Godfrey's Grimoire

"You dolt, Godfrey!"

Meister Bartholomew is not pleased. Actually, that is something of an understatement. He is displeased and then some. The last year has permitted me to become intimately acquainted with his whole palette of wrath, from mildly peeved to seething with rage. He is running in the direction of the latter. Again.

I arrived here just as the sun was setting, per the Meister's instructions. Yes, I was briefly distracted by a fetching barmaid. Yes, I bought some bread and cheese and a flagon, and lingered longer than I ought to have done. Gretchen, I think. Fascinating stories to tell about her many adventures.

I was on time, though--more or less. I brought my grimoire, the candles, the "special" chalk, the powders and unguents and eye of this and toe of that--all of the things required to fulfill our obligation to the reeve and the merchants who have their grievances and demanded swift action. They are practically made of gold, at least as far as this wretched little place knows. My father could buy and sell the lot thrice over. If those in his charge would stop whining about their lot, he would be wealthier still. I'll take a firmer hand when I inherit his estate. No one will make a maudlin mark of me!

"Oh pity me, my lord! Most of my sheep are dead and my children weep over their meager crusts! My wife has the palsy and I lost a hand in the war!" Blah, blah, blah. If God in his mercy allows you to suffer this way, what am I to do? My father has been softened by his long life. I know what is right.

We began the ritual. It seemed rather old fashioned and unnecessarily complicated to me, but I have learned to keep thoughts like that to myself. The Meister is not one to wander from the path of tradition, no matter how dull it turns out to be. I followed the drawing in my grimoire as best I could when marking the summoning circle on the filthy floor. I simply don't know what more I could have done. He is angry, though. As usual.

"Godfrey, I have summoned all of my compassion and patience for your sake. As it turns out, to my shame, those resources are finite. I want to warmly congratulate you. You have exhausted them.

I have been a guide and mentor to more than sixty three, proficient sorcerers, lo these many years. Friedrich had but one leg. Freya was pregnant with twins when her studies began. She taught me some interesting thaumaturgy only a fortnight ago. Ulf was born into the scratching panic of a peasant's hut. He was frightened by a storm the first night. After just a few months, he wrote like a poet and talked secrets out of spirits who only, ever granted me contemptuous silence.

One year has passed since you sauntered into my sanctuary with a fat purse and an empty head. The only spells that you have mastered conjure spirits to read and write for you. Your ability to cheat and bluff and prevaricate is, admittedly, like your confidence, supernatural. I have had brooms and kettles that are more useful than your sorry self. I have seen meals outwit you. Now look what you have done."

I cannot believe his gall, the wheezing wrinkle farmer.

My father would be furious if anyone dared to speak to him that way. In fact, anyone speaking to his son and heir that way would at least move him to summon someone at whom to shout. At length. Possibly in more than one language. Old men are all very fond of Latin and Greek. Have you noticed that? Seems like the sort of thing one ought to get over eventually, if I'm honest. Gretchen would have called me mad if I had spoken to her in Latin--not that I could have done so, you understand.

The Meister is pointing a trembling finger at the circle. It is plain that I dragged my boot through the markings as I was finishing things up. That would explain why the demon is not in the circle, where he ought to be. He's behind the Meister, laughing horrible laughs.

I'm sure the Meister will blame me for everything. Is it my fault that I have feet?

"I have tumbled into haystacks with more sense than you've got, Godfrey. Do you know that Albrecht will be as bald as a grape and deaf in his left ear for the rest of his days, thanks to your utter contempt for the basic principles of alchemy? Have you any idea how Wilhelm will face his family, with the results of your "prestidigitation" having turned him into a goat? We have tried everything to undo that spell. We may have to summon experts from abroad, you simpering twit!

Do you realize that Clemens turned in a scintillating essay about the utility of illusions in battle, which you then duplicated and turned in, with his name still emblazoned upon it? You are not even a competent thief!"

He is gesturing and shifting his feet about in an odd way as he showers me with his vile talk. One of his spells, no doubt. Little flecks of white foam are forming on his lips as he raves. It is unbecoming. A Meister should be dignified and worthy of respect. It's a shame, really: the toll aging takes.

The demon is still laughing.

"I have had quite enough, Godfrey. I have been walking this earth for many years. I have encountered beings natural and supernatural. I have had to spend more time than I would like in the company of horses and hounds. My nose is sensitive, you know. Not one of these creatures would have anything to fear in a battle of wits with you, Godfrey.

I am not interested in watching the rest of this, latest cock up play out. You can either subdue the demon by the time I return at first light, the better to demonstrate that you have learned something over the course of this infuriating year, or I will be pleased to collect your remains and ensure that you have a civilized funeral."

His gesturing has ceased. The air has darkened a little behind him. An inky fissure has formed, roughly the length of a spear. The Meister is pulling the air open like a curtain and stepping through. The aroma of tobacco wafts through as he vanishes. He's returning to his stinky little study. A vulgar habit, smoking. He loves that pipe in an unseemly way.

The demon has stopped laughing. He is staring at me. He is hideous.

"You will die horribly, sorcerer. I know your Meister. He did not wish to teach you a lesson. He was afraid. You ought to be afraid."

I used to be able to proudly claim that I have not soiled myself since childhood.

The demon is laughing again, pointing at the growing, humiliating patch of wet darkness on my robe. My robe is brown. To mark my status as a hapless neophyte. After a year, mind you. My piss is worth more.

"You cannot possibly be a sorcerer of any kind. Your Meister and I have been locked in a duel for decades. He has gotten the better of me now and then, but he wears scars that prove that I have bested him more than once. Have you noticed that slight limp? My work. Does he seem rather nervous and fearful at night, especially when wakened by some noise? He has me to thank. He hasn't been near a woman since you have known him, has he?"

I thought about it. Apart from brief, frostily polite encounters with others for the sake of commerce, I have not seen the Meister take more than a perfunctory interest in anyone other than myself. He brags, loudly and often, about the daring exploits of his former pupils, the better to embarrass me by comparison, but that is about it. A rather comely purveyor of salty soup batted her eyes at the Meister in the parish we left to come here. He looked startled and avoided her assiduously thereafter. I shake my head at the demon.

He cackles with satisfaction. His teeth are mostly rotten and entirely disorganized.

"Just as I wished it to be! You know, I have a sister who wears a shape pleasing to lascivious louts like your Meister now and then. She made sure your Meister will think twice before boring another woman!" The demon laughs so hard that some of his vile spittle falls to the floor and causes the flagstones to smoke gently, like incense in the cathedral.

I consult my grimoire. I get a bit lost and confused. I press on, and read aloud from what I hope is the appropriate passage: "Pray, what manner of demon art thou? Of what is it that thou art in search?" I try to sound as calm and authoritative as the Meister when he intones spells and incantations. I sound slightly ridiculous to myself. High and whiny. Damn it.

"What a needlessly baroque question, you impostor. You have no need of my name. I am no duke or prince of the dark pit, but I am not one to be trifled with, as your Meister knows well. As for what I desire, it is simply to be left unmolested by the likes of you, the better to get on with my work. Is that so outrageous a demand?"

"Demon, I will not abide malignant machinations! Yield up thy name, that I might bind thee and rid the good world of thy mischief!" I found it difficult to read these words with much conviction. What is my motivation, here? Do-gooding? Please. If you know what the excrement of a sick dog smells like, you know what it is like to smell the breath of this ticklish demon. There are at least a dozen steps in this process, and the text is tiny and hard to make out. Can we get on with it?

The demon is pretending to be afraid. I am not convinced.

"Oh, your listless, clumsy reading fills me with terror! Poor lad, I can aid you with that soiled robe. Shall I teach you a spell to make it clean again?"

Now we are talking. If I learn a spell without the Meister's aid, he will leave me alone for a while. I'll have to get this demon sorted out, but one must defeat an army one soldier at a time. I nod.

"Your Meister had you put some hops, peppermint and sage into that cumbersome kit of his, yes? Make a tea of those ingredients. Make haste. I will return presently; do not mistake an exit for a disappearance."

The demon's eyes glow like coals for a moment, then he vanishes in a cloud of sulfurous smoke. I do as he bid me. It takes a while for the water to boil. I can't believe the Meister's cruelty, abandoning me this way. When my father learns of my mistreatment, his wrath will probably cause the pontificating prune to swallow his pipe.

Tasting the tea reminds me that I have no idea what it ought to taste like. I wait a moment. I haven't gone blind, or grown anything new and strange. I may have pulled this one out of the fire! Ah, here he is again. If only the Meister were so punctual and considerate.

The demon sniffs the tea. "Fine, fine. Now drink the lot, then repeat these words, slowly and clearly, with your eyes fixed upon that stain: Mens mea legibilis est. Mens mea legibilis est. Thrice over."

I bungle it a few times; the demon threatens to dress me like a hog and cook me in the fires below to feed his friends. I stare at the infuriating stain, screw up my courage and recite the spell.

The sight of a happy demon is not pleasant. Have you ever seen the eyes of a cat with a lovely bird in its teeth? I cannot remember how often I scolded my silly sister to keep her foul cat away from my pretty birds. I simply am not permitted to keep what I enjoy having. Power will change that! My robes do not feel or look any better, but the demon's pleasure is obvious. I give him a bemused look and point at my dirty raiment.

"Sorry sorcerer!" His tongue is ghastly. How he utters anything intelligible with that monster in his mouth, I cannot tell. "That spell had nothing to do with your soiled robe. The keys to the library of your mind are now mine. Grant me a moment to do some reading." His eyes glow as before, and before I can protest, I can feel invisible, malevolent fingers moving about between my ears. Why do so many take such reckless advantage of my innocence?!

The brevity of his silence is insulting. His baleful glare glows no more, and is fixed upon me once again. "Many are the minds I have read," says he, "and most are variegated in their volumes. Your mind contains but one book, and it is a petulant, outraged diary. Your prose is mud. Has your Meister told you what wisdom is?"

As if intrigued by his question, a rat has scampered into the dusty chamber. It sniffs the air; its soiled, pink feet carry it closer to the demon and it appears to bow. The demon glances at it, then emits a series of squeaks and chittering sounds that appear to make perfect sense to it. They seem not to have come from its twisted maw, but from an ordinary pest. The rat runs off like a child told to go to market by its mother. I wonder what mission the demon gave it?

"The Meister talks a great deal. I seldom pay much heed," I reply.

"Wisdom is a simple matter. It is knowing what you do not know, which in your case, is a surprising amount. Ordinarily, I would seek to win your obedience and persuade you to aid me in tormenting the reeve of this sad, ignorant backwater and the wealthy merchants who prop him up as lord of it. I was conjured by a local witch who is tired of seeing so much gold in so few hands, while she listens to the starving children of her neighbors cry out to the indifferent night for succor. I have decorated the hindquarters of her wealthy oppressors with boils; I have spoiled their milk and made their wives hate them and their sons ignore them. But you are not cunning. You think you know everything, but you are as ignorant as an onion. How could you possibly help me to do evil, which is the real aim of all my mischief, when you are so full of pride that is not justified?"

My father would have some choice words for this demon. His disgusting face looks thoughtful as he hovers above the fetid flagstones.

"I know what must be done," says the demon. I feel his mind relax its grip on mine. I am sure he saw all of my naughty thoughts about Gretchen. My robe is beginning to smell awful.

"I will vanish shortly. When your Meister arrives with the dawn, tell him that you used the spells in that grimoire to drive me from this place. Do not hide your stain; it will confirm that our battle was taxing. I will leave the reeve and his gluttonous goons unmolested for a while, and you and your Meister can collect your fee. Slip some of it to the priest. If it profits him, he will suffer sorcery.

Your Meister will think again about you, and continue your education. If you carry on being yourself, you will drive him mad, and our long duel will end in my favor. A terrible student is the perfect curse to put on an old teacher. If you are ever clueless about your next move, look for that rat. He will guide you. Can you do that, Godfrey?"

Finally, someone has recognized my potential. I nod. I can't wait for the dawn!