Bed-Knob and Broomstick (11 page)

   
When he was a boy, he had been apprenticed to another necromancer, an old man
from whom he had inherited the business. The old necromancer, in private life,
was fat and jolly, but in the presence of his clients he became solemn as an
owl and clothed his fat whiteness in a long dark robe edged with fur so that
he could fill them with respect and awe. Without his smile, and in his long
dark robe, he looked as important as a mayor and as gloomy as a lawyer's clerk.

   
The young necromancer, whose name was Emelius Jones, worked very hard to learn
his trade. It was he who had to turn out at ten to twelve on cold moonlight
nights to collect cats from graveyards and walk the lonely beaches in the gray
dawn seeking seven white stones of equal size wet by the last wave of the neap
tide. It was he who had to mash up erbs with pestle and mortar and crawl down
drains after rats.

   
The old necromancer would sit by the fire, with his feet on a footstool, drinking
hot sack with a dash of cinnamon, and nod his head saying: "Well done,
my boy, well done. . . ."
The young necromancer would work for hours by candlelight, studying the chart
of the heavens and learning to read the stars. He would twist the globe on the
ebony stand until his brain too rotated on its own axis. On sweltering afternoons
he would be sent out to the country on foot to trudge through the fading heather,
seeking blindworms and adders and striped snails. He had to climb belfries after
bats, rob churches for tallow, and blow down glass tubes at green slime till
the blood sang in his ears and his eyes bulged.

   
When the old necromancer was dying, he sent for his assistant and said: "My
boy, there is something I should tell you."
Emelius folded his stained hands in his lap and dropped his tired eyes respectfully.
"Yes, sir," he murmured.

   
The old necromancer moved his head so that it fitted more comfortably into the
pillow.

   
"It's about magic," he said.

   
"Yes, sir," replied Emelius soberly.

   
The old necromancer smiled slyly at the carved ceiling. "There isn't such
a thing."
Emelius raised a pair of startled eyes. "You mean-" he began.

   
"I mean," said the old necromancer calmly, "what I say!"
When Emelius had got over the first sense of shock (he never completely recovered),
the old necromancer went on:
"All the same, it's a good paying business. I've kept a wife and five daughters
out at Deptford (whence I shall be carried tomorrow), with a carriage and four,
fifteen servants, French music teacher, and a bark on the river. Three daughters
have married well. I have two sons-in-law at court and a third in Lombard Street."'He
sighed. "Your poor father, may he rest in peace, paid me handsomely for
your apprenticeship; if I have been hard on you, it is from a sense of duty
toward one who is no more. My affairs are in good order, my family well provided
for, so the business as it stands and these premises I leave to you." He
folded his hands on his chest and became silent.

   
"But," stammered Emelius, "I know nothing. The love philters-"
"Colored water," said the old necromancer in a tired voice.

   
"And foretelling the future?"
"Child's play," murmured the old necromancer, "if you don't go
into details; whatever you prophesy about the future comes true sooner or later,
and what doesn't come true, they forget. Look solemn, don't clean out the room
more than once a year, brush up your Latin, oil the globe so that it spins smoothly-and
may good luck attend you."
That is the first reason why Emelius was a nervous type of man. The second was
because in the reign of good King Charles it was still the fashion to send witches,
sorcerers, and all those who were reputed to work magic, to the gallows, and
Emelius, if he made a slip or an enemy, might at any moment be delivered by
an unsatisfied client to a very tight and uncomfortable end.

   
He would have got out of the business if he dared, but all the money of his
patrimony had been dispensed in learning magic, and he was not a strong enough
character to start afresh.

   
In the year 1666 Emelius, at thirty-five, had become old before his time, old
and thin and terribly nervous. He would jump if a mouse squeaked, turn pale
at a moonbeam, tremble at his servant's knock.

   
If he heard a footstep on the stairs, he would immediately begin a little spell,
something he knew by heart, so that his clients might be impressed as they entered
by his practice of magic. He had also to be ready to sit down at the clavichord,
in case it was a king's man come to spy upon him, and pretend he was a dreamy
musician who had inherited the necromancer's lodging.

   
One evening, hearing footsteps in the narrow hall below the stairs, he leapt
up from the chair where he had been dozing by the fire (these late August nights
held the first chill of autumn), trod on the cat (which let out an unearthly
squeal), and seized a couple of dried frogs and a bunch of henbane. He lit a
wick, which floated in a bowl of oil, sprinkled it with yellow powder so it
burned with a blue flame, and hurriedly, with trembling hands, rushed off a
little spell-with one eye on the clavichord and the other on the door, and all
his body poised for instant flight.

   
There was a knock, a hesitatingly fumbled knock.

   
"Who's there?" he called, preparing to blow out the blue flame.

   
There was a whisper and some shuffling; then a voice, clear and treble as a
silver bell, said: "Three children who are lost."
Emelius was taken aback. He made a movement toward the clavichord, then he came
back to the blue flame. Finally, he stood between the two, with one hand carelessly
poised upon the globe, in the other a sheet of music. "Enter," he
said somberly.

   
The door opened, and there, thrown into relief against the dark passageway,
stood three children, strangely dressed and dazzlingly fair. They wore long
robes after the style of the London apprentice, but tied by silken cords, and
their cleanliness, in seventeenth-century London, seemed not of this world.
Their skins shone, and Emelius's quivering nostrils detected a delicate fragrance,
as of fresh flowers strangely spiced.

   
Emelius began to tremble. His knees felt unsteady. He wanted to sit down. Instead
he looked unbelievingly toward the paraphernalia of his spell. Could two dried
frogs and a bunch of henbane do this? He tried to recall the gabble of Latin
he had said over them.

   
"We are lost," said the female child in that strange foreign voice,
clear-cut as rock crystal. "We saw your light burning, the street door
was open, so we came up to ask the way."
"Where to?" asked Emelius in a trembling voice.

   
"Anywhere," said the female child. "We are quite lost. We don't
know where we are."
Emelius cleared his throat. "You are in Cripplegate," he managed to
say.

   
"Cripplegate?" said the female child wonderingly. "In London?"
"Yes, in London," whispered Emelius, edging away toward the fireplace.
He was terribly afraid. From whence had they come if they did not know they
were in London?

   
The elder male child took a step forward. "Excuse me," he said, very
civilly, "could you possibly tell us what century we are in?"
Emelius threw up trembling hands before his face as if to ward off the sight
of them. "Go back, go back," he implored, in a voice broken by emotion,
"from whence you came."
The female child turned pink and blinked her eyelids. She looked round the dim
and cluttered room, with its yellowing parchments, its glass vials, the skull
on the table, and the candlelit clavichord.

   
"I'm sorry," she said, "if we are disturbing you."
Emelius ran to the table. He picked up the bowl with oil, the two frogs, the
twisted henbane, and with an oath he threw them on the fire. They spluttered,
then flared up. Emelius rubbed his fingers together as he watched the blaze,
as if to rid them of some impurity. Then he turned, and again his eyes widened
so that the whites showed. He stared at the children.

   
"Still here?" he exclaimed hoarsely.

   
The female child blinked her eyes faster. "We will go at once," she
said, "if you would just tell us first what year
it is-"
"The twenty-seventh day of August, in the year of Our Lord 1666."
"1666-" repeated the elder male child. "King Charles the Second-"
"The Fire of London will take place in a week's time," said the girl
child brightly, as if she were pleased.

   
The elder boy's face lit up too.

   
"Cripplegate?" he said excitedly. "This house may be burnt. It
will start at the king's baker's in Pudding Lane, and go on down Fish Street-"
Emelius suddenly fell on his knees. He clasped his hands together. His face
was anguished. "I implore you," he cried, "go, go ... go. ..
."
The girl child looked at him. Suddenly she smiled, with kindness, as if she
understood his fear. "We won't harm you," she said, coming toward
him. "We're only children -feel my hand."
She laid her hand on Emelius's clasped ones. It was warm and soft and human.
"We're only children-" she repeated. "Out of the future,"
she added. She smiled at her companions as if she had said something clever.

   
"Yes," said the elder boy, looking pleased and rather proud. "That's
what we are, just children out of the future."
"Is that all?" said Emelius weakly. He got to his feet. He spoke rather
bitterly. He felt very shaken.

   
Now the youngest child stepped forward. He had a face like an angel with dark
gold hair above a white brow. "Could I see your stuffed alligator?"
he asked politely.

   
Emelius unhooked the stuffed alligator from the ceiling and laid it on the table
without a word. Then he sat down in the chair by the fire. He was shivering
a little as if with cold. "What else is about to come upon us," he
asked gloomily, "besides the fire that will burn this house?"
The little girl sat down on a footstool opposite him. "We're not awfully
good at history," she said in her strange way. "But I think your king
gets executed."
"That was Charles I," the elder boy pointed out.

   
"Oh, yes," said the little girl. "I'm sorry. We could go back
and look it all up."
"Do not give yourselves this trouble," said Emelius glumly.

   
There was a short silence. The little girl broke it.

   
"Have you had the plague?" she asked conversationally.

   
Emelius shuddered. "No-thanks be to a merciful Providence."
"Good show," exclaimed the elder boy heartily.

   
The little girl, asking permission, poked the fire to a brighter blaze. Emelius
threw on another log. He stared miserably at the broken bowl blackened by burning
oil. The old necromancer had doubly deceived him, for he, Emelius, quite by
accident, had found a spell that worked. These children seemed comparatively
harmless, but another mixture, lightly thrown together in the same irresponsible
way, might produce anything-from a herd of hobgoblins to Old Nick himself.

   
And it wasn't as if he knew the antidotes. Whatever came would come to stay.
He would never feel safe again. Never more would he dare throw sulphur on the
fire with muttered imprecations; never more would he dare boil soups of frogs'
spawn and digitalis; never more reel off Latin curses or spin the globe of the
heavens into a dizzy whirl of prophecy. His uncertainty would manifest itself
before his clients. His practice would fall off. His victims might turn against
him. Then he would have to fly, to hide in some filthy hovel or rat-infested
cellar, or it might mean prison, the pillory, the horsepond, or the rope.

   
Emelius groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

   
"Don't you feel well?" asked the little girl kindly. •
Emelius kicked the log farther into the blaze. Then he raised haggard eyes to
the little girl's gentle face.

   
"A child . . ." he said wonderingly. "I never knew"- he
dropped his voice sadly-"what it was to be a child."
"Oh, you must have known!" exclaimed the elder boy reasonably.

   
"Did you always live in the town?" asked the little girl.

   
"No," said Emelius, "I lived in the country. I should have said,"
he went on, adventuring into truth, "that I had forgotten what it was to
be a child."
"Well, you're pretty old," remarked the elder boy consolingly.

   
Emelius looked stung. "Thirty-five summers!" he exclaimed.

   
"Have you had a sad life?" asked the litle girl.

   
Emelius raised his eyes. A sad life. Ah, he thought to himself, that's what
it is-I have had a sad life. Suddenly he longed to tell of his life. The years
of fruitless labor, the dangers of his profession, its loneliness. He could
talk with safety to these strange children who (if he managed to hit on the
right spell) would disappear again into the future. He pulled his fur-trimmed
robe up over his knees away from the fire, showing coarse yellow stockings,
which hung upon his legs in wrinkles.

   
"There are few lives," he began rather gloomily, but as if he might
be going to warm up later, "sadder than mine...."
Then, in quaint words and phrases, he told the children of his childhood, the
childhood he said he had forgotten; of how he had been sent out, an an early
age, to gather herbs and simples; of the old schoolmaster who had taught him;
of May and Maying; of a man who had stood in the stocks for poaching; of being
beaten for stealing sugared plums; of how he had hated the nine times table
and had worn a dunce's cap for Latin. Then he went on to his apprenticeship
in London, the hardships and the disillusionment; the fear of starting on his
own; the terror in which he lived; and the people who wouldn't pay their bills.

   
As the children listened, the candles grew long shrouds of wax and the fire
died low. So absorbed were they in the story that they did not hear the watchman
cry the hours or note the presence of dawn behind the curtain.