pubs to make sure that no breaches of the Agreement occurred?
“So, logically,” Turk continued, “if we all want to continue sitting on marginally comfortable stools and wiling away the time like we did before … well, you know.”
Turk made a sickly sound in his throat and held a fist over his head, as though he were playing two roles upon the gallows simultaneously.
Sloot nodded.
“Right,” said Turk with a wink. “If we all want to keep ourselves on our stools, it behooves us to be glass half full types. Or, given that I just handed you that one, you should presently be a glass entirely full type. I’d ask you if you understand, but there’s obviously no need. You look like the intelligent type.”
Sloot glanced around the room. To his chagrin, Turk’s weren’t the only eyes upon him. In his naiveté, he’d become the center of attention for the entire place. Every eye was upon him, giving him a very stern “if you mess this up for us, I’ll bring whatever unpleasantness to bear that I’m able.”
Having already had far more unpleasantness leveled at him than he knew what to do with, Sloot latched onto the affectation of agreeableness for dear life, or whatever he had that passed for it.
“Go on, then.” Turk’s eyes were darting down to Sloot’s obviously-not-actually-empty mug and back up to him.
“Yes,” said Sloot, “of course. I mean, that’s why I’ve come here, right?”
Every head in the room nodded.
“Right then,” said Sloot, raising the definitely-full-of-beer mug to his lips. “Er, cheers?”
“Cheers,” said the rest of the room in unison. They all tipped their mugs back, and so did Sloot. It was still empty, but much to Sloot’s surprise, the taste of beer insinuated its way into his mouth.
Such is the power of the Agreement, thought Sloot. As he contemplated the considerable attraction of conformity, a feeling of unease washed over him. It didn't take long to sort out what had caused it. When he looked up, he noticed that every weathered old face in the pub was looking at him expectantly.
He looked down at his mug again, and sure enough, it appeared half full. He took another sip and made the traditional “ahhh” sound in the back of his throat.
The tension went out of the place. The patrons went back to whatever it was that they hadn't been doing before, and Turk gave him a nod of approval.
“So,” said Turk, using a rag to wipe another spot on the counter that Sloot silently Agreed needed it, “what's on your mind, mate?”
Somehow, Sloot managed to maintain a placid exterior. His mind, on the other hand, was bouncing around with glee. Idle chitchat! In a pub! He'd spent time in pubs before, of course, but he'd never considered himself a “guy” in a pub. He'd always ordered his beers—one for himself, one to put under the stool for the goblins—cleaned off his stool, tightened the screws that attached the legs, decided he didn't like that one, tried again with another stool, gotten it right with the third one, and ultimately be left alone to enjoy one of his drinks in the relative ostracism of his own company. He couldn't recall ever having been asked anything by a bartender not having to do with the transaction at hand, much less being referred to as “mate.”
Sloot’s voice only cracked mildly as he responded as casually as possible. “Oh, you know how it is.”
Turk grinned with the satisfaction of a pupil well taught. “Do I ever, mate. Do I ever.”
Unfortunately for Sloot, Turk didn’t have any advice relevant to one’s employer’s influx of dark energy being so high that it manifested in puppies that were probably just biding their time before chewing everyone’s throats out, or ruining the furniture or something. He stumbled a bit as he left the pub, that being the sort of thing that one was expected to do.
Inner Peace
When Sloot returned from Turk’s, he found everyone in the sitting room. Sitting. It was just the sort of orderliness that he’d always wanted, but it was so out of character for this lot that it made him nervous.
At least Willie and Bartleby were sitting on the floor. Mild defiance of the sofas was a far sight from bodies going rogue from their heads and summoning puppies, but it wasn’t nothing. According to Nicoleta’s expression, they’d been at it long enough to go into debt with her patience.
“According to Bartleby, it’s called ‘meditation,’” she whispered, an irritated edge to her voice. “I'm not sure they've even started yet.”
“Meditation,” as it turned out, was a fancy way of saying “sit there with your eyes closed and don’t think about anything,” which was a lot harder than it sounded. Especially for Willie.
“And it’s … helping?” Sloot whispered hopefully.
“Well, Willie hasn’t made any more puppies or anything,” whispered Nicoleta. “Can you do something to get him into the circle? Bartleby’s supposed to be teaching me necromancy, not babysitting Willie.”
Willie opened his eyes and sighed. “Look, you’ve tried your best,” he groaned, “but you’ve overlooked one very important thing. It’s boring.”
“It’s not boring,” said Bartleby, “it's stillness. As still and qviet as the grave. Vicked cool, meditation.” He had his legs folded up with each foot atop of the other leg’s knee. It looked horribly painful to Sloot, but the necromancer seemed relaxed in spite of it. It was how Sloot must have looked to everyone else at University when final exams for mathematics came around. No one else had an incurable smile that day. No one had invited him out for commiseratory drinks afterward, either.
“You’re wrong about that,” said Willie. “This is boring. Believe me, I know.”
“How do you know?”
“It gives me the same feeling I get when other people are talking. You know, all antsy, like … what, don’t they know I could be talking to them?”
“You’re not doing it right,” said Bartleby. “You must learn to control your restless mind. Make it still.”
“No, it’s right where it’s always been. Now, what sort of tricks do you do?”
It turned out that the only way to get Willie to sit down with Bartleby had been to tell him that the spooky stranger could work strange and wondrous magic.
“There are no tricks in magic.”
“The man who came to my birthday party did tricks, and he said they were magic.” Willie was wearing his suspicious face. He usually trotted it out in response to assurances that he’d like whatever came before dessert.
“Tricks are for amateurs and prestidigitators,” Bartleby insisted.
“So you’re not a magician.” Willie’s eyes and mouth scrunched with indignation, fixing Bartleby with an I’m-mad-and-disapp
ointed glare.
“Of course not,” said Bartleby, still not opening his eyes. “I am a necromancer, a master of the forces of life and death! Vell, death anyvay.”
“I was told they were two sides of the same coin,” said Nicoleta.
“I vouldn’t know about that. I'll leave such platitudes to the philosophers.”
“What? How dare you, sir?”
“Arthur? How did you get here so fast?” Sloot wanted to be impressed, but the fact that this couldn’t possibly end well got him no farther than surprised, with a side of chagrin.
“Duty calls,” Arthur seethed. “I'll not sit idly by while those untrained in thinking go around assigning work to philosophers. You'll leave nothing to us, sir! We will keep our own counsel on what is to be pondered!”
Sloot was surprised that Arthur knew the meaning of the word “duty,” given his violent opposition to doing anything that resembled work. He assumed the philosopher was employing some form of irony that he didn’t understand.
“I vasn’t trying to start a fight,” said Bartleby, not opening his eyes. “Take a seat, vhy don’t you? Ve vere just contemplating the universe.”
“Maybe you were,” said Willie, who was trying to uncross his legs. Success eluded him with impressive deftness. “Sloot, this is more boring than the circle! At least Nan tells me stories when I’m sitting in the circle.”
“Sorry, Willie. Ow.”
“Oh, don’t be such a baby. I barely touched you.”
“You didn’t touch me at all,” said Sloot. His eyes were shut tight as he attempted to ride out something approximating a headache. “It was—ow—something else entirely. Don’t worry about it.”
“Who’s worried? I’m just bored.”
“Philosophy’s not supposed to be boring,” Arthur groused. “This creepy vagrant’s doing it wrong!”
“I didn’t say I vas doing philosophy,” said Bartleby. “I’m teaching Villie how to meditate. You should join us.”
“I know all of the meditations I need,” said Arthur with a scoff and a snort. “Wagstaff the Blithe wrote an entire book of them from his barstool, and none of them involve throwing in with vampires, afflicting credentialed thinkers with nonsense, or sitting on the floor!”