Josh and the Magic Vial (22 page)

He stopped and waited for their decision. The three children exchanged glances. Without a word, they agreed to what he'd said. First Josh, then Millie and Ian extended their hands. Then Puddifant joined them, capping their alliance.

“We're a team,” Millie pronounced.

“Friends,” Ian agreed.

“Companions of the Opened Vial,” Josh joked, earning a punch on the arm from Millie.

37

E
ndorathlil tossed and turned. She could not sleep. She stared at the ceiling, the walls, the back of her eyelids. Nothing worked. “If I'd known it would affect me like this, I never would have done it,” she muttered. She'd never sent a soul to Syde; now that she had, she cursed herself. Grandfather Blackstone had sent dozens, as Uncle Andrew had often pointed out. “Candidate or no,” he used to say, “your grandfather would send 'em. Anything to increase the population of Syde and his own reputation.” Now she was confirmed in the same evil. She hated herself.

If only the Dempster boy had not walked into her shop that day. If only she had not looked into his eyes and seen what she had seen. If only Ian Lytle hadn't been such a skillful thief. If only! If only! But all that had happened, and she had recited The Spell of Transmigration. There could be no taking it back. The Dempster child was Vortigen's.

Endorathlil clenched her teeth. “You can't blame me,” she complained. “I should be congratulated. Imagine a witch having
The Book
all those years and not once having sent a soul to Vortigen. Why I've been a saint, which is as much as saying I've been a fool!”

She was so immersed in these thoughts she did not notice a faint light materializing in the upper corner of her room. This luminescence drifted toward the foot of her bed, glowing more intensely as it approached. It shimmered with the colours of the rainbow, a fragment of Aurora Borealis blossoming in the stuffy atmosphere, too bright to ignore any longer.

Endorathlil shrieked. Gathering the blankets, she retreated to the other end of the bed. Old Lumpkin, who had been snoring contentedly, got knocked off the coverlet, landing on the floor with a thump and a yowl. “What are you?” Endorathlil demanded of the light. “What do you want?”

It had begun to take a human form. Endorathlil could make out a stocky, middle-aged figure, wearing a bowler hat and a tweed jacket. The ghost stroked its grizzled beard thoughtfully and stared at her with large, luminous eyes.

“If you are who I think you are, the boy shall pay,” she threatened. “I will have my revenge on the one who opened my precious vial.”

“Revenge?” Puddifant said. “Strange that you should feel in a vengeful mood when you and your kin are the guilty parties. What did Josh Dempster ever do to deserve your evil? What did Charlie Underwood do to deserve death?”

“Nevertheless I shall get even.”

“With Vortigen's heir?”

“With the devil himself if he crossed me,” she shouted.

“It's not your turn for getting even, Lillian,” Puddifant informed her.

She gawked at him, confused. Not since she was a child had she been called by her birth name. She thought for a moment he must be referring to someone else. “Why do you call me that?” she shouted irritably.

“Because Lillian Smythe yet lives.”

“Lillian Smythe is dead,” Endorathlil snapped. “So are her mother, her father, and any other earthly relatives. She died decades ago and shall remain in her grave forever.”

“So be it,” Puddifant soothed. “I do not wish to force the matter.”

“Force the matter?”

“Come now, Lillian . . . ”

“Stop calling me that!”

“You know the Ancient Law better than anyone,” the inspector continued, “which means you know a soul released from a spirit bottle has certain powers over his former captors.”

“Aye, and you'll have to use those powers if you want me to change my name back to Lillian. I'm Endorathlil, and I intend to remain Endorathlil during the few years remaining to me.”

The witch clamped her jaw shut, and faced away from him. After a while she turned on him again. “What do you intend to do with me?” she demanded angrily.

“I have come to ask a favour.”

“A favour? Of me?” she hooted. “Why ask favours when you can enforce demands?”

“A boy's life depends on your answer, Lillian. If you do not help me reverse the damage that has been done with your spell, you shall have taken the last irreversible step along the path of wickedness and you will have truly abandoned your youthful pledge.”

“What pledge?”

“To only use magic in the pursuit of good,” he reminded her.

“That pledge is as dead as the girl who made it,” she repeated.

“But what if the pledge is renewed by an act of pure goodness?” Puddifant reasoned. “What if you could rediscover it amid the broken pieces of your dreams. Surely it would shine just as brightly as ever.”

Silenced, she stared at him with the eyes of a frightened girl.

“Couldn't one courageous act restore that pledge to its rightful place?”

“Courageous act?” she said suspiciously.

“If we are to save Josh Dempster, I need
The Book of Syde
.” “Never!”

“Not to keep. Upon my word, I'll give it back.”

“No!” she shouted. “If you want
The Book
, you shall have to take it. I will not lend it to you.”

Puddifant shook his head. “Josh Dempster is beginning a quest. Everything must be done in the right spirit, Lillian. It cannot begin with an act of violence. Can you see that?”

“You are asking something I cannot grant.” With that, she set her jaw again and stared past Puddifant at the wall.

He began to fade. “The girl Lillian lives, Endorathlil. Her bright prospects are still within reach. She has been cheated and abused by ambitious, greedy men who perverted the true course of magic. Her gentle inclinations were trampled in the mud. But they are intact. If you look deep inside, you shall find them and the strength to grant my request.”

“Liar! Fool!” she cursed. “You would cheat me too!”

“If you have a change of heart, there is someone waiting to take
The Book
at the front entrance to your apartment . . . ”

“He can wait until hell freezes over,” she howled. “Until the sky caves in.”

Her shouts echoed in her own ears. She was alone again in her gloomy room. The spirit of Horace Puddifant had dimmed. Endorathlil laughed — a mocking, cruel laugh. But try as she might, she could not stop thinking about what he had said. She had craved goodness as a youth, but Uncle Andrew and her grandfather had crushed that youthful innocence.

“Goodness,” she spat. “What difference would a drop of goodness have made in the ocean of evil that sloshes about the world, eh?

“All the difference!” Puddifant replied, infecting her thoughts.

“Oh, shut up!” she grumbled, fluffing her pillow. “Rubbish. Utter rubbish.”

Endorathlil wondered, though, why she was crying. Why — after almost an entire lifetime — she should mourn the passing of the beautiful, young woman she had been, Lillian Smythe?

38

I
an shivered. It was a summer night, but cold. He'd stayed longer than Puddifant had told him. Much longer! Dawn was seeping into the sky, silhouetting the buildings across Main Street. “Come on!” he fumed. All night he had clung to the hope that she would come, but dawn threatened to burn off the last wisps of optimism. Far from being cheered by the welling light, Ian felt like a warrior in the face of an overwhelming enemy.

He wished Puddifant were with him, or Josh, or Millie — anyone who could tell him what to do. But he had stood his vigil alone, and alone he must decide when to end it — a terrible decision. Without
The Book
, Josh was doomed. Puddifant hadn't come right out and said so, but Ian had figured things out.
The Book
was “mission critical,” as they say.

If Puddifant hadn't instructed him otherwise, he would have cursed his former mistress, then figured out a way to steal what they needed. “Under no circumstances are you to attempt that,” the inspector had warned. “And remember, every evil thought pushes us farther from our goal. The spirit that can save us is repelled by anything mean.”

“What can I do, then?” Ian had complained.

“You are an impetuous fellow,” Puddifant replied on the verge of laughter. “No sooner have you thought something than it is done. You are quick with your tongue and with your fists, if it comes to that. When it is time to run, you are a veritable greyhound. All these are admirable qualities if you can master them. But your most remarkable quality, Ian, is faithfulness. You are a good friend.”

“I stick by my allies, if that's what you mean,” Ian mumbled, embarrassed.

“Oh-ho!” Puddifant teased. “More than that, young man. Much more. You would willingly fight for a friend — even fall for him. That says much more about you than a horse-trading word like ‘ally' ever could. I see through that armour of yours. You are a noble spirit, Ian.”

Remembering Puddifant's praise, Ian blushed. The inspector knew things about him that Ian did not know himself, including how devoted Ian had become to the Dempster kid during their short friendship.

“What good does all that do me now, though?” Ian cursed bitterly. “How will any of that help me get
The Book
from the old . . . er, lady?”

“You must will it with all your heart, Ian,” Puddifant had advised. “There's no guarantee in these matters, but the only hope is for you to pray with all your might.”

“Pray to who?”

“Why, to the Spirit of Goodness in Endorathlil, of course.”

“And what if there's no goodness in her?”

“Then you must beg the Spirit of Goodness to enlighten her.”

“And if that doesn't work?”

“Then you must pity her, for the woman is dead to anything that can bring happiness into her life and she is to be pitied not despised. You know her story, Ian. She has been a victim as much as our Josh. Pray for her in earnest as you leave her doorstep — with or without
The Book
. Pray for her as if she were your sister Adele. I assure you, she was as beautiful and innocent a child once.”

Ian remembered this admonition choking back again the urge to curse Endorathlil.

“Pray for her.”

Kind thoughts would not come.

“Pray for her as if she were your sister.”

He thought about that. “My sister?” Ian muttered.

How could the wizened, old face of Endorathlil ever be compared to Adele? He held a vision of the witch in his mind. She was ugly and mean. But if he thought very hard, Ian could imagine Endorathlil as she might have been, say, ten years earlier. A few of the wrinkles disappeared and her crooked back straightened a little. If he subtracted another decade, her gnarled fingers uncurled and some of the pain her arthritis caused subsided. He began reversing Endorathlil like a video on rewind. Her hair transformed from grizzled grey to smooth blonde; her eyes cleared and brightened, restored to emerald green; her skin smoothed and recovered its pink, healthy glow. Suddenly, she became the beautiful young woman Puddifant had described. Still the tape whirred back in time. Now she was a girl, laughing — actually laughing — instead of cackling like an old crow. The sound thrilled him for it was perfect laughter. At last she was Adele's age and Ian wanted desperately to protect Lillian from everything evil that would befall her. He wanted to save her from the wasting chronicle Puddifant had recited the night before. He was as fiercely jealous of her as he was of his own sister.

“Help her,” he pleaded.

“There!” Ian gasped as if Puddifant were standing next to him. “I've tried my best.”

“And now you must walk away,” he imagined the inspector saying, “walk away and not look back while mercy lives in your mind.”

Ian obeyed. Hard as it was, he set his feet in motion down the apartment steps and onto Main Street. His heart ached for Josh, and he knew he would punish himself for leaving without
The Book
, but still he obeyed . . .

“Ian Lytle!” a voice croaked.

Ian ignored this phantom call.

“Ian! Stop!” it cawed again.

And he did.

“Come back.”

Slowly, as if he were breaking out of a trance, Ian turned toward the summons. Endorathlil stood in the entranceway, her hair rumpled, her eyes red, a tattered housecoat cinched in around her waist. In her arms she held something wrapped in a frayed cloth.

“He is a persuasive spirit, Inspector Puddifant,” she said.

Ian nodded, not sure what to say.

“I felt your prayer,” Endorathlil told him. “I was coming down the stairs, but I'd lost my courage and was about to turn back. Then I felt it. You were imagining me as I used to be . . . ”

“Perhaps as you are,” he said.

“Perhaps in some small way. Here.” She thrust
The Book
at him. “Now it is my turn to pray — pray that you will find some way to undo what I have done.”

“Thank you.”

“I suppose this is the last I shall see of you,” she said sadly.

“I don't know,” Ian answered. “That depends.”

Both of them knew what it depended on and they dreaded the thought.

39

I
an unwrapped
The Book
and showed it to them.

“Good work, lad!” Puddifant cheered.

“How did you do it?” Millie gasped.

“I don't know, really,” Ian said. “I just outwaited her I guess.

After Inspector Puddifant paid his visit I suppose it was only a matter of time before she gave it up.”

Nonsense!” Puddifant sputtered. “You have demonstrated admirably the exact qualities we shall all need to succeed in this enterprise. You did not pry this from her unwilling hands, did you?”