Black and Blue Magic Read online

  “Well, no,” Harry said. “I don’t think I’ve had even one.”

  “Ah, you see. Then we can rule out wishing rings and stones at the same time, I’m afraid, we must eliminate the various containers of genii. They are a bit more versatile than the rings, but in the hands of a beginner, the results are often much the same.”

  Harry had been edging forward until now he was standing beside the table. “You mean you have real magic genii in there?”

  “Yes indeed. We have them, not only in bottles,” Mr. Mazzeeck held up a small bottle of dark glass that seemed to be full of a whirling white smoke, “but also in the more traditional bronze lamp.” At that point he began to paw around in the suitcase with a frantic look on his face. “The lamp,” he muttered as if he were talking to himself. “Where is the lamp. It’s not possible I could have lost it.”

  “Is that what you’re looking for?” Harry said, pointing to the oval-shaped thing that was still burning on the bed table.

  “Ah! Of course,” Mr. Mazzeeck said looking terribly relieved. “I had forgotten that I used it to light my way to your room.”

  By now Harry was in a position to see into the suitcase. He pointed to something that looked only too familiar. “What’s that?” he asked. The long golden sword was one of the largest things in the case.

  Mr. Mazzeeck took it out and ran his hand lovingly over the gleaming blade. Harry couldn’t help taking a step or two backwards. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “Notice the careful setting of the gems in the hilt, and the intricate design. However, I’m afraid that this is not quite the gift for you either. Actually there is very little use for these in this day and age. I carry this one with me mostly for old time’s sake. One so seldom hears of dragons to be slain or multi-headed beasts to be vanquished, any more. It’s a great pity, but the demand for magic swords has almost disappeared.”

  Mr. Mazzeeck put the sword back in the case and took out something that looked like a black cape of a silky material. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever had any particular desire to be invisible?” he asked.

  “Well, no, but . . .”

  “No, I didn’t suppose you would have. Truthfully, I can’t see how it would be of any great use to you. And with a mother who cooks as well as yours does, I can’t see that you are greatly in need of a magic porridge pot, or tablecloth either. Dear me, this is proving to be more of a problem than I had anticipated.”

  Next, Mr. Mazzeeck took what appeared to be a rolled-up throw-rug out of the case with one hand and a strange-looking pair of high-topped boots with the other. “How about travel?” he asked. “I could let you have either a magic carpet or seven league boots.”

  “Travel?” Harry said. He still didn’t believe that Mr. Mazzeeck was serious, but you couldn’t help sort of getting into the spirit of the thing. “Well, I’m not too crazy about traveling, but I would like to be somewhere else for a while. Can you take anyone with you?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. And I see now, that there would be difficulties. You couldn’t very well go off and leave your mother. It’s quite obvious she depends on you.”

  “What’s that?” Harry asked, pointing to something long and thin and silvery.

  Mr. Mazzeeck gave a little shudder. “That,” he said, “is a flute. Frankly, it’s not one of my favorite items. Not that it doesn’t do the job it’s supposed to do,” he added hastily. “It’s just that . . . well it was this particular item that figured in my disgrace and demotion.” He picked up the long shiny flute and turned it over and over so that it sparkled in the light. “A pretty thing, isn’t it,” he said. “One would never guess by looking at it that it could be the cause of so much grief.”

  “What happened?” Harry asked. “That is, if you don’t mind talking about it.”

  “No,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “I don’t mind. As a matter of fact, it’s a relief to discuss it now and then. Get it off my chest, you might say. It’s not often that I meet someone to whom I can talk about matters of this sort. But since you have been cleared by the company . . .” Suddenly Mr. Mazzeeck looked at his watch and then hastily glanced at the bed and motioned for Harry to sit down. “My taxi won’t be here for several minutes,” he said. “Would you care to hear the whole story? I’m not keeping you from anything?”

  Harry shook his head quickly and sat down. He was every bit as eager to hear Mr. Mazzeeck’s story as Mr. Mazzeeck seemed to be to tell it.

  Mr. Mazzeeck continued to stand by the case, fingering the lid with one hand and sometimes opening it. “As I mentioned earlier,” he began, “I was once a sorcerer. And in all modesty I must say that I was an unusually successful one. I had a very choice assignment in which I was able to practice a bit of magic myself besides supplying a most distinguished clientele—the most renowned heroes of the day—all legendary now. But in my confidence, I overstepped myself and became involved in a duel with an unscrupulous wizard. This wizard—who called himself Mog—took pleasure in playing unseemly tricks on whatever victims he could entice. As an official of the Comus Company, I should have had nothing whatever to do with such a personage. But I allowed myself to become annoyed at Mog’s interference in the affairs of one of my clients, and before I knew how it had happened, I was embroiled in a contest of magical strength. The contest itself would make a long story, spells and counter-spells, conjurations, invocations and incantations. Of course, I was duty bound to avoid anything but the most honorable in the world of magic. Alas, my opponent was not so bound, and in the end, by sheer trickery, I found myself caught in an evil enchantment.”

  “You mean you’re enchanted right now?” Harry asked.

  Slowly and sorrowfully Mr. Mazzeeck nodded his head.

  Harry’s mind raced over what he’d read about being enchanted, and suddenly he remembered the strange feeling he’d had once or twice that Mr. Mazzeeck was somehow in disguise. “You mean you used to be somebody else, and this Mog turned you into—uh—the way you are now?”

  “Not exactly. You are correct in guessing that the rather undignified and inconsequential form you see before you is not my true appearance. But that is not a part of the enchantment. No, my present shape is only the company’s idea of what a traveling salesman should look like. Properly ordinary and unimpressive, but—” he glanced down at himself and shook his head uncertainly, “perhaps a bit out of date, at this point. Don’t you think?”

  Harry ignored the question. He was most interested in the idea of being enchanted. “But what is the enchantment, then?” he asked.

  “Oh, it’s nothing tragic or dramatic,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “That wouldn’t have been Mog’s style. The whole thing was so despicably handled that I didn’t even realize I’d been enchanted until after I began to make mistakes. Sorcerers are not given to error, so after several serious blunders, I investigated. Of course I soon turned up the reason, but it was far too late to fend off the curse then. As I recall, the incantation went something like this:

  He whom Mog has cause to hate

  Is doomed to botch and blunder.

  A dunderhead, an addlepate,

  He’ll bungle and miscalculate

  He’ll slip and miss—until the date

  This spell is burst asunder.”

  Mr. Mazzeeck shuddered with remembered horror. “It was a terrible shock,” he said. “Mog was captured and finally destroyed by the company, but nothing would destroy the spell. I continued to make mistakes and errors until at last the company was forced to demote me. I was stripped of my rank and forbidden the use of any kind of magic. Actually I was fortunate to be kept on as a simple salesman. The company was not to blame, you understand. One cannot allow incompetence when one deals with a powerful and dangerous product.”

  “But what happened about the flute?” Harry asked.

  “Ah, yes, the flute. That was the last straw. After the flute incident there was nothing my superiors could do but demote me. You see, I was filling an order for a magic flute for a fellow
who said he intended to use it to exterminate rats in a little town in Germany. But I must have made a mistake in the formula, and the flute was given too wide a range. It was used not only on rats but also to commit a deed so horrible that it has become a legend. The public outcry was tremendous; and, of course, the scandal touched the Comus Company. And that is just the sort of thing they have always taken every precaution to avoid.”

  There was something vaguely familiar about the flute story, but Harry was too busy thinking about the enchantment to figure it out. “Did the enchantment keep on working? I mean, even now when you aren’t a sorcerer any more?”

  “Oh dear, yes. I’m afraid so. It’s just that my mistakes are of smaller consequence now. I loose train tickets and,” he smiled ruefully, “fall out of buses.”

  Harry couldn’t help feeling sympathetic. “Isn’t there any chance that you’ll get over it? The enchantment, I mean.”

  “There is one faint hope,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “According to one old and obscure book on spells, there is a way to escape.” Mr. Mazzeeck reached into a pocket inside his coat and brought out a worn and discolored scrap of paper. He unfolded it carefully and handed it to Harry. The fancy faded print said:

  Mog will not remove a curse,

  Till Better triumphs over Worst.

  Till Bad-to-Worse

  Has been Reversed

  And out of Error—Good has Burst.

  “Unfortunately, it’s not the kind of thing that’s likely to happen.” Mr. Mazzeeck said, taking the paper from Harry and putting it away. “But I always carry it with me to keep up my spirits. Even a faint hope is better than none.”

  Harry hadn’t understood much of what he had read, but he was inclined to agree that it didn’t sound too likely.

  “And in the meantime,” Mr. Mazzeeck went on, “I am a wanderer. All over the world . . . places where magic is unappreciated or practically unknown . . . hard beds . . . tired feet . . . terrible food . . . here one day and gone the next . . . trains, ships, buses, and taxis.”

  “Why don’t you fly?” Harry asked. “Wouldn’t it be faster?”

  Mr. Mazzeeck looked a little embarrassed. “I’m afraid I’m a bit old-fashioned, but aeroplanes make me uneasy. Don’t they make you a bit nervous?”

  “Well, no,” Harry said. “I haven’t flown any lately, but I used to a lot when I was a little kid and I loved it. But that’s not exactly what I meant. I meant this way.” He pointed to the rolled-up carpet in the suitcase.

  “Ah, but don’t you see, that is not possible. When I was deprived of my sorcerer’s credentials, I was expressly forbidden the use of the company’s products. It has been a hard sentence. I often yearn for the days when I could make use of the magic that I am now forbidden.” Mr. Mazzeeck’s eyes went dreamy. “Particularly the magic tablecloth,” he murmured.

  “You mean you can’t use any of these things yourself?” Harry asked.

  “Almost none. I am allowed a limited use of the lamp.”

  “You mean, like when you used it to come up to my room?”

  “No,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “That’s not the use I was referring to. I am allowed to summon the genii of this particular lamp, but only as a means of communication with my superiors at the head office. In fact, my orders to leave San Francisco tonight were brought by genii. It’s a bit faster than airmail.”

  “I guess it would be, at that.” Harry said.

  Mr. Mazzeeck reached into his pocket and took out his big old watch. “Dear me,” he said. “I must be going if I am to catch my train. We must make our decision quickly.” He opened the lid all the way and stood staring into the suitcase. Then his face crinkled into a smile. “Of course. What could be better?” He dug hastily through the jumble and came up with a small object that seemed to be a tiny silver vase or bottle. The metal looked thick and heavy, and it was engraved all over with a pattern of what appeared to be tiny leaves or feathers.

  “There you are,” Mr. Mazzeeck said, handing it to Harry. “A small token of my everlasting gratitude.”

  “Er—thanks. Thanks a lot,” Harry said.

  “Go on, open it.”

  The deeply embossed silver top was attached to a wide wooden cork. Inside the bottle there was a thick white liquid that looked very much like the stuff ladies put on their hands when they finish doing the dishes. “What is it?” Harry asked.

  “Well, in our new catalogue it’s listed as Volo Oil,” Mr. Mazzeeck said disapprovingly. “But actually it’s a very old product. Not one of these gadgety bits of trickery that are so popular nowadays, you can be sure of that. The ointment is made from a formula that has been known to the better sorcerers for centuries. The raw material is distilled from one of the oldest dreams of mankind. And it’s only necessary to use one drop on each shoulder, rubbed in well. And of course, one must read the incantation on the label. Oh yes, and don’t forget that the verse at the bottom of the label is necessary in order to return the user to his former state.”

  Harry turned the bottle around and noticed a smooth oval-shaped area where there was no engraving except for a few lines of very tiny print. He was trying to make out the words, when a horn honked right in front of the boarding house.

  “That must be my taxi,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “I must be off. And I now have yet another reason to thank you. It was kind of you to listen so sympathetically to an old man’s troubles. If I may presume on your kindness just once more to help me to the street with my luggage, I’ll be on my way.”

  Harry had a million questions ready to ask, but Mr. Mazzeeck had already closed and fastened both his suitcases and started for the door with the large one. Harry could only stuff his gift into his pocket, pick up the other bag, and follow. In the rush down the stairs and into the taxi, there wasn’t a chance for even one question, but after the driver had gotten back into his seat, Mr. Mazzeeck leaned out the window.

  He spoke softly, behind his hand. “Once again, good-bye, and thank you,” he said. “And Harry, just a word or two of warning. As with all good magic, there is a bit of skill involved, so proceed with caution, particularly right at first. And above all use discretion. Remember, there must be absolutely no public notice! If a breath of this should get into the papers, your gift will be reclaimed, and I will be in trouble again. In my position that can only mean transfer to a subsidiary branch. I might even be assigned to the Voo Doo Line. You may not understand just what that would mean, but try to imagine how it would be for a man who has supplied the greatest heroes of myth and legend, to be forced to end his career peddling crocodiles’ tongues and bats’ gizzards to second-rate witches.”

  “Gee, Mr. Mazzeeck,” Harry whispered, “I wouldn’t want to get you into any trouble. If you think I might, maybe I better not keep the—uh—what you gave me.”

  “Not at all,” Mr. Mazzeeck said. “If you are careful, there should be no problem. The company cleared you for a gift, you know; I was only responsible for picking the right one.” Then he smiled archly, the way people do when they’re going to pay you a compliment. “I had no difficulty in getting the authorization. There’s even a prophecy in your favor.”

  “A prophecy!” Harry gasped. “How did . . .”

  But at that moment the taxi driver started the motor. Mr. Mazzeeck leaned out and took Harry’s wrist in a firm clasp. “You must promise me that you’ll be careful.”

  “Sure, Mr. Mazzeeck. I’ll be careful as anything.” Harry had the funny feeling that he hadn’t the slightest notion what he was promising, but you just couldn’t refuse anyone who looked so desperate.

  All the tiny crinkles in Mr. Mazzeeck’s face rearranged themselves into a few deep smile-lines. “I’m sure you will,” he said. Then he leaned forward and spoke to the driver. “The train station, if you please.” The taxi pulled away down Kerry Street, turned the corner, and disappeared from view.

  The Last Possibility

  Like someone in a dream, Harry walked back into the house and up the stairs. On th
e first landing he ran into Mom. “What’s going on?” she asked. “I keep hearing people going up and down the stairs.”

  “Mr. Mazzeeck just left,” Harry said. “I helped him carry his luggage out to the taxi.”

  “That’s strange. He didn’t say anything about leaving tonight at dinner. And he’s all paid up until Thursday.”

  “He said he’d just heard from his boss, or something,” Harry said. “I guess it was sort of unexpected.”

  Mom went back into her room shaking her head in a puzzled way, and Harry went on up the stairs to the third floor. Not until he had settled himself in his favorite spot on the foot of his bed, did he reach into his pocket. Now that he was back in his own room, with the familiar fog drifting past the window, he felt quite sure there would be nothing there at all. His pocket would be empty.

  But it was there, all right. A small bottle of heavy silver, the deeply embossed pattern sharp and clear against his fingers. He just sat there, running his fingers over the rough surface and thinking.

  There were two or three possibilities, and they were all so fascinating that Harry just barely noticed that he was fooling around with the old Swami’s favorite word again. Anyway, the most likely one was that Mr. Mazzeeck was a little crazy, in an interesting sort of way. Or else, it could be that he was one of those people who go in for elaborate and carefully worked out jokes.

  The last possibility was—well, if there was any other possibility it would have to be that Mr. Mazzeeck was neither joking nor crazy, and the little silver bottle in his pocket was full of some kind of magic—for Pete Squeaks!

  It seemed pretty dumb to believe a thing like that, and yet, sitting there in the dark, with the summer fog wisping past his window, Harry found himself admitting that he’d known all along Mr. Mazzeeck was a lot more than he seemed on the surface. And that one admission, like a hole in the dike, let in a whole flood of new possibilities. For instance, there was the possibility that the towering, wavering figure Harry had seen through Mr. Mazzeeck’s window had been a—well, a genie messenger, maybe. And it was even possible that Mr. Mazzeeck’s shadowy face-behind-a-face hadn’t been just Harry’s imagination after all. Time went by, and as Harry sat holding the little bottle, the ordinary world of Marco’s Boarding House, Kerry Street, San Francisco, U.S.A., began to grow dim and distant behind a glowing, flowing world of possibilities, too fantastic to put into words.