Douglas Rees - The Juliet Spell

“Tea?” he said, in a voice that was still shaking.

“Yeah. Mom and I have lots of different kinds.”

“What is tea?” he asked.

“I thought all you English guys drank tea all the time,” I said.

“No,” Edmund said. “Never heard of tea.”

“Well, I’d like some,” I said, hoping it was just a language thing. “Let me make a cup.”

I got up and went over to the stove. I shook the kettle, heard that there was no water in it, and filled it from the tap.

“How does yon work?” he said.

“I don’t really know,” I said. “Water pressure, I guess.”

I went back to the stove and turned on one of the burners.

Edmund stood up to get a better look. Dad would have thought that was a good sign. Getting interested in his surroundings.

“How is’t ye can cook without fire?” he said as the burner began to glow.

“It’s electric,” I said. “Sort of like lightning, but not dangerous. Look.” I walked over to the light switch and flicked it. The light over the table came on.

Edmund stared up at the ceiling. He didn’t look happy.

“Don’t panic,” I quickly said. “It’s not black magic or anything like that. It’s just science. Everybody does this. You can do it.”

“I can?”

I turned off the light. “Come on,” I said. “First lesson in twenty-first-century living.”

He slid along the wall until he was standing beside the light switch.

“Since this is me first time, must I say any special words?” he asked me.

“No. Just push up on the switch.”

He did, and the light, of course, came on. He turned it off. He turned it on. He did it back and forth until the tea-kettle whistled.

“See if you can prop up the table and we’ll sit down,” I said.

While Edmund crawled under the table and tried to stick the leg back on, I got out two mugs and filled them with hot water and tea bags. I figured English breakfast blend was the way to go.

When the tea had steeped, I brought it over to the table. Edmund was sitting at it now, and the thing didn’t shake even when he leaned on it.

“’Tis a simple break at the joint,” he said. “A man could mend it in no time at all.”

“Not my dad… He can fix people, though.”

“A physician, is he?” Edmund asked.

“No. A psychologist. But he’s very good at it,” I said.

“A psychologist. A beautiful word. What does it mean?”

“I guess you’d call him a soul doctor.”

“He must be very holy then,” Edmund said.

“Nope. He’s just good at fixing other people.”

“Mayhap I could mend the table for ye,” he said.

“Mom would like that,” I said. “Try your tea.”

Edmund sipped it.

“Take the bag out first,” I said.

He tried a second sip and made a face. “Strange taste. Have ye no beer?”

“How old are you?” I asked him.

“Sixteen, near seventeen.”

“You have to be twenty-one to drink beer in California,” I said.

“Twenty-one? What the hell for?” he asked. “Are ye savages?”

“Some people start a lot earlier. But it’s illegal if you’re not an adult. And my mom would kill me if I gave one of my friends beer. How about—wait a minute.”

I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a cola. “Try this,” I said, and popped the can open.

Edmund tried one sip. Then he tilted back the can and slurped. “Nectar,” he said. “What d’ye call it?”

“It’s just a cola. Some people call them soft drinks. There’s plenty in there. You can pull one out any time you want.”

Edmund got up and went over to the fridge. “May I open’t?”

“Sure.”

He jumped back when the chill air hit him. “’Tis winter in there!”

“Yep,” I said. “Refrigeration.”

He knelt down and carefully put one hand inside. He felt the food, picked it up and looked at it. Spelled out the words on the packages.

“Is it always so within this chest?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “You can adjust the temperature, but that’s what it’s for. To keep food cold so it doesn’t spoil.”

“’Tis the wonder of the world,” he breathed.

“Wait’ll you see television.”

“Tell-a-vision?” Edmund said. “Prophecy?”

“Not quite,” I said.

“Whatever tell-a-vision be, it must wait—I must ask ye now to lead me to the jakes.”

“The what?”

“The jakes. The necessary. The outhouse. Surely ye have one of those.”

“Let me show you,” I said.

Edmund gulped when he saw the bathroom.

“’Tis like—a sort of temple, so white and set about with basins. It’s never a jakes.”

“Watch me closely,” I said in a voice that I realized probably sounded like a kindergarten teacher’s. “You sit on that. It’s called the toilet. When you’re done you wipe yourself with some of that roll of paper. Then you flush—” I showed him how the handle worked “—and then you wash your hands in the sink. Got it?”

“I’ll do me best,” Edmund said.

“I’ll close the door. But I’ll be right outside. Okay?”

“Ah, okay.”

I waited in the hall. I heard the sounds of flushing and of water running in the sink.

The door opened.

“Must I really wash me hands every single time?” Edmund asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Feels unnatural.”

“Germs.”

“What?”

“Didn’t Doctor Dee ever tell you anything about germs?” I said.

“Nay, that he did not.”

“My mom will explain all about them. And there’s something else I just thought of.”

“What would that be?” Edmund said.

“We bathe. Every single day. Sometimes more than once.”

“What ever for?”

“Again, germs.”

“But what if I don’t want these germs?” Edmund asked, clearly concerned. “What if I just want to be the way I am?”

“No, Edmund. You don’t get germs from bathing. You’ve got them already. Bathing every day keeps them down. And germs give you diseases.”

“Ye mean like plague?” Edmund asked.

“Yes, exactly like plague,” I said.

“And ye’ve no plague here?”

“Nobody I ever knew or ever heard of has ever had the plague.”

Edmund shook his head. “Ye’ve conquered the plague,” he said. “O, brave new world that hath such people in it.”

“Mom says soap and water can solve half the problems in the world,” I said.

“Very well. I will bathe. Show me what I must do.”

“Wait a minute—I am not going to show you how I bathe,” I exclaimed.

“I never meant for ye to uncover yourself to me. Just show me the equipments.”

“Tub,” I said and pointed. “Taps. Hot water. Cold water. This little gizmo closes the tub. Soap. Shampoo for your hair. Washcloth. Towel for drying off after.”

Edmund was taking everything in like a dry sponge. He pointed over my head and asked, “What is yon?”

“That’s the shower. Some people like showers better than baths.”

“And what does it do? Does it bathe ye, too?”

“Yes. It’s sort of like standing in the rain, only you can make it the temperature you want.”

“I would try it at once,” Edmund said. And he twisted the faucets as far as they would go and plunged his hands under the water.

“Great idea,” I said. “Hand your clothes out through the door and I’ll wash them for you.”

“But they’re the only clothes I’ve got,” he said.

“I’ll find you some others,’ I said. “Trust me, Edmund. Nobody wears codpieces any more.”

“Very good,” he said. “I will fear no evil.”

“Just don’t be afraid of the soap, either.”

I was glad Edmund was being so good about the bath thing. Because he stank. He reeked. It was worse than being with Dad on a three-day camping trip.