A Conjuring and A Summons

Salamance sits his spectacles on the ridge of his nose, just so. His hair hangs silver and grey to his shoulders, framing an aging square face. A broad-barreled chest like a builder and the burnt, speckled powerful hands of a blacksmith. Gloves of dead, callused skin. His Familiar, Darkwood looks him up and down. A cat enchanted to be the size of a tiger, with fur so impossibly black, the only discernible features are his giant pale green eyes. Even in full sun, no light can penetrate the void of his form. The Familiar looks at Salamance.

‘It’s not obvious,’ he says aloud to the looming, black cat. The druid tucks a burnt lock of hair behind a large spotty ear. Darkwood meows and slips like mercury between the legs of an enormous dining table, covered in different instruments and ingredients for brewing potions. Peeking out under a stack of stained drawings of various nettles, is the jet-black spot where only last week, Salamance lost the precious lock of hair. Another failed love spell. It irks him every time his fingers rub against the singed ends.

In front of him sits the slimy pink and bloodied lamb fetus looking like a smooth brain. One of its ears is missing, or maybe, never developed? He doesn’t know, but either way, he hopes this doesn’t matter to the ritual. Still, the creases on his forehead deepen as he stares at it. Three hundred dollars. And not even a complete lamb fetus, what a rip-off. But, Salamance gently reminds himself, this ritual had been highly recommended by his friend Terry. Terry knew his stuff, alright. It was Terry who stayed up late on the phone with Salamence, whispering the instructions for him to copy down in his grimoire. Scribbled sigils on the backs of napkins were painstakingly copied into the blank pages.

Unlike other druids, Salamance kept a small, black notebook as his book of spells. He didn’t like to show off. A grimoire should be practical, like a car manual. Something you could take on the go. Small and neat and fitting in the deep pockets of a Goretex windbreaker. He consults Terry’s instructions once more, before carefully wrapping the unborn lamb in ferns and twine. When the last strip of pink spongy flesh disappears, he knows it’s time to begin.

He looks in the dark silver mirror, a lined face glares back at him. All along the frame are tiny, metallic goblin heads in various emotional states from ecstacy, to agony to hilarity. They strain against their prison, occasionally gnashing teeth or giggling. He holds the knotted fern effigy out to a growling head, which bites down. Jaws soon part and the effigy falls into a smoking cauldron. Salamence raises his arms. The candles blow out, the several clocks tick once more before stopping. Darkwood shrinks behind the purple bloated armchair, until the whites of his eyes are all that’s visible. The smell of sulfur and rust permeates the druid’s hairy nostrils. Eyes sting and water, but he must not blink. It is crucial he doesn’t blink, even just for a moment.

The edges of the basement darken and disappear into corners. There is no determined light source, rather, it’s the inverse that grows in the room. Cobwebs and shelves are eaten by the darkness, until there’s only Salamence, the cauldron and the mirror. His reflection is gone now, and a swirling shape the colour of boysenberry swims against the glass. Every goblin around the mirror wails, a unifying scream at one pitch. Torture or a choir - it could be either. Salamance’s eyes burn stronger and the urge to shut them is unbearable. But this isn’t his first conjuring. Besides, the worst is yet to come.

As the crimson red shape starts to form, a very faint crackling hums from within the druid. On cue, he unties the fabric belt holding his robe together and lets it fall open. Hairy chest, potbelly and flaccid penis hang out. Between the thickets of hair, thin streaks of light peer through. A heat in his root chakra builds to boiling and sears up his centre. Each chakra alights one at a time, until his third eye beams out to the mirror, and a shockwave rings throughout the house. Darkwood hisses from somewhere in the blackness.

The druid senses the figure behind him. The mirror is empty and the heads are still. He smooths down the sides of his robe, pulling the soft, leathery fabric back together with trembling hands. Very slowly, he pivots round to face what’s been summoned.

A skinny grey man stands in the centre of the room. His body is proportioned to have far longer legs, with a second knee joint, causing his hips to sit where a waist would be. Tiny black claws stick out against rhino skin. A skinny neck holds up a large, dome-like head, with pointed ears brushing up against the light fixture above. Mean little eyes, full of greed and deception stared into his own -

‘Objection! Your honor, that is subjective and leading,’ the prosecutor, a giant green lizard in a pressed Hugo Boss suit, exclaims.

‘My client is simply recalling the events leading up to the conjuring of Xyxikl,’ the defense lawyer retorts.

‘Stick to the facts please,’ says the judge, who is quite impossible to describe. Half demon, half air elemental, he is rather confusing to the eye, Salamance felt a bit sick whenever he looks his way.

Salamance’s defense lawyer is the same lizard-like species as the prosecution, but with a chunkier frame and round tortoise-shell glasses. He rubs his spindles together before continuing.

‘So you fulfilled the requirements of the ritual?’

‘I performed the ritual per the exact instructions, I did everything required. I made the sacrifice, he got his payment up front as far as I’m concerned.’

‘You didn’t pay the fee,’ screeched Xyxikl, slamming a hard ball of fist into the desk. The judge beats his gavel.

‘I gave you that lamb fetus! I’ll have you know there were cheaper ones available, but I got the premium!’ The druid’s cheeks are bright red, he exhales like he’s trying to blow out a hundred candles. Grips his side tightly.

The defense lawyer jumps in before any more exchanges can be made. ‘Mister Thompson,' he points to Salamance, but stays looking out towards the jury, ‘what did you request of Mister Xyxikl once he’d materialised in your workroom?’

The wizard plays with his rings, rolling them around on each finger, rubbing the creases where stone meets metal. ‘For him to flatter my fortunes, to the sum of twenty thousand dollars.’

A murmuring ripples through the courtroom.

‘And what happened next?’

‘He disappeared in a flash of red, and within twenty minutes was back with the money.’

The duffel unzipping, those pristinely straight bills all in perfect stacks of a thousand. He hears the sound of his thumb flipping through the wads, unmatched satisfaction.

The defense lawyer took a few steps closer to the jury. ‘And at any point, did you agree to give half that cash to Xyxikl?’

‘No,’ says Salamance as clearly as possible into the microphone.

‘And at any point, did you sign any written agreement, a contract perhaps?’

‘NO.’

The reptilian being looks to be smiling, though it’s hard to tell on a species without lips. ‘No more questions,’ he says before returning to his seat.

The prosecutor walks up to the bench,

‘Mr Thompson, you say you performed a ritual that had very specific instructions and incantations. Is this accurate?’

Salamance leans into the mic, ‘yes.’

The prosecutor nods, ‘and doesn’t it state that a payment must be made between the conduit and the entity that’s been invoked? In this case, my client Xyxikl, Demon of Fortune?’

Xyxikl licks his lips with a long bifurcated tongue, but fails to remove the fly wing stuck to his chin. His focus is on Salamance.

‘A payment of the unborn lamb - a sacrifice of innocence! That's what it says! That’s what Terry told me!’ Salamance pictures the cheaper offerings, and wishes bitterly he’d been frugal.

‘But it didn’t specify that the lamb was the payment, did it?’ The prosecutor doesn’t give him a chance to answer, instead he turns to the jury, ‘I think Terry might have misunderstood the latin.’

Salamance clutches the glass of water, palms soothed by the coolness. His lawyer reaches a clawed hand over his forearm and gives it a squeeze. ‘Remember, they’ve got nothing tangible,’ he whispers. From the stand Terry waves. Salamance covers his face. He hadn’t expected a three piece suit, but this? The prosecutor takes his time looking Terry up and down. A cracked brown leather jacket, baggy denim jeans and a tie that had recently been dipped in rainbow tie-dye, and continues to drip pink and purple onto an old button-up.

‘Mr Terence Winkle, did you provide Mr Thompson with instructions pertaining to the summoning of Xyxikl, Demon of Fortune?’

‘That’s me,’ he replies, giving Salamance a thumbs up.

‘Had you previously performed this ritual?’

‘Yep.’

‘Why did you want to summon Xyxikl?’

Terry holds up the tie. ‘I needed a small business loan. I’m going into textiles - ties. The Tie Dye. Tie-dyed ties, spice up the boring corporate uniform.’

The prosecutor clears his throat and exchanges a look with the judge. Salamance doesn’t like that one bit. ‘Did Xyxikl deliver on your agreement?’

‘Absolutely,’ says Terry beaming.

‘What did you have to sacrifice to the demon Xyxikl, in exchange for your… fashion line?’ asks the prosecutor.

Terry leans forward in his seat and lowers his voice, ‘he did want some of the money, which caught me off guard a bit.’ He turns to Xyxikl, ‘I think you need to reword the ritual just a little bit.’

Salamance stares at his old friend open-mouthed.

‘Did you give him any of the money?’

Terry smiles even wider. ‘It got a little ugly, I admit. Xyxikl was throwing around threats about taking me to small claims court et cetera, et cetera. But then he saw one of my ties.’

At this, Xyxikl opens his tailcoat to reveal a pastel blue, green and yellow tie. ‘I love the idea,’ he says.

‘So I paid him in ties.’

‘But, you did pay him?’ The prosecutor leans both elbows on top of the lectern in front of Terry.

‘Yeah,’ says Terry, still smiling, but a little unsure now.

‘Of course you did, because the ritual says that a payment must be made to Xyxikl.’

Terry’s eyes dart back and forth between Salamance and the prosecutor, ‘uhhhh…’

Another murmur.

‘I’ve got ties I could’ve paid you with,’ shouts Salamance.

‘I don’t need any more ties! I have hundreds now,’ Xyxikl shouts back.

The gavel bangs over and over and continues even after everyone is silent. ‘That is enough,’ the judge bellows and a violent wind whips around the courtroom. ‘I have heard enough.’

The next time the judge speaks, the voice comes from everywhere like a PA system. ‘Gentleman and Specimens, citing exhibit B,’ the little black book levitates in front of the judge, ‘one Book of Shadows owned by Mr Christopher Salamance Thompson states,’ the book flies open to a page near the back, ‘that a payment must be agreed upon at the commencement of the summoning. But no agreement was made before the cash was retrieved.’ The judge addresses Xyxikl, ‘you acted too hastily.’

The grey elongated demon glares at Salamance and drags a sharp fingernail across his throat. Then he spits in his palm and slaps his own forehead. The wizard assumes this is some sort of middle finger in his language.

Once again the gavel crashes down. ‘Xyxikl, Demon of Fortune, let this be a lesson in communicating your expectations in a more clear and concise way. Mr Chrisoper Salamance Thompson, pay Xyxikl ten percent of your conjured riches. Next case.’