THE ALCHEMIST AND THE WITCH

PART II

by
Christopher Stasheff
Copyright © 1991

 

"My name is Death, and I've come for you."

Amer raised his eyebrows.

"Indeed?" he said, and then, a little taken aback, "Well, I—I'm quite honored."

But then, recovering himself, he saw that Death still stood outside the door.

"Oh, my heavens!" he cried, "you must think me terribly rude.  Come in out of the rain, won't you?"

Somewhat puzzled, Death stepped into the cabin, and Amer pushed the door shut behind him.  The wind screamed as the door shut on it, then howled and battered against the door in rage.  But Amer dropped the oaken bar into its brackets, then turned and went over to the fireplace to throw on another log.  "Come stand by the hearth and dry yourself.  May I get you a drink?"

"Why, yes," Death said, pleasantly surprised.  "Worm­wood, if you have it."

"Of course," said Amer, taking another decanter from the mantel.  He filled a glass and handed it to Death, then poured one for himself.  Reaching up, he took a vial from the mantelpiece, shook a little of the fine, chickory-scented powder it contained over the stool, and muttered a short, unintelligible phrase.  The outline of the stool blurred, then began to stretch and bulge as though it were alive.  Within thirty seconds, it had assumed the shape of a high-backed wing chair.  It sprouted cushions, which grew and blos­somed into a luxuriant golden velvet.  The outlines hardened again, and a soft, comfortably padded armchair stood by the hearth.

"Sit down, won't you?" Amer said.

Death didn't answer.  He stood staring at the armchair.  At last he cleared his throat and said, in a businesslike tone, "Yes.  This brings me to the matter about which I came, Master Amer."

"Please sit down," Amer said.  "It pains me to see a guest standing."

"No, thank you," Death said.  "My cloak isn't quite dry yet.  But about this—ah—strange gift of yours, Master Amer."

"How rude of me!" Amer said.  "Please forgive me.  Being freshly wakened, I'm afraid I'm not thinking very clearly."  He turned to a closet in the wall near the workbench and drew out a leather laboratory coat.  "Please put this on and let your wet cloak hang by the fire."

"No, thank you," Death said, a little hastily.  "However, it is getting rather warm, and I must admit that I'm beginning to feel like a steamed chestnut."  He opened his hood and the front of his cloak, and Amer stared, fascinated.  For Death's head was a skull, and his body was a complete, articulated skeleton.

"Excuse me," Amer said, "but would you mind holding your arm straight out to the side?"

Death frowned.  "Like this?"

"Yes, exactly."  Amer picked up a notebook and pen and began drawing.  "Now, would you move your arm in a circle?  Yes, that's fine.  You see, I'm in the midst of an investigation of the relationship between the scapula and the bones of the upper arm, and..."

"Please!"  Death drew his cloak tightly about himself and turned away, and the white skull became suffused with a touch of pink.

"Oh, curse me!" Amer cried, and his face turned bright magenta.  "When I become absorbed in an investigation, sir, I'm apt to forget everything else, including my manners.  I beg your forgiveness."

"That's quite all right," Death said, turning back to him.  "We all have our faults.  But if you're really sorry, Master Amer, you may prove it at the price of a little more wormwood."

"Certainly, certainly," Amer said, filling Death's glass again.  "Are you sure you won't sit down?"

"No, thank you," Death said.  "But perhaps you should.  I'm afraid I have some rather unpleasant news for you."

"Oh!"  Amer sank into the armchair Samona had occu­pied earlier in the day.  "Unpleasant news?  What would it be?"

"Well," Death cleared his throat and began to pace to and fro in front of the fireplace, skeletal hands clasped behind his back.  "Well," he said, "I'm afraid this may seem rather ungrateful in view of your excellent hospitality, but—well, duty is duty, and…  Certainly you're aware, Master Amer, that none of us can live forever."

"Yes," said Amer, smiling blithely but blankly.

"Well... that's how it is," Death said, with a note of exasperation hi his voice.  "We must all die sometime, and... well...  Confound it, Amer, now's your time."

Amer sat in a stunned silence for a minute, and then, in a hollow voice, he said, "I see..."

"Master!" Willow wailed.  "What're we gonna do?"

"Well, Willow," Amer said slowly, "it would seem as though you're finally going to have your freedom."

"Oh, I don't want it, I don't want it!  Not at that price!"

"Well... I'm sorry, old man," Death said gruffly, "but what must be, must be."

"Oh, that's all right, that's all right," Amer said, staring at the fire with an unwavering gaze.  "But... isn't that strange?"

"What?"

"Samona.  For some reason, all I can think is that I should have kissed Samona—just once, without my pro­tection drug.  I never did, you know."  He turned and looked, frowning, at Death.  "Now, why should I be thinking of that?"

A tear formed at the edge of the skull's hollow eye and rolled down the hard white cheekbone.  "Come, come, let's have done with it quickly!  Give me your hand."

Amer ignored the outstretched, bony ringers, and his eyes began to wander aimlessly around the room.  "But I've so much left to do..."

"So said Caesar when I came for him, and so said Peter and so said Charlemagne.  Come, cease torturing yourself!"

Amer's wandering gaze fell on the miniature bones he had carved earlier in the day.  The look of intelligence returned slowly to his eyes as, very carefully, he lifted the model bone-pile into his lap.  He took a roll of fine wire from the table and began to string the little skeleton together.

"Just let me finish this," he said.  "Just one more work completed—then I'll go."

"All right, but be quick," Death said, drawing back his hand.  There was a note of relief in his voice.

He began to pace the floor again.  "If you'd just had sense enough to keep your fingers out of magic, none of this would be necessary."

"Why, what's wrong with magic?"  Amer fixed the collarbone in place.

"It's not the magic, it's the way you go about getting it that ruffles the boys upstairs."

Amer looked up.  Death spun toward him and pointed an accusing finger.  "You could at least have had the good sense to guard your door!  Your master would have given you as many spells as you wanted for the express purpose of keeping me out!"

Amer smiled sadly and shook his head.  "But I don't have a master."

"It's complete and utter carelessness!  If you—What did you say?"

"I don't have a master."

"Indeed!  And I suppose you're not a sorcerer?"

"Quite right—I'm not."  Amer threaded the pelvis onto the spine.

"Oh?" said Death.  "Then how did you come by your magic?"

"I was born with it, I think.  In fact, I'm growing increas­ingly certain that every magic-user is conceived with the talent for it.  You either have it, or you don't—but if you do, the raw ability isn't enough; you have to learn how to use it."  He warmed to his subject.  "That's all the witches and warlocks in the neighborhood gain by their pact with the Devil—instruction.  Of course, there are many who have no power whatsoever; Satan and the older witches merely delude them into believing they're able to work magic."  He frowned, gazing off into space.  "I've learned, in the last few years, that there are holy men in the East who know how to work wonders, though that's not the main purpose of their study—and they do teach those who truly wish to cultivate the life of the spirit.  So their magic is gained by spiritual advancement, without condemning their souls to eternal agony in the afterlife.  But I knew nothing of them, when I wished to learn."

"Then where did you find your teacher?" Death de­manded.

"I taught myself," Amer said, stringing up a femur.  "I learned by investigation and hard thought.  I experimented until I found the rules by which the world operates.  I win my own knowledge, sir.  I don't beg."

"Rules?" Death snapped.  "What sort of rules?"

"Oh, there are many of them—the principle of equiva­lence, for example: for every effect you work, you will always have to pay in one way or another.  Or the principle of similarity, which makes it possible for me to do some­thing to someone—say, removing a wart—just by doing the same thing to a model of that person, once I've learned how to focus my thoughts properly.  That's really just an application of a larger principle, actually—a sort of rule of symbolism: 'The symbol is the thing it represents,' in some metaphysical way I haven't discovered yet.  I've reason to believe there are other worlds, other universes, in which the rules of magic don't apply—in which the symbol is not the thing, for example."

"Fantasy," Death snapped.

"For us, yes.  But we are no doubt fantasies for them.  In this world in which an alchemist can talk to Death, the laws of magic work well enough."

Death eyed him warily.  "You haven't sold your soul, then?"

"Not in the least," Amer said.  "Invictus."

Death paced the hearth for a long time, wrapped in thought.  Amer was twisting the last toe into place when the skull spoke again.

"It may be," he said.  "But I've heard the story before, and it's almost always a lie.  I'm afraid you'll have to come with me, after all."

Amer smiled sadly.  "Perhaps I shouldn't have been so hospitable," he said.  "Then you might have been willing to give me the benefit of the doubt."  He twisted a loop of wire around the little skeleton's leg and laid it on the table.

"Perhaps," Death said, "though I'm not worried about bribery—I'm immune to it.  But come, you've finished your plaything.  The time's come."

"Not quite," Amer said, twisting the other end of the wire around the table leg.  He took the vial of powder from his dressing-gown pocket and sprinkled it over the model.

"Milyochim sloh Yachim," he said.

"What?"

"Milyochim sloh Yachim," Amer said again (repeated obligingly).

"What does that mean?" Death said.

"Well, for all practical purposes," Amer said, "it means you can't move from that spot."

 

*           *           *

 

"I don't know how you expect to convince me that you're not a sorcerer," Death said, "if you keep on materializing liqueurs that way."

"Oh, I'm not really materializing them."  The alchemist snapped his fingers, and a flask of absinthe appeared on the table.  "I'm transporting them.  There's a spirits merchant in Boston, you see, who keeps finding bottles missing from his stock."

"Thief!" Death accused.

"Not at all; he finds gold wherever there's a bottle mis­sing.  You've noticed that I always place a nugget on the table before I transport the bottle?"

"And it disappears."  Death gave him a severe stare.  "I was wondering about that."

"The mass of the bottle must be replaced with an equiva­lent mass," Amer explained.  "I suppose I could use stone, but it's much more honest to use gold.  I believe he makes quite a profit on the transaction."

"I should think so.  But where do you find the gold?"

"I dig it up—after I've dowsed for it, of course."

"Where did you learn dowsing?" Death demanded.

"It came naturally," Amer explained.  "I was very young when I began to notice that hazel twigs twitched when I held them—perhaps three years old."

"And you will still have me believe your powers have nothing of the supernatural about them?"

"For that matter," Amer countered, "how do you expect me to believe that you're supernatural when you continue to consume such vast quantities?"

"Bah," Death said.  "We've only had a couple of drinks."

"Uh-uh!" the will-o'-the-wisp slurred.  "I been keepin' track!"

"And partaking, too."  Death turned to Amer.  "So that was why you poured the brandy into that beaker."

"Even a will-o'-the-wisp needs fuel..."

"Your fifth glass of cointreau was emptied three hours ago," Willow said brightly, if wearily.  "Since then you've downed six glasses of chartreuse, four of cognac, and four of absinthe—right now, you're starting your fifth."

"Willow," said Death, "you have missed your calling.  You would have made an excellent conscience."

"And to top it all," the alchemist said, "you're not the slightest bit tipsy."

"Naturally not," Death said.

"Don't you mean 'supernaturally not'?"

"I meant what I said."  Death set down his glass.  "Would it be natural for Death to become intoxicated?"

"Is it natural for Death to be a connoisseur of fine liqueurs?"

"Certainly, as long as I'm not affected by them.  In fact, I've quite an affinity for spirits.  But come, Master Amer," Death said, "pour me another absinthe, for we stand in great danger of becoming philosophical just now."

"My heavens!  We must prevent that at all costs!"  Amer filled Death's glass again.  The Pale Horseman sipped the liqueur and settled back in his chair with a satisfied sigh.

"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.  I 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 smile 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 END

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