The Witch and the Englishman

So weird, I thought.

When Archibald was done pulling his sparse chin hair, he looked sideways at me. I was slightly dismayed to see that the twinkle in his eye was gone. It had been replaced with a look of deadly seriousness.

“Yes, I know what you’re dealing with.”

“Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not, but do not fear it,” said Maximus. “It thrives off of fear…and blood.”

“Sounds like a vampire. Well, at least some vampires.”

“In a way, it is,” said Archibald. “But it’s not.”

“What is it?” I asked. “I’m ready. Lay it on me. Wait. Hold on. Okay, now I’m ready.”

“It’s a demon,” said Archibald. “Perhaps one of the oldest I’ve seen.”

I opened my mouth to speak. I’d fully intended for some words to come out, but none came to mind, and so I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.

“Unlike the highly evolved dark masters—one of which presently lives within Samantha Moon—this creature is far older and far more powerful.”

“How old? And how powerful?” I asked.

“It was never human, so its age would be hard to determine, but it has the ability to control others, to get them to do its bidding.”

“Like kill for it?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so. But there is another factor.”

I nodded. I knew of this other factor. I had sensed it for a few days now, and suddenly, with just this small prompting from Maximus, I knew where he was going with this “other factor.”

“The souls who have died there are trapped there, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” said Maximus, seemingly impressed. “And not just those who have died there.”

I nodded again, knowing where this was going. “And other victims related to those in the house.”

“Of which there are many, Allison. Many who have not been reported. There is much death surrounding this house. And it is full of lost spirits.”

“Lord help me.”

The Librarian tapped his long fingers on the help desk counter. His tapping fingers made all of this seem very real, that he wasn’t, say, a figment of my imagination. Or, perhaps, a ghost who haunted the library. Tapping fingers created physicality. At least, I hoped it did. More interesting was all the bright gold I saw him wearing: rings and bracelets. I asked him about the gold.

He said, “Gold has very, very special qualities. Humans do not use it correctly. They use it for flash, to display wealth. In reality, gold provides great healing and protection. If more people wore pure gold against their skin, there would be far less sickness and disease in the world.”

“Good thoughts,” I said, “except that pure gold costs a lot of money.”

“True,” he said. “Except if you’re an alchemist.”

“What, exactly, does that mean?”

He motioned to a sterling silver ring I was wearing. “Would you mind?” he asked.

“No, of course not.” I slipped it off and handed it to him.

I had purchased the ring from a street vendor in Cabo two years ago. I doubted it was even pure silver, but it made me smile every time I looked at it. Good times.

The Librarian placed the ring in the center of his right palm. His hands, I noted were beyond smooth. Almost freakishly smooth. He then placed his left hand over his right and closed his eyes. I waited for a flash or for him to mumble an ancient incantation. But he mumbled nothing and there were no pyrotechnics. Instead, a moment later, he lifted his left hand, and there, sitting in his palm, was my same ring, complete with the same white stone.

But now, the tarnished silver was shining bright gold.

“Pure gold,” he said. “99.999 percent gold. You would be well advised to wear it always.”

“I…I will.”

I slipped it on my right ring finger. It felt…warm to the touch.

“Okay,” I said. “Now, what do we do about this demon?”

The Librarian grinned and said, “I thought you would never ask.”

Chapter Twenty

I was in my Spirit Chair.

But not really. My body was certainly sitting comfortably, breathing easily, but in my mind, I was on a desert dune, sitting cross-legged with the beautiful woman who I knew to be Mother Earth. She was a woman who wasn’t a woman at all but the spirit of the very Earth we all lived on.

“Good evening, Allison,” she said.

Except, of course, where we were looked like bright day. Still, it was evening back in Beverly Hills, which seemed as remote and distant as the moon and stars, at this point.

A hot wind blasted over us, kicking up sand. Sand that felt real to me. Gaia smiled warmly at me—she was a true mother in every sense of the word.

“Good evening, Mother,” I said. “Is it okay if I address you as ‘Mother’?”

“Of course, child.”

I nearly made a joke about her addressing me as ‘child,’ but her address, much like Millicent’s, was so natural, so warm, so loving, that I treasured it…and needed it, too.

I basked briefly in her presence, in her love for me, for all things on Earth, and, a moment or two later, I started my questions along that line of thinking:

“Is it true that you love all things upon Earth?”

“More than you know.”

“Even those who do evil upon your surface?”

“Are you asking if I love less because one of you has made a poor choice?”

“Maybe.”

The wind whipped her long, red hair, and ruffled the white gown she was wearing. She looked, to me, like an Atlantean princess.

“I feel great sadness, yes, but I do not always have access to the reasons behind such choices. I only feel the effects, the blood spilled, the fear, the anger, the horror that is forever imprinted on my surface.”

As she spoke, I had a mild epiphany. “You only have access to the minds of those who call on you.”

“This is true. I am not the Creator, child. I am a creation, much like you. Only the Creator has access to all thoughts, desires and motivations.”

I thought about that as the wind picked up. I was surprised to see that I was wearing a similar white robe. Back home, in the Spirit Chair, I was wearing jean shorts and a UCLA sweatshirt. Overhead, flashing across the sun-filled sky, was a soaring eagle. I heard its cry. I could also feel its need for nourishment. Mostly, I sensed its connection to the woman sitting across from me. It was at ease, content, free, hungry, yes, but never worried about finding food. I sensed its great trust in her…and in itself.