The Magic Circle (3 page)

The magic circle. The limit of my humble abilities.

I leave the stream and walk to the cabin, buffered by a fog of vague worry, distanced from the fine edges of things of this world. The magic circle.

“Get that look off your face,” says Bala in her crow voice. Her beady eyes hold me fast. In her hands is the sword she told me she would steal. “You’ll worry the burgermeister if you enter his house with that sick look.”

“How can I not have a sick look?” My own worry sharpens now. Bala’s methods disturb me. I have worked
the night and the morning to suppress my fear. But it will not be quelled. Bala is wrong. I point accusingly at the blade. “I will not touch that sword.”

“You must touch the sword,” says Bala. “Without it, you cannot draw the magic circle.”

“I can use anything to draw the circle,” I say, “anything blessed.”

“And what have you got that is blessed?” says Bala.

I have no answer.

“No dean of any cathedral, Protestant or Catholic, near or far, would bless something for a hunchback like you.”

I look at Bala in silence.

She makes a
tsk
ing noise. “The sword belongs to our own pastor. It is blessed.”

“And stolen,” I say.

Bala moves close to me. “He would never lend it to you, a woman, an ugly hunchback. I had no choice. I’ll give it back when you’ve finished.” Her wet breath stings my cheek like the acid orange and yellow fruits from the south.

“When I’ve finished, if the boy is well,” I say, stepping away, “there will be another healing job. And then another. And you will never return the sword.”

“Wretched Ugly One,” screams Bala.

“I must be pure of heart, or no magic circle can stave
off the devils. If I use a stolen sword, how can I be pure of heart?”

“You didn’t steal it,” says Bala. “I stole it. You are pure. I am not.”

“But I know it is stolen,” I say. “It’s no use, Bala.”

“You think too much,” screams Bala.

“And you think too little,” I say.

“Mother.” Asa comes from inside the cabin. She holds a fish wrapped in wide oak leaves. The tail gleams. She peels a leaf from its head. The twisted face of the plaice fish, with both eyes on its right side, gleams like the moon I believe my child has sprung from. “A plaice fish is sacred, Mother. A plaice fish is blessed.”

I shut my eyes and see the plaice fish swimming, flattened against the bottom of the distant North Sea, twisted like me. How did Asa get this fish? How could a five-year-old get such a fish? Must I ask? Asa has a smile like my mother’s. She could easily charm a fisherman into giving her this fish. Besides, few people eat plaice. It would be worth nothing to the fisherman. “Skin it, Asa. You do it. Cut away its flesh. But leave the tail and backbone and head intact.”

“No!” Bala hovers over the fish. “See how fat it is?” Her words are true. The fish is fatter than any plaice fish I have ever seen before. “Come.” Bala takes my hand
and places it on the fish’s belly. “Feel the motion, Mid. wife.” She looks at me with cold eyes. “You can guess as well as I.” Her hand squeezes mine. “A slime eel.”

My breath catches. As a child, I lived by the sea. I am no stranger to its horrors. I imagine the plaice’s inner cavity slick with slime, host to the gray, writhing hideous eel.

I search Bala’s eyes. I have never talked to her of my childhood. We have never discussed the hated slime eels. Yet I have the sense that she knows the effect her guess has upon me. Slowly I move my eyes from Bala’s stone face to the clear, hopeful eyes of my child. Asa questions me with those eyes. She makes no guesses. She trusts me. I move my fingers along the scales, polished smooth by the rocks of the seafloor. To my hand the belly is quiet. To my hand this fish is clean. It is good. I know this is a moment, one of the many moments to come, when I must trust my own judgment as much as Asa does.

“Bring the knife here, Asa. Prepare the fish in front of us.”

Asa smiles. She does not know what a slime eel is. She is merely glad to see her fish has pleased me, after all. She sets it on the ground and runs to the cabin. Bala follows her and stands at the threshold. Asa returns moments later with the knife. She slits the fish neatly from
anus to mouth and peels it from the bone. The soft globose innards fall in the dirt.

Bala stands on the doorstep and watches. Her eyes are angry. Pride is a heavy burden.

I meet her eyes without triumph. There is no need to kindle the flame. Bala is my friend, after all. “Return the sword,” I say gently.

She lifts her chin and glides away toward her cabin. She has a fluidity of motion my body has never known.

Within the hour I am walking off to the birch grove. Asa and Bala have promised not to follow. I can take no chances with the souls of others. Bala has whispered my intent to others. One villager told me to bring parchment and use a quill to write the devils’ names in my own blood on the parchment. But I have no parchment. Another told me to bring the hide of a freshly killed goat and write upon it. But where would I get such a hide? I have tasted no meat except squirrel since the last winter solstice. My handwriting is in any case unlovely, even if blood makes it divine. The written word is only as powerful as the scribe is talented. And Bala has reassured me that none of these things is necessary. I go empty-handed, but for the plaice fish.

Still I feel the need to spill my own blood. It is a sacrifice of sorts—a gift to God as I ask for protection. I unwrap
the fish head and spine. There are many sharp bones. I snap one off and pierce my calf, drawing a line from the inside of my knee to my ankle. A thin red rivulet races to the dry ground.

My shoes are brown, as is my cloak. It is the only cloak I have. I take off both shoes and cloak and stand in my white shift. Sorcerers should be dressed in white linen robes spun by pure young maidens. I wonder if most sorcerers are wealthy. But if one was wealthy, why would one dare to converse with devils? Only desperation could make anyone draw a magic circle. Today, here among the white trunks of these straight trees, I am desperate.

And I wonder at my own desperation. I am desperate for beauty. I am overcome with the desperate desire to surround sweet Asa with jewels. To give her something as lovely as the gold ring of the wife of Otto of the West Forest. I laugh—jewels and candy. But that is not the desperation that draws me here now. The burgermeister’s child suffers. I will help this child. I must. I must free him of illness so he can savor candy, just as Asa savored the chocolate put on her tongue by Otto of the West Forest. I must see the pleasure in the child’s eyes as health returns. This will be my reward for meeting with the devils. I laugh again.

I cannot stop laughing.

But finally, I am weakened. The tears wet my cheeks. I put the fish head to the ground and walk backward in a circle, dragging it. The magic circle is faint, but it forms undeniably. There is but a thumb’s length left to close it. I make sure I am within the incomplete circle. I press my hair flat to my head. I rub my forearms. Then I pick up the fish head and complete the circle. I am now enveloped.

I sit in the center and fold my legs across each other. The rivulet on my calf has dried. I have no idea how long it takes to summon the devils. I have no grimoire, no magic textbook. I have only my purity of soul and my one magic word, the word that calls all demons. The villagers have told me that I will see horrible sights. Everyone seems to be an expert on devils. Everyone but me. Nevertheless, I know I am prepared I whisper. “Adiatmoaamvpmsciccajfz.”

I expect to whisper many times. But before my tongue can relax from the sibilance of the final
z
, a face appears before me. It is a beautiful face. The face of a small child. I know not whether the child is male or female.

The child smiles at me. “Mother.”

I feel the urge to hold this child. How did a child come to be in these woods at this hour? Why was I so foolish
as to not search the area first to make sure there were no intruders? The child must have been behind the closest birch, but three feet away. I should have checked there. I should have checked everywhere. Now this child is in danger. I want to hold the child. I need to hold the child. Against every desire I have, I say, “Run, child. Run away quickly. The devils come.”

The child looks hurt. “Mother.”

Where is this child’s mother? “I am not your mother.”

“Mother,” says the child in a trusting voice.

I cannot shoo the child away again. I must hold the child. Suddenly I realize that if I call the child into the magic circle, the child cannot be harmed. “Come here, child. Hurry.” I stretch out my hands. They reach almost to the edge of the circle. I am giddy with the knowledge that the child will be safe if we are both within the magic circle.

The child lifts the tiny robe it wears, to show feet covered with blood. “Come, Mother.”

I gasp at the wounded feet. This child cannot come to me. I must go to the child. I stand up and look about carefully. Are there devils hiding in the woods? “Reach out your hands, child. Reach to me.”

The child reaches, but the small pudgy hands do not extend into the magic circle. I must take the risk and grab
the child swiftly, clasp the child to me before the avenging devils appear. I stand up shakily. Then the cold doubt hits me. What if this child is a trick? A devil in disguise. Is that possible? I look at the child.

The child falls toward me and looks up with huge eyes. “Mother, help.” There is blood on the child’s cheek. I have been told demons do not bleed. This is common wisdom. If only I could taste the blood, know if it was true.

But even from here I can see it is true blood. It is red and thick and it gives off a sweet odor. I must save this child. It is up to me. I take a step. Another. I am blinded by fear. And in my blindness I step on the fish spine. A bone pierces my foot. The pain shoots up me like a raging fire. I stumble, and a drop of my blood flies out of the circle. I hear the sound of steam as my blood hits the child’s face.

A horned skeleton leers at me, teeth black and pointed. I know those teeth are iron. “Almost, Ugly One. We almost got you.”

The fire within me turns to ice. I shake with the realization that I almost perished. I am not a match for the treachery of the devil. There is no child. There never was one.

“What is it, Ugly One? Why do you summon us?”

I look around. There is only one devil, but he speaks of “us.” I listen to the rustling all about. The woods must be filled with evil. “Who inhabits the body of the child of the burgermeister?”

My question is direct. The demon must answer. “Astaroth, the smelly one.”

“When I am with the burgermeister,” I say, “I will call forth Astaroth and banish him from the child’s body. And he will leave forever.”

The devil swings a pointed tail close to the circle, closer and closer. “A visit in the damp and dark will serve much better than the lark.” He laughs

I kiss the plaice fish head. “God be with you.”

The devil shrivels and is gone.

The air smells faintly of silver nitrate. I recognize it from the north country Festival of Lights my mother took me to as a girl. I wrap the fish head and spine and tail in the oak leaves again and prepare to step from the circle. But the mark of the circle is gone.

I need it no longer

I have met the devil and survived. Were I a Catholic priest, I would now be an exorcist. But I am only a peasant woman. I am a sorceress. The Ugly Sorceress.

I
repeat the words of the devil: “A visit in the damp and dark will serve much better than the lark.” A devil may not lie to a sorcerer. Devils are obedient servants. Yet every instinct I have tells me that I must not call Astaroth in the damp and dark. The lark is the bird of the dawn. The plaice fish migrates southward, toward the sunny lands. I must summon Astaroth on a sunny day, before the shadows of late afternoon. I know this, without knowing how I know. But the devil’s words confound me. Why does he advise me to call Astaroth at the wrong time? I repeat the words slowly: “A visit in the damp and dark will serve much better than the lark.” And now
I am smiling. Serve, yes, that is the key. Such a visit would serve better—but whom would it serve? The devil, of course. Astaroth would never hasten to my summons in the damp and dark. This devil craves brightness. My instincts are right. I must go tomorrow morning if it is hot and sunny. I must go when the lark would sing.

And dawn comes finally, to my eyes that have held no sleep. It comes wavering through the heat that rises off the summer earth.

“Asa,” I call from the step.

“Yes, Mother,” calls Asa from her niche in the cedar tree. She climbs like a tree-dweller, while I get dizzy at the very thought of heights.

“What birds have you seen this morning?” I say.

“Only the sparrows, Mother.”

I wring my hands. “What birds have you heard this morning?”

“Only the lark, Mother.”

“Ahh,” I say with relief. “I am going to the burgermeister’s house. Come, Asa.”

We walk in our customary silence. Halfway across the deep green meadow, Bala joins us. She, too, stays silent. But for her the silence is uncustomary. I think of the fears Asa and Bala must have. Yet today I have no fear. I have
met with a devil. Perhaps with many devils. I will not be fooled by any bleeding child. I will be fooled by nothing.