The Magic Circle (5 page)

I pick up the sword. I marvel to see my hand does not shake. Peter keeps his eyes on me. His respiration is loud and labored. I draw a magic circle around the bed. As it nears completion, the reed in Peter’s throat suddenly squashes shut. I complete the circle as fast as I can. I sit on the bed with Peter, holding both his hands in mine. His chest is still now. He doesn’t breathe. The flow of blood on his throat has slowed to a sluggish welling
of drops. His eyes are hot, but he fights the panic. “Htoratsa,” I whisper. The word is flawless. Hallelujah, “Leave this child’s body. Be gone!”

A hiss of steam rushes around the reed, making it flap piteously. Peter writhes. I pull the reed from his throat and press my thumb over the gaping hole. “Cough, Peter. Cough.” I put my face to his and command, “Cough!”

Peter’s knees jerk upward and press against his belly. He curls around his middle. It is all I can do to keep my thumb over the hole in his throat. Peter’s mouth stretches open wide—wider than I have ever seen a person’s mouth open. It is as though his jaw is hinged, like a snake’s.

“Cough!” I shout.

He rocks and twists and finally spasms. A yellow river of phlegm shoots out and hits the floor. A foul odor fills the room. Peter coughs again and again, each time adding to the pool of phlegm. His chest is like a barrel that must empty.

Finally, the coughing stops. Slowly, slowly Peter uncurls. He lies back on his pillows. The hole in his throat is closed, though a purple scar has formed. A scar the color of amethyst. He breathes normally.

One look at Peter’s eyes tells me Astaroth is gone. “God be with you,” I call, to make sure he doesn’t return.

Peter looks at me in exhaustion. Then the resilience of
youth manifests itself. He rises from the bed. He stands unsure, as though the floor might shift under him. He puts both hands to his face and smells. “The rot has stopped.” He runs one hand up his arm. “My skin is cool again.” The whites of his eyes, yellow moments ago, are now the color of thick cream. I know they will be white as clouds before long. He looks at me with wonder. He laughs. He hugs me. “Oh, beautiful sorceress.” Then he runs outdoors, shouting to his father.

I am stunned at the word. No one has ever used the word
beautiful
for me before. No one ever will again. It is not the word for a hunchback. I bask in the word for a moment. Then I go outdoors to join the others.

There is much rejoicing all day.

At dusk I am sent home with Asa and Bala. Asa’s teeth are smeared with chocolate. She licks it away slowly, lingeringly. She pulls from her pocket a new candy circle of mint and sings a song about it all the way home. She puts it over the doorway, beside the other. Bala has a miniature star sapphire. I have an amethyst from the burgermeister’s sword. I will use it to draw magic circles in the future. After all, the plaice head has begun to deteriorate.

Asa and Bala go to bed happy.

I lie awake and think of Peter. Two things trouble me
from today. The easier one is most perilous to my body. I think of how it was Peter’s chance words that made me call Astaroth in reverse. Had I said his name normally, the demon would not have come. I could never have driven him off. Peter would have died. And I would have been slain for falsely portraying myself as a sorceress.

I must learn as much as I can about sorcery. I must visit Peter and read his books. I cannot let ignorance endanger my life. God tells me now to do these things. God will not tolerate my bumbling in the future.

But the more troubling thing was Peter’s question: “How can you tell what is the work of God and what is the work of the devils?” I must be able to discern the difference or I may run afoul of God. Who am I to think I have the wisdom to tell the difference?

I pass a second night tossing and turning.

In the morning Asa brings me a bucket of crabs. “I used the fish head for bait,” she says. “Look how many.”

We roast the crabs and eat them. Asa laughs. Her laugh is as clear as a gold bell.

And now I know the answer. Much knowledge can be gained from reading Peter’s books, but not this kind of knowledge. No. It isn’t up to me to recognize the demons of this world. That is not a human task. God will tell me. All I have to do is listen.

I
sit on the dry grass and look at our cabin. There are circles of green mint stretching from the top of the door up to the pointed roof and down along the eaves all across the front—payment from the many nobles whose families I have served. From here I cannot see the sides of our cabin, but I know the garland of mints goes along the eaves all the way to the back of the house. Perhaps one more year of healing would have brought enough mints to make them meet at the back of the cabin. But the garland will never be complete now.

Asa has lost interest in mints. She is a young woman now. Fourteen years old. She no longer begs Peter to tell her tales of the land of enchanted forests. Asa has
other concerns. She dresses in velvet. Her fingers are still bare, for she awaits the perfect ring. But her hair is capped with a lace bonnet. There are ribbons of many colors woven into the strands, and she wears diamonds on the soles of her shoes. No one else knows; no one can see them. No one tries to rob her.

I wear my brown cloak. I know that external beauty is not my fate, despite Peter’s remark when first I healed him. The boy was blinded by the joy of health. He has never since called me beautiful, though we see each other weekly. That is as it should be. It is only the eyes of God that see me as beautiful now. And the eyes of God are the only eyes I care about.

But there are other ways that the world sees my value. I am the healer for this region of the world. People travel days, at great personal expense and hardship, to visit me. They are always rewarded for their pains. I am an agent of God.

We live in our cabin still. Asa lives here more to humor me than anything else. She cannot sense the lightness of this cabin as a home, no matter how often I try to explain it to her. I see her walk on the town streets and look with interest at the nobles’ homes. I know already that she will marry a noble. Perhaps the son of Geiss the Fat. He has walked toward Asa twice now. Each time I have
managed to whisk her away. Geiss the Fat is a puritanical fanatic who would deny his daughter-in-law all beautiful things; I know that. Asa would suffer in his home. Still, soon I will have to give her up. It is right. She is a woman.

I have trouble imagining the cabin without Asa. She would gladly take me with her to any noble’s house. That I see in my head, although I have not tried to develop my powers as a seer. But this cabin is where I must stay. It is a humble abode. I cherish the safety of humility.

In the corner of the cabin, in a box made of porcupine quills, is a treasure: more jewels than any noble here-abouts owns. I have told Asa to stay away from the porcupine box and never talk of it to others. No one else dares to enter our cabin—the home of a sorceress. So the jewels are safe. When Asa marries, I will give her the box of jewels as a dowry. She will leave, not by the mercy of a noble, but with his great gratitude for catching her. And I will stay here.

I am like a treasure myself. When I think like this, sometimes a finger of fear makes a cross on my heart. The Patient Scholar who taught me to read alerted me to many perils: Knowing my own value is dangerously close to hubris. I have discussed this with Peter. He has proven himself wise in many matters. He says hubris is a form of vanity, as is all pride. I must not anger God
with pride. Yet denying my value would be a lie. It is right to recognize value, and then to know its true source: I am a treasure not because of my intrinsic worth, but because I am an agent of God. I am one of God’s jewels. I abide by the lesson of the amethyst.

“Ugly One,” hisses Bala.

I know without turning it is Bala. She is the only one left who does not call me Ugly Sorceress. She has come silently across the grasses. Yet even the field mice make this dry grass crackle. I wonder if she has flown. I see a vision: In the next life she is a starling. For an instant I see through her future eyes and I am chilled with my fear of heights. I shudder. But that is not the only reason for my shudder. My vision is impure. Bala could never become a bird—animals have no souls. I do her a disservice to think this way. I banish the vision.

“Peter sends this,” says Bala.

I turn and receive the book. Peter has been my source of reading for nine years now. I look at the plain black cover of the book that Peter told me he would send. I open it and stare at the graceful script. It is Hebrew. I know no Hebrew. I will sit in the sun and let God translate this ancient testament for me. Peter thinks there is something important in the text. He is sure there are passages
about vanity that will touch me. I did not ask Peter where the passages were. I start at the beginning.

“How did you learn to read?” asks Bala suddenly.

I feel uncomfortable under the scrutiny of her eye. She suspects me of something. But there is no evil in knowing how to read. So her suspicion is really just jealousy. “A scholar taught me,” I say as disarmingly as I can. I fight the color that wants to come to my cheeks at the mention of my Patient Scholar.

“Why would a scholar bother with you?”

“My mother asked him,” I say unwillingly, which is partly true. My Patient Scholar began teaching me for my mother’s sake. But he continued teaching me for the sake of a different bond—a bond that strengthened each time I saw him.

A flash of memory crosses Bala’s eyes. “Your mother did many unusual things.”

I hold the book tightly. “I am an ordinary peasant, like you, Bala. The only difference is that I read. If you like, I will teach you.”

She laughs. “The only differences are that you read
and
that you are a sorceress.”

I hope her laugh is sincere.

“The Baron von Oynhausen’s newborn has an extra
finger,” says Bala quickly. “They are bringing her to you this afternoon.”

I pay little attention. An extra finger is a trifle. This search tor physical perfection is uninteresting to me. It is pain and disease that I want to eradicate. But I will shrivel the finger.

I know without calling forth all demons that it is Baal’s work. Baal has three heads, and out of spite, he causes extra fingers, toes, even eyes to form on newborns. I look at the sky. “Bala, run tell the baron that he must come before noon.” I know that Baal never cooperates after noon. “Run.”

“The baron won’t like that,” says Bala. “He has traveled for four days to come to you. He wants to rest before the ordeal.” Bala shakes her head. “Don’t antagonize him.”

I think of Bala’s name and Baal’s name. A simple permutation of letters turns one into the other. I never noticed before. I look her up and down, but I see no evidence of extra parts. “Tell him,” I say.

Bala leaves, muttering. I cannot hear her words.

I open the yellowed pages of Peter’s tome. The language is sparse and poetic. It sings to me. I read for hours.

The morning passes, and the baron arrives late in the
afternoon. He is pompous and blustering. If I send him away, there is little chance that he will take it gracefully. If I call up Baal, there is no chance that he will cooperate.

But the finger is an easy problem. I hold the tiny hand in mine. The extra finger goes out to one side. I can solve this problem without summoning Baal. I can easily bite off the finger. A simple midwife’s job, and I am, beneath it all, a simple midwife.

No one must see me bite the finger. I take the baby in my arms.

“Where are you going?” The baron blocks my path.

“The baby and I must be alone,” I say, my eyes on the floor in the position of humility that the baron requires.

“Where is your magic amethyst that I have heard much of? The one of a violet so sharp it stuns.” His voice betrays more than the worry of a father whose baby has an extra finger. He wants to do this thing, whatever this thing may be, right—and he has no idea where to begin. He needs something solid to place his faith in.

I pull the amethyst from my cloak and hold it up for his inspection. I do not tell him that the brilliance of its hue is merely evidence of the iron impurities within. He would be flustered. He may be a dullard of sorts. I sympathize. I want to soothe him. I hold the amethyst closer to his face.

“Draw your magic circle here. I will watch.”

“It is dangerous, Sire,” I say, my eyes on the ground. “The baby and I will be within the magic circle. We will be protected. But those outside the circle are vulnerable.”

The baron clears his throat. “I will watch.” He leans over my stooped body and lowers his voice so no one else can hear. “How far away must I stand to be safe?”

I make the simple calculation in my head. If he stands by the pond and I am in the birch grove, he can see our forms and be reassured the baby is there. But he will not be able to see my mouth close around the finger. “Come,” I say.

I plant him by the pond and carry the baby up into the grove. The baby sleeps in my arms.