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.

The hunter stopped amid signs of a Cerapachynai tribe. It would not be good to stumble upon them, for they were cannibals who would consider the hunter a meal. It would be best to determine which way they were headed to avoid—. Intense heat ripped through the hunter’s back, interrupting all thought. The hunter collapsed to the ground, twisting and writhing in agony, trying desperately to escape the burning. It was no use. In mere seconds the hunter lay still, a victim of fire from the sky.

♦ ♦ ♦

Throngs of panicked citizens choked the streets desperately seeking news of loved ones. It seemed no one who had left the city that afternoon had returned. Not a single scout, hunter, explorer, or forager. No one.

Unfortunately, it was not unusual to lose one or two or even more on a particularly bad day. Many dangers lurked outside the city walls. Out in the wilderness roamed cannibalistic Cerapachynai, gigantic Dinoponera, poisonous Pogonomymex, and the dreaded Formicinae who would kidnap and force one into slavery, often attacking the city with the aim of carrying off the children. There were also Odontomachus raiders, nomads who robbed and killed those unlucky enough to cross their path. Armies of Humatum and Burchelli would often march across the countryside destroying everything in sight. Then there were wild beasts, some of which would swoop down from the sky and others large enough to crush one underfoot, usually a careless accident, but not always. Of particular dread were the terrible Moloch, giant horned dragons capable of tearing down an entire city with a few sweeps from massive claws. In addition to these living threats, nature added such calamities as earthquakes, flash floods, wild fires and poisonous winds.

But even with all these dangers, most who left the city returned by nightfall. This day there were none.

The Queen’s Council met in an emergency session to discuss possible causes for the situation and determine a course of action.

“Torrential downpours swept the area late in the afternoon.”

A council member shook his head. “Those whose duty it is to venture outside the city to procure foodstuffs are trained to seek sufficient shelter in such circumstances. Even with severe flooding it is unlikely harm befell them.”

“Had the trails been washed out? Could they have all gotten lost?”

One of the elders cleared his throat. “I recall a legend in which an army got confused and wound up going in a circle, each soldier following the one in front and the leader following the one who brought up the rear. They marched on and on in this fashion until they all fell dead from exhaustion.”

“But that had been an army on the march, not hunters and gatherers who operate independently and almost individually.”

“Were the Humatum on the march?”

“Not likely, their columns would have been spotted by scouts who would have returned immediately to the city with the news.”

“What about the Burchelli to the south? They spread out over great distances when they march; one could easily be surrounded before realizing it and be unable to get back to the city.”

“No, not everyone would have been cut off. Those that went north, for instance, wouldn’t have come into contact with any Burchelli soldiers.”

“What about a poisonous wind? Those have been known to kill many.”

The council members fell silent. Poison wind came suddenly, moved quickly, and covered a large area. The city would be safe, having been built to withstand such a disaster, but those outside would have no protection. This was the most likely scenario.

The Queen announced that poisonous wind was believed to have been the cause of the disaster and that scouts would go out at first light to assess the danger and search for the missing.

In the morning search parties set out on all points of the compass to find those who had gone into the wilderness and not returned. They found a body, crumpled in a heap, burned beyond recognition. They found another. And another. And another.

The scouts returned with their horrific tale. One would have thought fire had torn through the area, but nothing else was burned. Just the bodies, as if these individuals had burst into flames.

The oldest of the elders could not explain this phenomenon. Armies of Pogonomymex had employed poison to subdue their enemies, but no one had ever successfully used fire. Fire had proven to be an uncontrollable force. Unfavorable wind could turn the weapon against those who would deploy it. Had some enemy learned to harness its power to inflict these deaths?

The Queen ordered autopsies performed on all the recovered bodies. The examiners reported that with the exception of one who had been crushed, they had indeed burned to death. But they hadn’t spontaneously burst into flames. Each had been hit with some sort of laser, some in the head, most in the body, all from above. Something had brought down fire from the sky.

So this was no natural disaster. There were those who believed something other than nature was responsible for the poisonous wind, but that theory had never been proven. How could anything make the wind blow? But this was different. This was a direct attack upon citizens of the city.

Outraged, the Queen decided to meet the threat with overwhelming force. Every available soldier would march out to find and destroy this enemy be it large or small. Five hundred thousand formed up and made ready to go.

♦ ♦ ♦

Little Timmy had had great fun yesterday afternoon playing with his new magnifying glass. Concentrating the sun’s rays into a pinpoint, he’d delighted in watching the hapless ants upon whom he’d directed this deadly beam. Here he comes now, magnifying glass in hand, skipping merrily toward the anthill.

Somewhere below, three million feet begin moving to meet him.

—
©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.