Josh and the Magic Vial (13 page)

Josh stared at her. He'd thought of that himself, of course. He'd even asked the vial if it should be opened. But a part of him didn't want to. He pulled it out of his pocket and studied it in the palm of his hand.

“Open it,” Millie repeated. “Whatever's in there wants out.”

The vial glowed yellow, as it had before, then green. She was right. But he was afraid if he opened it, the magic inside would prove to be nothing more than stale air, or some curious gas that would dissipate into the atmosphere.

“You have to Josh,” Millie urged.

He sighed. “All right,” he said. “I will — but not here, not now.”

Millie laughed.

“What!” Josh objected, hurt by her gaiety.

“Of course not here, you goof,” she chuckled. “Sometimes I just don't believe you Josh. You can be dumb as a post.”

Ian smirked, but managed to stay out of it.

Then he frowned.

“Now what,” Josh exploded, seeing Ian's disapproving look.

“Opening that thing won't get you out of Endorathlil's black book,” Ian figured. “In fact, my guess is she'll
really
be out to get you once you've pulled the stopper. She's owned the vial forever, man. Playing with it is like playing with dynamite.”

“That's why it's giving us a warning whenever we ask if it should be opened,” Josh said. “That's the danger.”

The vial glowed green in his hand.

“It's a risk we have to take,” Josh said, looking at the two of them. “Tonight. Ten o'clock. My place.”

They were agreed.

The vial throbbed in Josh's pocket. It radiated a strange sort of energy that warmed and tingled at the same time.

“Come on,” he called back to the others, climbing the ladder to his neglected tree fort.

He hadn't used the fort at all that summer, and Mr. Dempster had been hinting it was time to “dismantle” it. Josh was glad now that he'd protested. His makeshift bastion of boards and shakes was wedged between two branches of the big old maple in the Dempsters' back yard. It made a perfect hideaway. His parents never went up there. Ever. It was a family rule.

Josh shoved the trap door, which flopped open with a bang, then clambered onto the platform. Cobwebs tickled his face. He brushed them aside and turned to help Millie through the opening. Then Ian popped up, a big grin lighting his face.

“Neat!” he said.

“My dad built if for me. I don't use it much anymore.”

“Neat dad!”

Yeah, for a bank manager, Josh supposed.

“Did you bring a flashlight?” Millie asked, still sweeping cobwebs from her hair and sighing noisily.

“Yes, but we won't need it,” Josh said, enjoying their puzzled looks.

Carefully he eased the vial out of his pocket. Millie and Ian gasped. Coloured beams shot out of the thing, casting red, yellow and blue patterns on the rough-hewn walls, like a laser light-show.

“My god!” Millie cried. “It wasn't that bright when you showed it to us last time.”

“Man!” Ian whistled. “That thing's like the Fourth of July in a bottle.”

“Here,” Josh said, handing it to Millie.

She gave him an accusing look, as if he were trying to play a trick, then cautiously reached for the vial. “Jeez,” she shivered. “It makes my whole body tingle. It's full of electricity.”

“Can I hold it?” Ian asked.

Millie handed it over.

“Wow!” he laughed as the current zapped him. “Unreal!”

Carefully, he passed it back to Josh.

“Are you sure you want to open it?” Ian wondered out loud. “I mean, what if you sort of let the magic out, and all that's left once it's evaporated is an empty perfume bottle?”

Josh could tell by Millie's quick glance that she had been thinking the same thing.

“You're right,” he admitted. “It might be a mistake to pop the cork. But I think whatever's in there wants out.”

“What if it's toxic?” Millie wanted to know.

Josh shrugged. “You were the one who wanted to open it, remember?”

Millie looked doubtful.

“If it's alive, like you say, how do you know it's friendly?” Ian asked.

Josh shrugged again.

“I just feel it's the right thing to do,” he said. “I feel that whatever's in there has been trapped for a very long time, and it's up to us to set it free.”

Outside the moon hung full and heavy, a pendant on the black satin sky. Josh didn't know how to tell them about the feelings of dread that had troubled him since the previous night. At times he struggled against fear like a drowning man, tumbled in the surf. Something in the structure of his world had changed, and he knew it had to do with Endorathlil and the birdman. He also knew that, for good or ill, the vial contained answers to some of his questions.

“Do you want to stay?” he asked, looking first to Millie, then Ian.

They nodded, their eyes wide as saucers.

“Then here goes!”

With trembling fingers, he held the vial at arm's length and pinched the ornate stopper. A sudden chill, like fog, made him shiver. He gave the stopper a twist, then pulled it out with a pop.

A beam of light shot out the narrow glass neck. White and gold, flecked with whizzing bits of silver, it illuminated the shack. The vial vibrated wildly, and became too hot to hold, forcing Josh to place it on the floor.

“My God!” Millie screamed. “It's going to explode.”

Ian ripped open the trap door, but didn't abandon them. Instead, he signaled Josh and Millie that the escape hatch was opened if needed.

Covering his face with his hands, Josh peeked out at the intensifying brilliance. He caught glimpses of something moving in the light — a human form. The being trailed fire. It reared up in the air, spun round, then landed on the fort's windowsill, where it slumped, dripping light. Then, as quickly as they'd started, the fireworks died out, leaving the three children gawking at the spirit that had materialized in their midst.

“My name is Puddifant,” it said without lifting its head. “Inspector Horace Puddifant.”

As the brilliance around him dimmed, Puddifant shook himself and lifted his head. “Thank you,” he said, glancing at each of them in turn. “I am at your service.”

“Who are you?” Millie stammered.

The spirit seemed too exhausted to answer. Whoever he was, he had originated from England, and probably from the turn of the century, Josh figured. He spoke with an English accent and was dressed in a tweed jacket, woolen trousers, and scuffed black boots. Working class, Josh guessed. Puddifant's compact, muscular body was used to hard work by the looks of it. The most striking thing about him were his dark, luminous eyes. Framed by his grizzled beard and the frayed brim of his bowler hat, they shone through the darkness — eyes that saw much while revealing little.

“Who I am scarcely matters,” he said in answer to Millie's question. “What I am you will hardly believe. But I shall do my best to explain. To sum things up in a single word, I am what you would call a ghost.”

He allowed a moment for this news to sink in.

“As Mr. Dempster has surmised, I hearken from the City of London, where I was an Inspector with the Central Investigations Division of New Scotland Yard. I died in the performance ofmy duties some ninety years ago . . . you could read about the curious circumstances of my demise in the
London Times
, if you could find a copy from late November, 1910.My death caused quite a scandal . . . ”

“Nineteen-ten?” Millie repeated.

“Yes,” Puddifant confirmed. “If these details weren't important to the fortunes of our young friend here, I wouldn't dwell on them, but . . . ”

“What do you mean ‘important to the fortunes of our young friend'?” Millie interrupted.

“Well,” the inspector hesitated. “I don't want to alarm you, but Master Dempster
is
in some danger.”

“From Endorathlil?”

“Because of her, I should say,” Puddifant corrected. “And that is why you three must hear my story. You see, Endorathlil has uttered what is known as the Spell of Transmigration. To nonbelievers what I am about to tell you would sound like mumbo-jumbo, but I assure you her magic is real. And she has summoned a being of great power — one Vortigen by name. Only by understanding the origins and purpose of this spell can we hope to extricate our friend from its deadly influence.”

“Vortigen?” Millie croaked.

“The birdman!” Josh guessed.

“Indeed, your renditions of him are remarkably accurate for one who has only seen the creature in dreams.”

“Spell of Transmigration?” Millie interjected.

“Yes! Yes!” the poor inspector raised his hands in mock surrender. “If you will only let me begin my tale, I believe many of your questions will be answered.”

“This is crazy!” Millie objected.

“Indeed,” Puddifant shook his head sadly.

“You're an illusion.”

“Absolutely correct, Miss Epp. What's more, I'm an illusion only you three — and some few other true believers in the occult — can see.”

“But I don't believe in the occult,” Josh protested.

“You think you don't, but you do,” Puddifant laughed. “That's the funny thing about magic. It's mercurial. One fellow can study stacks of books on the subject and have as much chance of seeing magical phenomena as he would the back of his head; another, who couldn't care less about the spirit world, might suddenly see portents and miracles worthy of the prophets!”

The three of them stared at Puddifant.

“Shall I begin my tale, then?” he said.

Three heads nodded in unison, and Puddifant rubbed his hands, warming to the task.

“We shall go back, then, to London, a decade after the turn of the Century. For the story begins with the death of a delightful young lad by the name of Charlie Underwood — aye, and a sad occasion that was, my friends. Very sad . . . ”

P
UDDIFANT'S
T
ALE

22

A
grey fog rolled between the headstones. Puddifant turned up his collar and hunkered into his greatcoat. “Miserable day,” he thought. “Bloody awful.” The chill penetrated everything, right down to the bone.

Through the swirling mist, he could make out the bowed head of Robert Underwood at the graveside, and leaning against the burly drayman, his wife Clarisa. Decent folk. Hard working. Kind. Thirty years of police work had taught the inspector that tragedy strikes in a haphazard way. One day a rich and powerful family might be afflicted; the next, a poor family like this.

He sighed. Charlie Underwood had been such a fine young man.

Puddifant kept to the perimeter of the gathering — aloof, attentive. A part of him listened to the vicar's droning, but the crowd and the fog muffled the man's thin voice, making it impossible to hear. If he'd been an ordinary mourner, Puddifant would have nudged in a little closer and strained to catch every word; as it was, he paid his respects by working. He studied every face, convinced there was a very good chance the murderer of Charlie Underwood might be among them. That the boy had been murdered Puddifant had no doubt. None whatever. But he had no idea how, or why.

He'd visited the families of two other children who had died with the name “Vortigen” on their lips. Nigel Mahone and

Marion Hawes had by all accounts been wonderful children too. Like Charlie, they had been East Londoners whose parents had been among the hard-working poor. They came from good families.

“Nothing haphazard in that,” Puddifant grumbled.

If it hadn't been for this business about the creature named Vortigen, and the fact that all three victims had been East London youths, and that they'd contracted a disease the doctors could not properly diagnose, Puddifant would have submitted his report to the Chief Inspector and recommended that the file be closed. The evidence disturbed him. Puddifant recognized the peculiar sensation in his gut — something akin to panic.
That
, he thought, was a premonition. Something terrible was afoot in London. Something evil and cunning that might have been concealed for years, and which would certainly claim more young victims unless he, Horace Puddifant, could figure out the meaning of the name Vortigen.

The fact that all the victims were East Londoners could mean several things. The perpetrator might live somewhere in the twists and warrens of Wapping or Whitechapel; or he might be preying upon the children of the poor, because fewer eyebrows were raised by the death of a working class child; or the deaths might really be attributable to disease, and East London was the locus of some new plague — one where the victims called out the name Vortigen in their death throes!

These speculations were interrupted by a face Puddifant recognized. Not a face with a name, but one that certainly portrayed a personality — a gaunt, ratty face, pasty and ill-shaven. It was the face of a man who had come to spy, not mourn. It peered in at the ceremony over the shoulders of the inner circle ringing the grave, its owner craning for a better view of the Underwoods and the casket suspended over the gaping earth.

“You're no friend of the family, I'll warrant,” Puddifant muttered.

Keeping an eye on his suspect, he moved to a position where he would be able to intercept him after the funeral service. There was no point observing him too closely just then. That only risked his being spotted by the subject or any accomplices who might be in the crowd. Better to wait until the gathering dispersed, then follow the suspect. From his position Puddifant could not see the final rites but he could imagine the coffin sinking into the grave, the grieving parents tossing in their handfuls of earth and the sobs of Clarisa Underwood. He played out this dismal scene in his thoughts until the mourners turned away, eager to get on to other things that lived, and breathed, and demanded their attention.