Pure Dead Magic (19 page)

P
rofessore Flense-Filleto removed his surgeon’s gloves with an audible snap and dropped them in a garbage can. Over the green surgical mask, his eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion. The operation had not been a success. In fact, due to a computer failure, it had been a disaster.

On the other side of the recovery room, the anesthesiologist frowned at his equipment and tapped it with a rubber-gloved finger. “Useless machine,” he muttered, giving it a good kick. The heart monitor sprang to life, disgorging one hundred feet of graph paper from its chittering innards. “That’s better,” said the anesthesiologist, scanning the printout. He patted a bandaged form lying on a gurney nearby. “Thought you’d
died
on me for a minute.…”

The nurse looked up from where she was counting blood-smeared scalpels onto a tray. “When he wakes up, he’ll probably wish he had.”

The professore groaned and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, nurse.”

The hospital orderly stopped disinfecting the floor and languidly rinsed his mop in a rusted steel bucket. Pink-tinged water slopped out over its side. “What a
massacre,
” he moaned, “blood everywhere … d’you have to be so sloppy? This job’s taking me twice as long as usual, and I’m still not done yet.…”

“All right, ALL RIGHT!” yelled the professore. “So. I make a mistake, huh? We all make mistakes. Nobody is perfect. My father—rest his soul—always said to me as he filleted the pork bellies and the lamb shanks and the ox hearts, in this life, sonny, nobody’s perfect … not even your mama.”

“Hey, come on,” said the anesthesiologist, “lighten up. It’s hardly your fault, Professore. So there was a major fault with the computer linkup, right?” Despite the silence that greeted this question, he warmed to his theme. “So there’s a bunch of nomadic rodents on the Net, right? And they get mixed up in the computer-generated model we’re working from to remodel this guy’s face, right? Not your fault. So this guy wakes up, right?” He prodded the silent body on the gurney. “He looks in the mirror and he goes, ‘WHAT’S
THIS?’
and he sues you, right? You sue the computer company, right? The computer company sues its supplier of microprocessors—”

“Right?” interrupted the professore, catching on at last.

“The supplier of microprocessors fires a worker on its assembly line.” The anesthesiologist paused for effect.

“RIGHT!” chorused the nurse and the orderly.

“And …,” the anesthesiologist added, “the worker on the assembly line goes home and yells at the wife and kids …”

“He’s coming round,” warned the nurse.

Don di S’Embowelli Borgia was swimming in a blood-filled fish tank. Suspended, drifting in claustrophobic redness around him were the skeletons of the hapless Ragu plus countless other bodies whose lives the Don had taken. He thrashed and gargled, trying to reach the surface … the light … the air.… Squeaking pitifully, he exploded into daylight … into an echoing steel nightmare with his senses magnified a hundredfold. The smell of disinfectant burned his bandaged nose, the light seared his bandaged eyes, and every noise crashed and boomed like thunder in his ears.

Nearby came an oceanic splashing followed by a rhythmic swish swish, then a voice grated in his ear, “If I was you, signor, I’d sue them for everything.…”

“Squeak, eek, squee?” said the Don.

“Feeling better, signor?” This new voice was accompanied by a deluge of cheap perfume. “Don’t try to say anything just yet.”

“Squeee! SQUEAK, EEE, eek!” said the Don.

“Bad luck, old chap,” said a third voice, growing painfully loud as its owner approached where the Don lay. “We ran into some little problems during your operation, but nothing that we can’t sort out with two years of intensive corrective surgery.…”

“Eek, EEEK SQUEEE,” shrieked the Don, thrashing his bandaged head from side to side.

“NURSE!” yelled the anesthesiologist. “Hold his head, I’m going to put him under again.”

The Don’s plaintive squeakings grew fainter as he slipped back underneath the red tide again, his new whiskers streaming behind him. Swimming, he decided, was easier when you used your pink tail as a rudder.

Sorted

“
R
ight,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, with a confidence that she didn’t feel. “Let’s get this muddle sorted out.”

The family was gathered in the library at StregaSchloss, smiling for the camera as Pandora took a photograph of them all. “Just one last one, Mum, but with me in it,” she said, passing the camera to her mother and scuttling across the floor and up the wall to dangle upside down from the cornice.

Tarantella crossed and recrossed her human legs and rolled her eyes. “Oh, come
on,
” she demanded peevishly, “I was halfway through the most
delicious
dinner when you dragged me back down here.”

“SMILE,” said Signora Strega-Borgia. They smiled and the camera captured the moment forever: Signor Strega-Borgia standing, one arm on the mantelpiece, clad in a dry diaper; Tarantella gazing into the camera, with her legs draped over
the arm of a chair; Damp asleep, propped up against a pinnacle of books; Titus in his pajamas, affecting total boredom as Pandora swung back and forth in front of him, suspended on a lumpy length of spider silk.…

Did it flash? wondered Signora Strega-Borgia to herself, peering into the lens of the camera, before laying it down on a nearby chair.

The mantelpiece clock began to chime midnight.

“Now … um, let’s see if I can understand this.” Signora Strega-Borgia leafed through an enormous leather-bound book, chewing the end of her wand thoughtfully.

The family waited. Impatiently, Signor Strega-Borgia demanded, “Darling, are you
sure
you’re going to get it right this time? What if you turn us all into cockroaches or worse?”

Signora Strega-Borgia threw her wand to the floor and burst into tears.

The library door opened to reveal Mrs. McLachlan bearing a laden tray. “Now, dear,” she said, ignoring the loud sobs coming from her employer, “what we all need is a good strong cup of tea and maybe a wee fruit scone, or perhaps some of my seed cake, or fudge cake, or lemon drench cake, or plum cake, or banana loaf, or maybe,” she paused, ascertained that the Signora was still weeping, “…  or maybe you’re not hungry?”

She placed the tea tray firmly on top of the open book of spells and picked up the discarded wand. “Such a nuisance, these things,” she declared. “Simply not up to the job.” Signora Strega-Borgia looked up, her tear-stained face showing a faint glimmer of hope. “Now, dear,” continued Mrs. McLachlan, cutting the fudge cake into several generous wedges, “I’ve washed and ironed your best wand, and it’s waiting for you on the
kitchen table. Why don’t you pop downstairs and get it, and meanwhile I’ll pour you a cup of tea?”

Obediently, Signora Strega-Borgia headed downstairs to the kitchen. As soon as the sound of her footsteps faded away, Mrs. McLachlan pulled a small case from her pocket and fixed the family with a basilisk-like glare. “Not one
word,
” she commanded, holding up her hand for silence. “Not one word now, and not a squeak when the Signora returns, or there’ll be no cake. One day the Signora might become a very fine witch, but she’ll never do it unless she
thinks
she can.” Flipping open her case, Mrs. McLachlan began to type.

Mrs. McLachlan met Signora Strega-Borgia clutching her laundered wand in the corridor outside the library. “Not that I know the first thing about magic, dear, but … might I make a wee suggestion?” Signora Strega-Borgia bit her bottom lip and nodded. “I’ve turned out the lights in the library to aid your concentration. There’s just enough light coming from the fireplace to allow you to see where to point your nice clean wand. Maybe you were just distracted last time by the sight of your loved ones in such a pickle? So … my advice, for what it’s worth, is do
not
turn the lights back on until you’re finished. That way, you won’t be able to see their wee faces, and you’ll be able to concentrate on doing your magic.” Patting Signora Strega-Borgia on the arm, Mrs. McLachlan opened the library door and led her employer inside.

In the flickering firelight, Signora Strega-Borgia could just about make out the shapes of her family huddled by the fireplace. A thin and hairy leg waved encouragingly in her direction, followed by a hissed, “Tarantella … PAN, I mean, don’t distract her!”

A stifled sob from Damp firmed up Signora Strega-Borgia’s resolve. I
won’t
fail, she decided, I simply
can’t.
My family needs me. I CAN do this. I think I am a good enough witch. She amended the last bit, I AM a good enough witch. I am. I am. Slowly, holding her breath, fingers tightly crossed, she began to spin. Behind her, holding Pandora’s camera, Mrs. McLachlan waited.

Just as Signora Strega-Borgia stopped in mid-spin and pointed her trembling wand at her family, Mrs. McLachlan pressed the shutter release on the camera. It flashed; Signora Strega-Borgia gasped and rushed to turn on the lights.

“Oh, well
done,
dear,” said Mrs. McLachlan, prompting the family with a glare.

“Um … er … well DONE, Mum,” said Titus, catching on.

“What a star,” added Tarantella, clapping all eight legs.

“How ever
did
you do that?” said Signor Strega-Borgia and Pandora in perfect stereo.

“Oh …,” said Signora Strega-Borgia, casually stirring her teacup with her wand, “it was easy.”

At least, noted Mrs. McLachlan, carrying Damp upstairs to bed, she had the grace to blush.…

The Taste of Summer

“
O
h, Marie, you shouldn’t have!” cried Mrs. McLachlan. “A cake! For my birthday! How kind.” She hugged the blushing cook and gazed at the cake in disbelief.

“What an
unusual
color,” murmured Signora Strega-Borgia. “I’ve always thought gray so stylish.… come on, Ffup, do the candles, pet.”

The dragon obligingly leaned forward and squirted flames from each nostril. Immediately the entire cake was alight.

“
Fifty
candles,” whispered Titus. “Eughh. I don’t ever want to be
that
old.”

“That can be arranged,” Pandora replied.

Mrs. McLachlan took a huge breath.

“Make a wish, make a wish,” Pandora pleaded.

Mrs. McLachlan winked, and exhaled.

“Bravo!” cheered Signor Strega-Borgia, lifting his glass to her. “Now your wish will come true.”

“But you
can’t
tell us what it was,” Pandora said hopefully.

“But you
can
cut the cake,” said Signora Strega-Borgia.

Marie Bain handed Mrs. McLachlan a knife and scuttled back to the kitchen for plates.

It had been a perfect day, thought Titus. If it had been
my
birthday wish, he decided, I would have wished that every day could be just like this one. Following a morning of unbroken sunshine, they had eaten lunch in the garden and now, replete and sleepy with happiness, the family and assorted pets lounged on the lawn on blankets and deck chairs, watching the sun slide into the sea loch. Late afternoon sunshine painted StregaSchloss gold, gilded them all in its gentle light, and drove the scent of honeysuckle out into the still air.

If it had been
my
birthday wish, thought Pandora as she watched Mrs. McLachlan struggle to cut through the gray icing, I’d have wished for a different cake.…

A shadow fell across the tablecloth. “Nonna!” Signora Strega-Borgia struggled to her feet. “What a pleasant surprise!”

“And you thought
fifty
was old …,” Pandora whispered to her brother.

A very wrinkly old lady was dripping over the remains of lunch. “Someone defrosted me …,” she mumbled, then caught sight of the cake. “How kind … a cake … for me? Is it my birthday? Again?”

“Welcome back, Nonna.” Signora Strega-Borgia led the old woman to a deck chair and gently folded her into it. “Some tea? Champagne? Strawberries?”

“Have they found it yet?” the old woman asked. Her voice sounded painfully dry, like the rustle of papery leaves, words made of dust. “The
cure,
you know,” she added. “You
do
remember, don’t you?” Her watery eyes fixed pleadingly on Signora Strega-Borgia.