“Summoner and Scribe”
By Mark Rogers
Just before giving up on his dreams and taking a job as a scribe for a master occultist, Benjerman Tod Mortimer, author of children’s tragedies, had been holding an author reading event at the edge of a graveyard. It was a dreary morning in Night Berry, a perpetually fog-shrouded town in the Southwestern Bellows known for its excessive number of cemeteries, legends concerning demons, and onion farms. Despite the many fliers and advertisements Benj had pasted all over town, no one had shown up to his event--no one but Dovie, that is, and she didn’t really count because she was his wife, and she loved him. She even loved his woebegone kids' tales, or at least she said she did.
The story Benj read that morning was called the “Night Orphanage”, and it seemed pretty scary. Benj read with feeling, practiced voice acting, and had a slight lisp. Dovie knitted her brows in worry as the protagonist entered the darkened attic, only to discover the headmaster’s corpse holding its own severed head. “The child screamed!” Benj read.
A stranger--in real life, not in the story--then leaped out from behind a dead oak. Benj shrieked and nearly dropped his book. Dovie, who was blind, turned her head this way and that, feeling for her cane. The stranger was about six feet five, but even taller if you included the top hat, its brim worn so low that the man’s eyes were hidden in shadow. The man was dressed head to toe in a maroon three-piece suit, with a tuxedo-colored cat draped across his shoulders like a shawl. The most striking detail of all--Benj had to blink his eyes a few times to make sure what he was seeing was correct--was that the stranger had claws for hands. Claws like a monster would have.
In a disarmingly high and warbling voice, the stranger apologized for scaring them and introduced himself as Erie Oldfather. He then proceeded to gush over Benj’s exquisite penmanship in a way that was…weird. True, Benj’s tidy and artfully rendered text was outstanding, but the job offer that followed was completely unexpected. Erie explained that he had seen the advertisements for Benj’s author event in town and was impressed with the handwritten typography on the poster. Erie claimed to be a master occultist who specialized in the summoning of mystical creatures.
“...And due to my unfortunate hand condition,” he said, holding up his claws, “I can barely hold a pen and require a scribe.”
And Benj agreed.
He didn’t want a job, but up until recently, Dovie had been supporting them so Benj could write. A month ago, she had blinded herself by cutting an onion she had purchased from a tall and beautiful witch at the Night Burry farmer’s market. It had been an especially pungent onion, for still, she cried daily.
***
Erie Oldfather’s nearly windowless three-story stone tower loomed over the nearby graveyard in such a way that one might think it was a mausoleum rather than a home. He ushered Benj inside, where they took a seat at a sturdy cedar table by a stone fireplace. “As promised, your sign-on bonus.” Erie handed Benj a large sack of coins. It was heavy, which made Benj smile. “Before we begin, I need you to read these three books,” Erie said, indicating the three archaic volumes arrayed before Benj. The young man scanned the titles: Ancient Aasthmath, Fowlest Vesma, and The Blackest Recordings of Maldek. Mystical creatures…Benj was no fool. This was some dark stuff. Clearly, they would be summoning demons! Benj wrote a tragic story about a demon once and was excited to read these books. He would come up with so many plot ideas. Benj was also excited to learn a little magick.
***
Two months later, it was around midnight, and the moon hung full and pink. They were on the top floor of Erie’s tower, and everything was prepared. A triangle flanked by sigils was painted on the floor, and the air was filled with incense. Benj was seated at a small writing table with a blank book opened before him, along with inks and other supplies.
The occultist faced the triangle on the floor and began chanting slowly and rhythmically. The hairs on Benj’s neck bristled as he felt a distinct energy shift in the tower. Erie raised his voice, and Benj recognized the chant from one of the books--an incantation to summon the demon Brugraph. From his pocket, Erie produced a rat. To Benj’s horror, Erie squeezed the rat over the triangle with his claw-like hands, and the rat’s blood dripped upon the stone floor. How gross, he thought. Erie dropped the crushed rat into the triangle and began shouting--no, shrieking--his chant. Benj gripped the desk. What had he gotten himself into?
And then Benj saw it.
Something formed in the triangle. The blood and the rat vanished as it came into focus, gradually materializing. A demon. A true demon. The creature had a hateful mask-like face with fleshy lips and crazed eyes the size of juicy ornamental tomatoes. It had fur, feathers, a tail, claws, taloned toes, and a second evil tortoise-like face growing from the creature’s rump.
It was an abomination.
For the rest of the evening, Benj furiously recorded everything that was said. The transcription was part interview, part conversation, part interrogation. Brugraph told riddles and depraved jokes. It shared many spells like: how to cause agonizing shin splints, how to make a beautiful dog go bald, and how to draw sigils to compel one’s enemies. As the night proceeded, the spells grew more gruesome and depraved, and at sunrise, Erie finally banished the horrible creature.
During the next few weeks, Benj meticulously re-penned the notes he had hastily scribbled during the conjuring onto vellum in a leather-bound book, adding text decoration and spot illustrations. It was exhausting.
Two additional summonings followed. The second demon Erie summoned was called Rifir, a terrible monster with an extra mouth where his stomach should have been and blinking yellow eyes for nipples. According to Fowlest Vesma, the forbidden biestiary, Rifir was said to teach math and necromancy. And it apparently knew these subjects well, but time and again, the demon also expressed a compulsive desire to unearth the dead from the nearby cemetery and feast upon their remains.
The third summoning was Erie’s cat, Kitcan. When the occultist revealed that his ever-present, feline was in truth a demonic familiar gifted to him by his former master, Magus Pallor Mournshade, Benj was not surprised. Kitcan was placed in the summoners' triangle, Erie chanted the magick words, and he transformed…sort of. Kitcan’s head looked the same--although much larger--, but he now had the body of an oversized crow with pasty human legs. Kitcan wore little boots on his feet, a mirror around his neck, and a mischievous expression on his feline face.
“Don’t look into the Mirror!” Erie had warned. “Shield your eyes if you must. It is a thing of unspeakable evil. Kitcan’s Magick Mirror shows the viewer its parents participating in the passionate act which led to their conception.” Erie then shivered.
Benj frowned. “You mean it shows you your parents having…”
“Sex. Yes. Kitcan’s humor is cruel and twisted.”
The cat—the demon—chuckled.
Benj couldn’t do it anymore. Sure, all the magick was interesting, and the pay was great, but Benj needed to be writing stories. He had so many ideas. Also, he felt that interacting with demons was somehow poisoning his soul. Even after the sessions were over and Erie banished the creatures, their presence lingered. They had invaded his thoughts. Benj could still see the demons when he closed his eyes and felt as if they were following him everywhere. Dovie noticed the change. Benj had always been moody, but this was different--he was becoming exhausted and weird. And then the worst part of it all, far worse than dealing with actual demons, was the fact that Benj needed to write. Writing stories--writing children’s tragedies--was his reason for living. Not writing was simply killing him.
***
On Midsummer’s Evening, Benj completed the first grimoire. As Benj watched Erie thumbing through the beautifully penned volume, he gathered the courage to tell the Occultist he was quitting. The timing was perfect, Benj thought. He had finished a major project. He had worked all day and would now be heading home. Would Erie be angry? What would the Occultist say?
“So, I have been thinking--” Benj started, but was distracted when he heard the clopping of hooves just outside.
“And that would be our ride. Perfect timing,” said Erie, cradling the book under his arm. “We are going into town tonight to deliver the grimore to the buyers. They want to meet you. There has been talk of a small additional commission. Come along,” he beckoned. Benj sighed and followed.
The carriage dropped them on Night Burry’s cobblestone main street downtown. Erie guided them between a haberdashery and a butcher’s shop, into the back alley, where three people awaited. Erie knelt and kissed the hand of a tall and beautiful woman in a pointed hat, whom Erie introduced as Anya, the Onion Witch. She was blond with a pungent odor and a frightening air.
“Beware her onions,” Erie warned, with an off-handed chuckle, “delicious as they are, they have been known to cause blindness, and worse.”
Benj’s eyes narrowed as he thought about Dovie…his blind wife. The Witch giggled in a way that was somehow both innocent and mean-spirited. Benj felt an instant dislike for the pretty Witch. She appeared to be the group’s leader. She was accompanied by Matilda, a miserable-looking phantom handmaiden, a ghost that floated inches above the ground, and a cannibal henchman whom Erie introduced as Bloodmouth Scarman.
The exchange was made. The grimoire for the treasure. And a basket of onions.
Erie and Anya stepped aside from the others for a private conversation, leaving Benj alone with the miserable ghost and the ferocious cannibal, who smiled at him with teeth filed to points. They both gave Benj an unsettled feeling, but after spending time with demons, he had grown somewhat accustomed to dangerous and supernatural characters.
After Erie and the Onion Witch finished their private discussion, Erie bid Anya and her companions good evening. Benj was relieved. He and Erie headed back to their carriage, where it waited for them on Main Street. During the ride home, Erie spoke on and on about the Onion Witch’s beauty and the new commission they had secured, but Benj wasn’t listening, for he had thoughts of his own.
As soon as they exited the carriage and were back inside the tower, Benj blurted, “I can’t do this anymore. I can’t be your scribe anymore.”
Erie stopped, momentarily frozen in place. Ever so slowly, the tall man turned on Benj. As always, his eyes were hidden in the shadow of his top hat. “Excuse me?”
Benj’s heart suddenly quickened. He knew that maybe he should have been more tactful, but this feeling had been building for quite some time. “I have to quit. This isn’t the work I am meant to be doing. I appreciate this opportunity, but I am not a scribe. I am a writer of Children’s Tragedies. I need to follow my passion.”
Kitcan hissed from his place on Erie’s shoulder.
Very quietly, Erie said, “I had a passion once…” And then the occultist launched into a dark tale of his own. In his high, warbly voice, he described his former life as a concertina player, a minstrel to the former master of the tower, Magus Pallor Mournshade. Benj barely listened, preoccupied with devising an escape, but he was cornered. Erie described how his former master transformed his hands into claws as punishment for a bad performance. When Erie realized he would no longer be able to play the concertina, he flew into a rage. Erie confessed to strangling his former master and taking the tower for himself. He had gone from musician to Magician. He ended his story with, “NOW MY PASSION IS SUMMONING DEMONS AND GETTING RICH! You will complete the Witch's commission starting tonight; otherwise, you will share my former master’s fate.”
With a clawed hand, the occultist grabbed Benj by the arm and dragged him through the tower, down a curving staircase, and into a dark chamber with spiderwebs and stone walls. He snapped his clawed fingers, and one of the wall sconces magickally burst into flame. In the flickering torchlight, Benj saw a writing desk upon which sat pens, ink pots, and several blank books. The desk sat within a circle painted on the floor--a summoning circle with arcane sigils built into its design.
“I hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” Erie said under his breath as he dragged Benj into the circle and attached a shackle, chained to a heavy steel ball, around the scribe’s ankle.
Erie angrily relayed that Anya the Onion Witch had commissioned a small book with a tight deadline--a book of necromancy. The book needed to be completed for a special occasion in three nights' time. And in a puff of brimstone, Erie once again summoned the demon Rifir, the beast with yellow eyes for nipples.
“The sooner you finish the book, the sooner I banish the demon,” Erie said, and locked the cell door, leaving Benj alone with the creature. And so Benj was forced to question the demon on his own, taking pages upon pages of notes on necromancy and reanimation of the dead. It was beyond exhausting.
Erie returned in the morning and, after examining Benj’s notes, finally banished the foul creature. Benj was worried about Dovie. Erie said he would let his wife know that Benj was occupied, and the sooner he finished the book, the sooner Erie said he would see her again. Benj was then forced to spend the next two days composing and penning the Onion Witch’s dark commission. Despite being forced to write the grimoire, Benj put his heart and energy into the commissioned work, paying special attention to every magickal work and sigil.
***
At dusk, they left to meet the Onion Witch, this time in a nearby cemetery. When they exited the carriage, they found the pretty Witch standing in a torchlit grassy area between a mausoleum and many crumbling tombstones. As before, she was accompanied by the miserable shade of Matilda and the cannibal, Scarman Bloodmouth, who was greedily pulling chunks of meat off a gigantic drumstick attached to a foot wearing a striped sock and a fancy leather shoe.
Erie met Anya the Onion Witch with a kiss on the cheek, and the grimoire was exchanged for gold and onions.
Quickly, they went to work. The Witch produced a magickal knife and cast a circle. The cannibal tossed the half-devoured human leg into the circle as a blood offering, and Erie summoned his demons: Brugraph, Rifir, and the cat Kitcan to lend their power to the ritual.
“Tonight,” said Anya, pointing to the nearby mausoleum, “marks the anniversary of my horrid stepmother's death. Together we shall raise her rotting corpse from the dead…and punish her,” she said sweetly. The Onion Witch thumbed through Benj’s newly penned grimoire. To herself, she whispered, “Fabulous”. Her eyes grew wide as she scanned the symbols and images. Then, she turned to the beginning and began reading out loud.
It was both strange and exciting for Benj to hear one of his own stories narrated to him. True, this was a magickal text dedicated to necromancy, but it was written in the spirit of rebellion, and he couldn’t help it that one of his pent-up stories made its way onto the manuscript. Would Benj be punished for writing one of his tragic tales, rather than a strict manual for gruesome occult operations? The Onion Witch continued to read. Benj looked to Erie and saw that the occultist was fully engrossed in the story, as were Bloodmouth, Matilda, and even the three demons.
The spell had taken hold. As the Onion Witch read Benj’s words, her voice swelled with passion. Spirits stirred—rising from graves, peeking from behind headstones, gathering to hear his tale. Ghosts of children and adults alike floated up from their resting places to listen to the Onion Witch as she read Benj’s masterwork: the story of a young man who abandoned his dreams of traveling the world to find love for a well-paid but hollow job as a heart surgeon for young broken hearts, but all this changes when he discovers a magickal codex written on human flesh--a book of darkest necromancy. On page four of the story, his audience grew misty-eyed. On page five, the audience rubbed their eyes, and by page six, people were sobbing. Benj observed all the crying faces, the living, the dead, and the demons…and he beamed with joy, grinning from ear to ear.
The mausoleum door slowly creaked open, and out ambled a dusty and decayed female form. Seeing that it wore a pointed witch’s hat, Benj felt safe in assuming that this was the Onion Witch’s reanimated stepmother. Whether Anya noticed her “horrid stepmother”, it was hard to say, for she was so enraptured by the reading of Benj’s tragic tale.
The Onion Witch struggled to keep her tears from smearing the pages and her voice from quivering out of control as she reached the dramatic end of the First Act. Everyone wept. There was great applause and cheers, and tears.
“So beautiful,” the ferocious cannibal sobbed.
“Benjerman, your talent…I had no idea,” Erie whispered. “I apologize for the way I treated you. I had no right to take you away from your passion.” The Onion Witch continued reading the story to its tragic conclusion. By the end, everyone was completely balling.
***
At sunrise, Erie and Benj reached Benj’s house. Erie insisted on accompanying Benj, apologizing the whole way for his mistreatment of the young author, praising the story, and wanting to discuss the various plot points and meanings concealed within the tale. “It was the saddest, most masterful story I’ve ever heard. It’ll haunt me for the rest of my life. The way you combined actual occult practices and techniques with allegory…superb.”
When Benj opened the door to his home, Dovie ran to him, hugging him tight. Her vision had been slowly returning for months, but now, she could see again. As the couple embraced, Erie bid them farewell. He produced a small concertina and gave it a clumsy squeeze with his clawed hands. Watching the occultist depart, Benj turned to Dovie. “Pack what you can carry. We have to leave now.” Confusion flickered in her dark eyes.
“Trust me. No time to explain,” he said. Sometime later, he would tell his wife this: over the last few months, Benj had learned a bit of magick while scribing for Erie Oldfather. Sure, the commissioned manuscript for Anya the Onion Witch was decent, but it wasn’t that good, for he had drawn sigils of compulsion on every page. These small pictures taught to him by Erie’s summoned demons were designed to charm readers into believing they were reading the greatest work of fiction ever written. And they worked! Along with this, the grimoire included many magick words taught to him by the creatures--magick words that would glamour his audience and manipulate their emotions.
How long the spell would last, he didn’t know. That explanation could wait. For now, they had to escape dreary Night Burry with its cemeteries, demons, and onions. And with that, Benjerman and Dovie Mortimer packed what they could and fled the fog-shrouded town. In the following months and years, Benj went on to pen some of his greatest children’s tragedies, all inspired by his brief employment with Erie Oldfather--tales like: “Ritual of Tears”, “My Father’s Claws”, “The Cat’s Magick Mirror”, “Brimstone by Tombstone”, and his most celebrated work, “Summoner and Scribe”.