Trebon, South Bohemia
1586

Moans as from orgy and shrieks as from murder bombarded Edward Kelley’s ears as he pushed through the heavy door into the antechamber. He found himself in a small, circular room. In the center, between himself and another door from which resounded the horrible noises, sat a robed figure behind a desk.

“I assume you are Father Jedlicka,” Edward said. It was no question.

The old priest’s face sagged, his eyes haggard and rimmed in scarlet. Still, there was resolve in his stern lips. He motioned to a chair in front of his desk.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Kelley.”

The howls and groans continued as Edward shifted his brocade cape to one side and eased into the chair.

“Let me make something clear to you,” Father Jedlicka said. “The church fathers have only sought your aid because the exorcism rituals have yet to have effect. And, the boy’s father has a friendship with Count Rozmberk, who vouches for you.”

Edward grinned.

Father Jedlicka went on. “And I want you to know not only do I not appreciate the interference of someone with your background, but I do not appreciate the intrusion of a foreigner into these most dangerous affairs.”

“You mean an English occultist,” Edward said.

A solid, curt nod answered.

“Though I claim its nationality, I am no child of England,” Edward said. “I was born a Jew.”

Jedlicka’s eyes broadened.

“Have no fear,” Edward continued, “I have been baptized into the faith of our Lord.”

“By a priest?”

“By a saint.”

Jedlicka sneered. “I have my doubts.”

“As for the rumors of my being an astrologer, a seer, a … sorceror …” Edward paused, “they are unfounded. I am merely a student of the esoteric.”

“More likely a student of the profane.”

Edward chuckled. It was not a warm laugh, made more chill by the continued screeches behind the closed door.

Father Jedlicka waved a hand behind himself at the door and the awful sounds. “Have at it, then,” he said. “Whether you rid us of the beast, or he rids us of you, the world will have one less evil..”

***

As soon as Edward Kelley placed a hand on the door, the clamor from beyond died.

With no hesitation, Edward limped his way into the room and shut the door behind him. What he found was a small chamber occupied by a wide bed that had once been of fine gilded wood but now was stained dark and shabby. A barred window behind and above the bed allowed the only light.

Atop the bed lay a youth of no more than eighteen years. He lay naked except for strips of knotted muslin holding his wrists and ankles to the bed. Steam rose from his body, and he lay with unblinking eyes staring at the ceiling. Small gasps of whispy air coughed from his round lips every few seconds.

“I suppose you know who I am,” Edward said from the foot of the bed.

The boy’s eyes drifted to the man.

“If me you do not recognize, then we can dispense with this nonsense of demons and devils,” Edward said, “and pronounce you insane.”

The boy’s lips parted. “I know you of old,” a voice croaked from within, as if from the bottom of a well. “Then you were the magus, from Samaria, who went by the name Simon, cursed to eternity by the Apostles themselves.”

Edward’s lips grew into a sharp grin.

“You have gone by many names since,” the voice said.

“You are who you claim to be.” Edward’s voice lifted.

The boy’s lips closed, but deep laughter echoed from inside his chest, rocking the small body.

“Speak with me!” Edward pleaded. “It has been centuries since any sign from heaven. Now I have one from hell! You must speak with me.”

The dried, round lips parted once more. “What would you have us say, Simon Magus? You are no priest. You have not the power to drive us from this frail little body.”

“Us?” Edward asked.

The boy thing chuckled again. “We are many as one inside here.”

Edward moved to the side of the bed, pausing in his excitement as if trying to decide whether he should sit or not next to the thin figure.

“We have no use for you, magus,” the thing’s voice said. “You are already one of our own.”

This brought change to Edward’s demeanor. His face grew flat and he stood away from the bed. “I am no vassal to the Father of Lies.”

“It matters not. You have served him well. You have accomplished more horrors than any man could hope in a dozen lives.”

“I have lived a dozen lives.”

“We know!” the thing went back to its laughing, the body shuddering beneath its bindings.

Edward slapped the boy, the blow ringing and leaving a red mark on youthful cheeks.

The thing’s eyes rolled back behind its lids, the face turning slowly to offer white orbs to the mage. “No man is forever, Samarian,” the monster said. “The Majesty of Heaven will eventually tire of allowing you life, and then your soul will be forfeit!”

Edward stood straighter. “Perhaps,” he said, “but you will return to hell long before I.”

The thing’s lips tugged back in a sneer. “The mere tricks of a sorceror are no match for the legion of evils residing within this youth’s frame.”

Edward slid a hand beneath his cape. “As you said, I am no priest, but it is a simple matter to remove a demon ensconced in a person.”

The monster tossed back its head and its laughter returned.

Edward’s hand came forth once more, this time gripping a short, thin sword. “You simply remove the person first.”

The laughter ceased.

—
©2009 Ty Johnston

Ty Johnston has been writing fiction nearly twenty years. Most recently stories of his have appeared in the anthologies “Deadlines” and “The Return of the Sword.” He has a story upcoming in the anthology, “The Infinity Swords.” When not writing or reading, Ty enjoys spending time with his wife, their beagle and three house rabbits. Find out more at tyjohnston.blogspot.com.

It has fallen to me to relate the particulars of my late employer’s departure from this world. Thankfully, I am above suspicion, having been cleared by the police. Often a butler, such as myself, makes for a natural prime suspect but I proved beyond a doubt my whereabouts on the night in question. Unfortunately (or fortunately!) there are no witnesses to the circumstances surrounding Lord Mulready’s disappearance. But I know where he is and what happened to him.

I pieced the story together from his Lordship’s journal, where he recorded spells, recipes, phases of the moon, and all manner of occult things. He also amassed a collection of relics. His library contains a fifteenth century Latin edition of the notorious Necronomicon, the ancient book of the dead. He was translating it to unlock its secrets. In fact, a passage in that dangerous book started the whole business of the Black Mirror.

For years he lusted over the thought of acquiring the Black Mirror of Dame Alice Kyteler of Kilkenny, an Irish sorceress who poisoned three husbands and drove the fourth mad by casting spells upon him. This last man, Sir John le Poer, exposed her as a witch. This occurred around the time of Pope John XXII whose Papal Bull Super illius specula fired the imagination of Richard de Ledrede, Bishop of Ossory who confiscated Dame Alice’s items of sorcery and burned them in 1324. The Black Mirror escaped this fate. According to her consort Petronilla of Meath, Alice fled to England and an apprentice of the coven, M. Foster-O’Neal, made off with the mirror. M. Foster-O’Neal later wove spells into such poems as ever bright ~ ever burning and Dream World, not to mention Black Mirror itself, a copy of which appears in Lord Mulready’s journal:

Black Mirror
a mirror
reflecting not what is
not what will be
not what has been
nor what could be
yet reflecting all the same
a deep hope
in the shallow pools
of a wandering mind
long lost
to the truth and stark reality of life
Why do you look upon it?
Why do you recoil
at a sight you see only in your mind,
pronounce the differences
of the lie you are living?
all in a mirror that
burns in the darkness
and the reflections stare
back
haunting you
for eternity
~*Elenwyn*~

He intended to “crack the code” of this poem and discover the spell to be used with the Black Mirror.

Alice’s mirror resurfaced around 1583 among the possessions of the Earl of Desmond. Legend has it the Earl’s wife surprised him while he was preparing some sort of “black art”. She begged him to teach her the secrets of the occult. He cautioned her to remain absolutely silent. She witnessed his transitions to a vulture, a hag and a serpent, but when he resumed human form and stretched across the room, she lost control. When she screamed the castle sank to the bottom of the lake.

Every seven years the Earl appears upon a white horse with silver horseshoes. When the shoes wear out the spell will be broken and the Earl will return to his former glory. A blacksmith named Teague O’Neill claimed to have seen the Earl on one of these occasions. The mirror came to be owned by another O’Neal, one Sir Henry, killed at the 1691 Siege of Limerick. It passed down through his family and made its way to England, where my former employer acquired it. Or so he thought.

Somehow Lord Mulready purchased a fake. Sir Henry O’Neal de Hane Segrave questioned its authenticity, declaring that he himself possessed it, as it had been passed down through the O’Neal family for over two centuries. Segrave happened to need a great deal of money to build a speedboat capable of winning the British International Trophy. The men struck a deal and Segrave brought the Black Mirror to Lord Mulready’s manor.

Inspection showed Segrave’s had an ebony frame. Mulready’s was oak. The black coating on Segrave’s proved to be scratch resistant; Mulready’s was black paint, not made from charcoal and plant oils, but commercial paint like that used on automobiles! Lord Mulready would have been furious had he not been delighted to have the authentic Black Mirror of Dame Alice of Kilkenny at last. Carved into the ebony, one word satisfied him completely—Elenwyn, the nom de plume of M. Foster-O’Neal.

The next day he “energized” the mirror with fluid condenser (to which he added a drop of his blood) and cleaned it with alcohol. Then he waited for a full moon when he intended to conjure up Dame Alice.

He created a “circle of protection”, burned incense, and lit two white candles whose light “must not be reflected in the mirror”. He placed it upright on white cloth and seated himself with Necronomicon and The Complete Works of Maisha Foster-O’Neal open to Black Mirror.

His journal ends thus: “I shall now breathe deeply and rhythmically, relaxing myself and entering into a state of trance.”

The police inspected the scene but could ascertain nothing. I’m no expert, but had his Lordship’s journal. I created my own circle of protection and burned incense. I lit candles and prepared to give my energy to the Black Mirror.

I imagined myself filled with light and felt its power. I channeled it into my hands, then directed it into the Black Mirror. I breathed rhythmically and entered a trance, focusing on my circle of protection. The surface of the mirror was a dark cloudy mist. As it dissipated a face came slowly into focus. My former employer stared back at me from within the Black Mirror. It had worked; I had contacted Lord Mulready!

The binding spell I put upon him should keep him put. As for me, I shall enjoy my newly found wealth and freedom while the Black Mirror of Dame Alice Kyteler sits snugly in its silk sack where it shall remain.

—
Notes

Black Mirror © 2003 by Maisha Foster-O’Neal. Reprinted with permission. Some of Maisha’s other work can be found at Elfwood (http://elfwood.lysator.liu.se/libr/m/a/maishafo2/maishafo2.html.)

The Internet Sacred Text Archive is an excellent resource for information about witchcraft in Ireland. Check it out at http://www.sacred-texts.com/pag/iwd/iwd02.htm.

Information about the death of speedboat legend Sir Henry O’Neal de Hane Segrave can be found at http://www.lesliefield.com/other_history/speedboat_kings_11_segrave_is_killed.htm.

Information concerning scrying with a black mirror came from Katyln Breen on the awesome Crystal Forest website which can be found at http://www.crystalforest.homestead.com.

—
©2009 Steve Doyle

Steve Doyle is an award-winning writer whose poem “The Storm” won a third prize in the anthology In the Desert Sun published by the National Library of Poetry. His poem “Footprints in my Garden”, coupled with photography by Maria Touchette, won third prize at a juried art show put on by the Hudson Area Arts Alliance. Some of Steve’s other poems have appeared in The Wayfarer’s Journal, Residential Aliens and Flashes in the Dark. His poem “A Leprechaun’s Tale” appeared in Strange Worlds of Lunacy: The Galaxy’s Silliest Anthology available at Lyn Perry’s storefront. Visit Steve’s website at doylebooks.com.