Christopher Buehlman - The Necromancer's House

Chancho hammer-fists himself in the thigh, looks angrily at Andrew.

“This is from before, Chancho. From before I met you.”

“Yeah, but you’re still in it. Don’t you see? It’s why they can get to you, still. Get out of it.”

“It’s not like that.”

Chancho throws his arms up.

“No, it’s like this ,” he says, indicating the wreck, the improbable deer, the bloody seat.

Andrew nods.

“I’ll stay away from you until this is over. After I help you clean this up. This isn’t your mess.”

“Nah, go home. You’ll get in the way. And don’t stay away after. Just quit with the books and the chingada brujerías .”

Andrew laughs a little, still rubbing his temples.

Looks at Chancho.

“I’ve noticed that you say very bad things in Spanish but not English. Why is that?”

Chancho pauses.

“Because I’m American now. Them other words are in my blood. I can’t help it. But I got to start over with American.”

“Ah,” the magus says, clearly unconvinced.

The bigger man walks over, encircles Andrew with a mighty arm.

“I’ll ask the boys to stay around,” Chancho says. “I’ll pray, too. Get some Jésus down here.”

If only.

Andrew doesn’t know if there is a Jésus, and, if there is, whether he was God or man.

If he was a man, though, he must have been a user.

Water into wine sounds really.

Fucking.

Good.

Early evening.

The doorbell rings.

As Salvador is engaged in the garden, Andrew opens the door himself to find Arthur Madden and Mrs. Simpson standing on his porch, Mr. Madden panting somewhat more than usual, Mrs. Simpson smiling broadly and holding a paper plate covered in tinfoil.

“Good evening, Mr. Blankenship,” she says, her massive, jacketed bosom forming a sort of brooched cliff. “Sorry to drop by so late. I hope we’re not disturbing you,”

She’s doing the talking so Arthur can catch his breath.

“Not at all.”

He thinks quickly, trying to remember if he has anything controversial lying about in the living or dining room.

He thinks not.

“Would you like to come in?”

Now Andrew sees why the older Jehovah’s Witness is huffing and puffing so much—a produce basket and two full grocery bags stand on the porch behind them. The climb up the drive is nearly too much for Arthur without sacks to carry, so these really tested the poor geezer.

“Oh, we couldn’t impose on your hospitality so close to suppertime,” she says.

A second and a half ticks by like an awkward musical pause.

“We were just in the neighborhood and thought we’d bring you some leftovers.”

Leftovers?

Andrew attempts several polite refusals, but Mrs. Simpson is expert at parrying these. She wears him down. He takes the plate, peeps under the foil.

Looks like pot roast, creamed corn, and coleslaw.

“It’s pot roast,” she says. “I made it myself, so you’ll have to eat it all up.”

“Mmmm-mm,” he says. “Well, thank you.”

Arthur has enough wind back in him to speak.

“We also brought you some groceries.”

“Mr… .”

“Madden, it’s okay.”

“I really don’t feel comfortable taking groceries from you. I have plenty of food, and I’m sure you can think of someone in need who would love to get these.”

“Well, here’s the situation, Andrew. I am too tired to carry these bags back down your drive, and, may the Lord forgive me, too proud to let you or Mrs. Simpson do it. So you are just. Going. To have. To take. The groceries. Call it a favor to me.”

This guy could charm the mustache off a gay trucker.

What the hell is going on?

“What’s the occasion?”

“Call it a random act of kindness. Have you seen that bumper sticker? Perform something-something-beauty and random acts of kindness?”

“All right,” Andrew says. “You win.”

“I usually do. I mean, is this stuff that you will eat?”

“I’m sure it is.”

Andrew peeks in the first bag.

First item, weirdly, a ziplock bag holding about half a dozen pickled eggs.

A block of sharp cheddar.

Canned goods.

Tomatoes, peas, chicken soup.

Creamed corn.

“And don’t you worry about a thing. I know things may seem tough now, but with the Lord’s help, all trials are temporary, and all burdens bearable.”

He peeks in the second bag.

Rice. Mac and cheese. Dry spaghetti noodles in their long, coffinish boxes.

“Trials?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Mr. Blankenship. This recession is very real, and jobs are hard to come by, and hard to keep. A good many of our congregation are also unexpectedly seeking new employment, and I understand you’ve been off the job for a while.”

Andrew pauses. Looks at Arthur. Looks back down at the produce basket and then pulls the cloth off the top, revealing a prodigious heap of potatoes.

And a mirror.

A small hand mirror.

Sitting on top of the potatoes.

He sees his own reflection in it.

A spell.

His heart skips a beat.

He throws the cloth back over it as if covering a snake.

“She said you might be reluctant to accept help, but I assured her…”

“She?” Andrew says a little too loudly.

Heart skidding.

“Why yes. Your mother’s friend.”

“My mother’s friend who?”

“You know, she didn’t tell me her name. The Polish lady.”

“Russian,” corrects Mrs. Simpson.

“That’s right, Russian. Very nice. She said she was just speaking with your mother…”

My mother’s dead.

“… and told her she was bringing you potatoes from her own garden because homegrown food tastes best. And promised your mother you would visit her soon.”

“Forgive me, but you have to go now.”

“Pardon?”

“Please go,” he says, gently pushing Arthur just a little, then calling “Salvador!”

“Well, yes, all right, but if there’s anything we can do to…”

“SALVADOR!”

Andrew takes the mirror from under the cloth, breaks it violently on his porch.

Mrs. Simpson takes her colleague by the elbow and begins to lead him down the long drive.

“Good night, Mr. Blankenship,” she says. “God bless.”

Salvador comes trotting around the side of the house, holding a pair of pruning shears, his prosthetic knees smeared with dirt. Some sort of weed is caught in the wicker of his left arm.

His framed head cocks to one side, awaiting instructions.

Before Andrew can issue any, however, the produce basket turns over on its own and the potatoes roll and bounce away from it like so many tailless rats escaping a ship.

Their paths cone away from Andrew and diverge; he dives, grabs one, but then it flips out of his hand and keeps rolling.

“Find out where they’re going!” he shouts at Salvador.

The wicker man obeys, trailing the biggest group of them.

Andrew follows the one he grabbed.

It heads east, into the patch of woods near his house. He sees others moving in the low brush; to his left, one stops rolling, begins spinning in place. Burrows underground with a distinctive skirring noise.

He hears this happening all around him.

“Oh shit.”

His does it, too, as soon as it gets half a dozen yards away from him.

Planting themselves.

I don’t know this spell.

I don’t like this spell.

Salvador finds him, points urgently, in several directions.

“Okay, okay. Thanks, boy. First, get me a shovel. No, a spade. No, I’ll get the spade, you pile firewood in the pit.”