LITMIR.BIZ

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I was a young man, and becoming interested in magic, I had made such a talisman, but for Mercury, not a star. I thought I knew where it was: in an old box, containing a number of semiprecious stones of the tumbled kind that you can buy in any New Age shop. They’d been around for a long time, however, ever since I was a boy, and I didn’t know where they had originally come from. Now, I thought I knew exactly which stones were in that box: the ones that corresponded to the Behenian stars.

      I spent much of the day searching for the box; I had to go up to the attic in the end. But I did find it. I opened it to the faint glow of fifteen semiprecious stones and the old tarnished circle of my Mercurial talisman.

      Arcturus. Aldebaran. The Pleiades, and more. Fifteen stars or star groups that, in this northern hemisphere, circle continually above our heads, that never set. The woman carrying the sage, in her green gown and her grassy emeralds, would be Spica, chief star of Virgo, which I’d watched traverse the sky the other night.

      I felt as though she’d personally introduced herself. But why Spica? She might be prominent in the sky at present, but so, by definition, were the other Behenian stars.

      “Why are you here?” I asked aloud. A visiting cat, the tabby, gave me a startled look and scooted from the room. “Spica. Why you?”

      But there was no reply. No woman in green appeared; the house was quiet. After some further searching, I located the copy of Agrippa and pored over it; I was thinking of the Jack Frost figure in the fields.

       So who is “he”?

      Fennel juice and frankincense, placed beneath a crystal. That sounded suitably cold, but it corresponded to the Pleiades, and I could not see even one of those sisters manifesting as a male, though it’s hard to tell with spirits.

       Black hellebore with diamond, for Algol.

      An eclipsing binary, in the constellation of Perseus and known as the Demon Star; its name is Arabic, like so many star names. It means “the ghoul.” This didn’t seem quite right to me, placed upon that white striding figure of the night before. So who was he? I couldn’t find him among the Behenian stars; he was anomalous. What about the pale form I’d seen? And the little flickering flame of the churchyard hadn’t appeared, either.

      Back to church with you, Fallow, I thought.

      It was still very cold. The snowdrops seemed to have shrunk, and no flame was visible as I made my way through the churchyard and pushed open the oak door. Inside, empty of congregation, the church contained the echoes of hymns and prayer, whispers from innumerable Sundays. Without the large, old-fashioned stove going, the place was also cold, but not dark. Wan winter light cast dim shadows over the floor. I sat down in a front pew and waited for the eye to appear. I had a feeling it knew more than it was letting on.

      I sat there for perhaps half an hour, reading and rereading the inscriptions that appear along the upper walls of the church: strawberry pink on white plaster. We can thank the Arts and Crafts movement for this: two classical gentlemen holding scrolls. Is it nothing to you, all ye that shall pass by? reads one, in unnecessarily admonishing fashion in my opinion. Who is passing, and why? Well, I thought self-righteously, I’m not passing by. I’m trying to help. I kept glancing around the church, looking for the eye, but it was evidently being coy. I sat there, getting colder and colder, and eventually the light began to die outside to the blue of a winter twilight. And I saw it looking at me.

      It was high in the rafters, set in an angel’s face. One of the angel’s eyes was a stone oval, a bland blank in its neo-Classical face, but the other was scarlet, hot and glowing. I stood up.

      “I’m trying to help,” I said aloud, hoping none of the church ladies had crept in behind me to adjust the floral arrangements. “Tell me what to do.”

      You are a pilot, the voice said. The eye rolled.

      “I’m an astronomer. I’ve never flown a plane.”

       You are the witness.

      “I’m not sure I understand.”

      The angel gave a sigh, a breath that steamed out from its stone lips.

       Too cold. Find me in the fire.

      There was a sudden muted roar as the furnace stove started up, making me jump. The church became a fraction warmer. I thought of flames, dancing on a wall. Cautiously, I opened the stove door.

      Inside was a ball of fire. Something was twisting and moving within; it looked at me.

      “Ah,” I said. “Now I know what you are.”

      I am salamander, it said proudly.

      In its native element, I could see its long lizard shape, the curling tail. It wasn’t like the reptile known as “salamander,” but more heraldic, elegant. With some difficulty I squatted down on my heels so that I could see it more clearly.

       You have seen him.

      “Who? Do you mean the person in the fields, the other night?”

       Yes, that is the one. He is waking, as he draws near the sun, but not quickly enough. I am a messenger of the sun. You are in danger. You have to bring him safely through.

      “How am I to do that?”

       You must go to him, when it is time. You must give him your hand.

      I shivered, thinking of the cold, and at that moment a blast of chilly air ran down the back of my neck, accompanied by the creak of the church door. The salamander whisked into the heart of the furnace, and I slammed the plate shut, straightening up. The churchwarden, an elderly man, blinked at me mildly.

      “Professor Fallow? I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there.”

      “Just came in for a bit of peace and quiet. Your stove seems to be lit.”

      “Oh, is it? Doubtless one of the other wardens put it on. The church gets so damp, you know. And we have to try to keep this plasterwork intact.”

      “Well, I’m grateful for the warmth.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask too many questions of his colleagues. “But I’d better be going.”

      We exchanged pleasantries, and I went back to the house. Nothing flickered in the churchyard. Dusk cast a cold blue pall over the hills.

      Later that evening, Alys said to me, “It’s wassail on Saturday. Had you remembered?”

      I stared at her. “No. I’d forgotten it was our turn. But of course, you’re right. How many people this year?”

      “I don’t know. I sent out invitations. Maybe fifty? You don’t have to do anything. I’ll sort out the food. Sausage rolls and baked spuds.”

      Wassail. Nothing to do with astronomy. Lots to do with orchards and apples. It’s a celebration of the apple harvest and no, I don’t know why it’s done in the middle of January rather than the autumn, except that apple harvests can go on for rather a long time, and it’s not until after Christmas that the redwings and fieldfares fly in and devour the remaining windfalls. It’s one of those customs that goes up and down in popularity. Right now, it was undergoing something of a vogue, and a lot of the local farms were making a tidy sum by charging a few quid entry. It’s appealing because it involves alcohol and guns: you drink hot mulled cider, sing a couple of wassail carols, and a man fires a shotgun into a tree to scare away any evil spirits and ensure a good harvest for the following autumn. It’s all about the earth, and perhaps that was what I needed, with a head in the heavens, beset by the persons of stars.

      The next day was even colder. I rose before dawn and locked myself in the study, shifting the table closer to the window and rolling up the faded Persian rug. Beneath, the circle was traced on the floorboards, with a conjuration triangle outlined in red beyond it. If you are summoning a spirit, you don’t necessarily want it in the circle with you. In fact, usually not. I performed the lesser banishing

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