Black and Blue Magic (8 page)

“But what happened about the flute?” Harry asked.

“Ah, yes, the flute. That was the last straw. After the flute incident there was nothing my superiors could do but demote me. You see, I was filling an order for a magic flute for a fellow who said he intended to use it to exterminate rats in a little town in Germany. But I must have made a mistake in the formula, and the flute was given too wide a range. It was used not only on rats but also to commit a deed so horrible that it has become a legend. The public outcry was tremendous; and, of course, the scandal touched the Comus Company. And that is just the sort of thing they have always taken every precaution to avoid.”

There was something vaguely familiar about the flute story, but Harry was too busy thinking about the enchantment to figure it out. “Did the enchantment keep on working? I mean, even now when you aren’t a sorcerer any more?”

“Oh dear, yes. I’m afraid so. It’s just that my mistakes are of smaller consequence now. I loose train tickets and,” he smiled ruefully, “fall out of buses.”

Harry couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. “Isn’t there any chance that you’ll get over it? The enchantment, I mean.”

“There is one faint hope,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “According to one old and obscure book on spells, there
is
a way to escape.” Mr. Mazzeeck reached into a pocket inside his coat and brought out a worn and discolored scrap of paper. He unfolded it carefully and handed it to Harry. The fancy faded print said:

Mog will not remove a curse,

Till Better triumphs over Worst.

Till Bad-to-Worse

Has been Reversed

And out of Error—Good has Burst.

“Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of thing that’s likely to happen.” Mr. Mazzeeck said, taking the paper from Harry and putting it away. “But I always carry it with me to keep up my spirits. Even a faint hope is better than none.”

Harry hadn’t understood much of what he had read, but he was inclined to agree that it didn’t sound too likely.

“And in the meantime,” Mr. Mazzeeck went on, “I am a wanderer. All over the world ... places where magic is unappreciated or practically unknown ... hard beds ... tired feet ... terrible food ... here one day and gone the next ... trains, ships, buses, and taxis.”

“Why don’t you fly?” Harry asked. “Wouldn’t it be faster?”

Mr. Mazzeeck looked a little embarrassed. “I’m afraid I’m a bit old-fashioned, but aeroplanes make me uneasy. Don’t they make you a bit nervous?”

“Well, no,” Harry said. “I haven’t flown any lately, but I used to a lot when I was a little kid and I loved it. But that’s not exactly what I meant. I meant this way.” He pointed to the rolled-up carpet in the suitcase.

“Ah, but don’t you see, that is not possible. When I was deprived of my sorcerer’s credentials, I was expressly forbidden the use of the company’s products. It has been a hard sentence. I often yearn for the days when I could make use of the magic that I am now forbidden.” Mr. Mazzeeck’s eyes went dreamy. “Particularly the magic tablecloth,” he murmured.

“You mean you can’t use any of these things yourself?” Harry asked.

“Almost none. I am allowed a limited use of the lamp.”

“You mean, like when you used it to come up to my room?”

“No,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “That’s not the use I was referring to. I am allowed to summon the genii of this particular lamp, but only as a means of communication with my superiors at the head office. In fact, my orders to leave San Francisco tonight were brought by genii. It’s a bit faster than airmail.”

“I guess it would be, at that.” Harry said.

Mr. Mazzeeck reached into his pocket and took out his big old watch. “Dear me,” he said. “I must be going if I am to catch my train. We must make our decision quickly.” He opened the lid all the way and stood staring into the suitcase. Then his face crinkled into a smile. “Of course. What could be better?” He dug hastily through the jumble and came up with a small object that seemed to be a tiny silver vase or bottle. The metal looked thick and heavy, and it was engraved all over with a pattern of what appeared to be tiny leaves or feathers.

“There you are,” Mr. Mazzeeck said, handing it to Harry. “A small token of my everlasting gratitude.”

“Er—thanks. Thanks a lot,” Harry said.

“Go on, open it.”

The deeply embossed silver top was attached to a wide wooden cork. Inside the bottle there was a thick white liquid that looked very much like the stuff ladies put on their hands when they finish doing the dishes. “What is it?” Harry asked.

“Well, in our new catalogue it’s listed as Volo Oil,” Mr. Mazzeeck said disapprovingly. “But actually it’s a very old product. Not one of these gadgety bits of trickery that are so popular nowadays, you can be sure of that. The ointment is made from a formula that has been known to the better sorcerers for centuries. The raw material is distilled from one of the oldest dreams of mankind. And it’s only necessary to use one drop on each shoulder, rubbed in well. And of course, one must read the incantation on the label. Oh yes, and don’t forget that the verse at the bottom of the label is necessary in order to return the user to his former state.”

Harry turned the bottle around and noticed a smooth oval-shaped area where there was no engraving except for a few lines of very tiny print. He was trying to make out the words, when a horn honked right in front of the boarding house.

“That must be my taxi,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “I must be off. And I now have yet another reason to thank you. It was kind of you to listen so sympathetically to an old man’s troubles. If I may presume on your kindness just once more to help me to the street with my luggage, I’ll be on my way.”

Harry had a million questions ready to ask, but Mr. Mazzeeck had already closed and fastened both his suitcases and started for the door with the large one. Harry could only stuff his gift into his pocket, pick up the other bag, and follow. In the rush down the stairs and into the taxi, there wasn’t a chance for even one question, but after the driver had gotten back into his seat, Mr. Mazzeeck leaned out the window.

He spoke softly, behind his hand. “Once again, good-by, and thank you,” he said. “And Harry, just a word or two of warning. As with all good magic, there is a bit of skill involved, so proceed with caution, particularly right at first. And above all use discretion. Remember, there must be absolutely no
public notice!
If a breath of this should get into the papers, your gift will be reclaimed, and I will be in trouble again. In my position that can only mean transfer to a subsidiary branch. I might even be assigned to the Voo Doo Line. You may not understand just what that would mean, but try to imagine how it would be for a man who has supplied the greatest heroes of myth and legend, to be forced to end his career peddling crocodiles’ tongues and bats’ gizzards to second-rate witches.”

“Gee, Mr. Mazzeeck,” Harry whispered, “I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble. If you think I might, maybe I better not keep the—uh—what you gave me.”

“Not at all,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “If you are careful, there should be no problem. The company cleared you for a gift, you know; I was only responsible for picking the right one.” Then he smiled archly, the way people do when they’re going to pay you a compliment. “I had no difficulty in getting the authorization. There’s even a prophecy in your favor.”

“A prophecy!” Harry gasped. “How did ...

But at that moment the taxi driver started the motor. Mr. Mazzeeck leaned out and took Harry’s wrist in a firm clasp. “You must promise me that you’ll be careful.”

“Sure, Mr. Mazzeeck. I’ll be careful as anything.” Harry had the funny feeling that he hadn’t the slightest notion what he was promising, but you just couldn’t refuse anyone who looked so desperate.

All the tiny crinkles in Mr. Mazzeeck’s face rearranged themselves into a few deep smile-lines. “I’m sure you will,” he said. Then he leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “The train station, if you please.” The taxi pulled away down Kerry Street, turned the corner, and disappeared from view.

L
IKE SOMEONE IN A
dream, Harry walked back into the house and up the stairs. On the first landing he ran into Mom. “What’s going on?” she asked. “I keep hearing people going up and down the stairs.”

“Mr. Mazzeeck just left,” Harry said. “I helped him carry his luggage out to the taxi.”

“That’s strange. He didn’t say anything about leaving tonight at dinner. And he’s all paid up until Thursday.”

“He said he’d just heard from his boss or something,” Harry said. “I guess it was sort of unexpected.”

Mom went back into her room shaking her head in a puzzled way, and Harry went on up the stairs to the third floor. Not until he had settled himself in his favorite spot on the foot of his bed, did he reach into his pocket. Now that he was back in his own room, with the familiar fog drifting past the window, he felt quite sure there would be nothing there at all. His pocket would be empty.

But it was there, all right. A small bottle of heavy silver, the deeply embossed pattern sharp and clear against his fingers. He just sat there, running his fingers over the rough surface and thinking.

There were two or three possibilities, and they were all so fascinating that Harry just barely noticed that he was fooling around with the old Swami’s favorite word again. Anyway, the most likely one was that Mr. Mazzeeck was a little crazy, in an interesting sort of way. Or else, it could be that he was one of those people who go in for elaborate and carefully worked out jokes.

The last possibility was—well, if there was any other possibility it would have to be that Mr. Mazzeeck was neither joking nor crazy, and the little silver bottle in his pocket was full of some kind of magic—for Pete Squeaks!

It seemed pretty dumb to believe a thing like that, and yet, sitting there in the dark, with the summer fog wisping past his window, Harry found himself admitting that he’d known all along Mr. Mazzeeck was a lot more than he seemed on the surface. And that one admission, like a hole in the dike, let in a whole flood of new possibilities. For instance, there was the possibility that the towering, wavering figure Harry had seen through Mr. Mazzeeck’s window had been a—well, a genie messenger, maybe. And it was even possible that Mr. Mazzeeck’s shadowy face-behind-a-face hadn’t been just Harry’s imagination after all. Time went by, and as Harry sat holding the little bottle, the ordinary world of Marco’s Boarding House, Kerry Street, San Francisco, U.S.A., began to grow dim and distant behind a glowing, flowing world of possibilities, too fantastic to put into words.

Suddenly Harry scooted over and turned on his bed lamp, jerked the bottle out of his pocket, and pulled out the cork. The thick white liquid still looked a lot like hand lotion, but as he stared at it he began to see things he hadn’t noticed before. For one thing, it glowed. A soft pearly light shone upwards from somewhere deep inside the bottle; and tiny ripples coiled and uncoiled no matter how still the bottle was held. Suddenly, like an echoing ripple, a deep shiver wound its way slowly from one end of Harry to the other. It was magic, all right, he was sure of it. Magic, magic, magic!

With the shiver still tingling in his finger tips, Harry started trying to recall everything Mr. Mazzeeck had told him about the silver bottle. Let’s see—a drop on each shoulder, rubbed in well. And you were to recite the words that were written on the label. Harry held the bottle close to the light. It wasn’t easy to read, and it didn’t make much sense when you got it read, but it seemed to say:

Wing feather, bat leather, hollow bone,

Gift of Icarus and Oberon,

Dream of the earthbound—Spin and Flow

Fledge and Flutter and Fan and GO!

Then there was a line, and in the bottom half of the oval, it said:

Dream of the earthbound—Spin and Flow

Flicker and Furl and Fold and NO!

Harry read it over thoughtfully two or three times. He didn’t remember Mr. Mazzeeck’s exact words, but he’d indicated that the short verse below the line was to make the, whatever it was, go away, when you were through with it. That was a good thing to remember. In stories and things there were always people who got into trouble because they forgot that part of the magic. With this thought in mind, Harry took time to say both verses over until he was sure he had them memorized.

At last, when he was positive it was all firmly in his head, he took off his robe and the tops of his pajamas. His hand was only a little shaky as he held the bottle over his bare shoulder. But he didn’t tip it right away. Instead he started thinking again.

Some of the possibilities that had occurred to him had seemed great when he thought of them a moment or two ago. But now when they were staring him right in the face, they were almost too exciting. What if the stuff in the bottle turned him into something else? Maybe he wasn’t always too crazy about being Harry Marco, but when it came right down to it, there were a lot of worse things a guy could be. In stories, people sometimes got changed into something really gruesome, like a big fat slimy toad. Or else they shrank away to almost nothing, or grew into a giant. Or—maybe the magic in the bottle might make you just disappear and turn up somewhere else, in some other century, even. Or what if ...

All of a sudden Harry shook his head hard, took a firm grip on his imagination, and clenching his teeth he tipped the bottle—just a tiny bit.

The drops came out like tear-shaped pearls, and they seemed to fall very slowly. On the skin of his bare shoulders, they were neither cold nor hot, but tingling, as the touch of a sounding tuning fork. He crossed his arms and rubbed both shoulders, and the tingle grew and spread; all across his back and down deeper and deeper, until it seemed to come from some place inside him that he had never known about. He waited, but that was all—only the deep tingling and a maddening almost-but-not-quite feeling, like when something teeters on the very edge of—of what? Harry took a deep breath, shut his eyes, and very slowly and deliberately recited the incantation: