The Magic Circle Read Online Free PDF Page A

timbre. I know from the quality of his voice that his chest is full of infection. I nod. Peter talks more. His dull eyes would shine if they could. “There are enchanted forests where humans dare not tread.”
    “A strange mixture,” I say.
    “A wonderful mixture. Beautiful girls run away from wicked stepmothers and talk to animals and ride on deers’ backs and . . . oh.” His face is wistful. “I would like to ride on a deer’s back.”
    The child within is awake again. I can proceed. “Where is this land?” I ask, though my mind is no longer on thisconversation. My mind struggles now with other questions, with questions Peter has brought to me: How do I know that it is truly Astaroth that brings the disease to Peter? How can I be sure that God doesn’t want this disease to be with Peter?
    Peter is still talking, giving directions. He is pointing at a map on the wall near the door. He finishes with “. . . nestled before that set of mountains, and there you are.” He is silent for a moment. “It takes many days, but a healthy person could walk there. Even you. Even a child, if he were healthy.” His voice has a touch of heaviness again.
    I must keep his mind moving. I ask aimlessly, “Have you read about demons?”
    “Much,” says Peter.
    I take interest. “What do you know about them?”
    “Too much to put in a thimble.” Peter coughs and leans back into his stacked pillows. He puts his hands together like a philosopher. I can tell he likes the idea of having a grown-up conversation. He fancies himself an authority. He lifts his chin. “Be specific, Ugly Sorceress. Ask precisely what you want to know.”
    “Be careful,” I say. “Do not speak the name of a demon.”
    Peter nods. “I will be careful.”
    “Tell me, Peter, when do you feel the worst?”
    Peter smiles sadly. “On a morning like today. It is the hot, sunny days, when the other children run and climb and swim and have the most fun, that I am the worst off. In winter sometimes I pass whole days painlessly.”
    “The darkest days?”
    “Yes.”
    “The dampest days?”
    “Yes,” says Peter. His voice shows cautious interest. He coughs the wet, deep cough I expected.
    I sniff. “And the smell of your bedclothes?”
    “It’s not my bedclothes,” says Peter. “It’s me. I’m rotting.”
    “No,” I say. “It’s him.”
    Peter looks at me with the first glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You know who he is?”
    “I know,” and before the word passes to silence, the air itself takes on weight. It presses on my chest and head. It crushes. My throat constricts. I fight to fill my lungs.
    Peter gags. The weight is too much for his weakened frame. He clutches both hands to his throat. I am strong enough for this battle—he is not.
    I take the hollow reed from the bowl of broth, grab the sword from the floor, and rush to the head of thebed. I pry the boy’s hands from his neck. His eyes meet mine, and suddenly, as though in tacit agreement, he puts his hands behind his head and arches his back. For a brief moment I realize he believes he is surrendering himself. I pray he is wrong. I pierce his throat with the tip of the sword. The blood gushes forth. I know that if this fails, if the boy dies, I will be hanged for murder. I jam the reed into the bloody opening of his throat and blow on one end. His chest rises and falls. I blow again. His chest rises and falls. Rises and falls. Finally the air passes through the reed on its own. I need not blow now.
    Peter slowly eases his back down into the bedclothes.
    “It is important, Peter, that I summon the devil properly.” I am panting. “His name must be pronounced exactly right.” And I must hurry, I think. I must hurry before the rigid reed collapses under the heavy air.
    Peter touches his lips. I realize he wants to speak. I blow extra air into the reed; then I cover the end so that when he exhales the air will not exit from the reed, but pass instead through his voice box and