The Magic Circle Read Online Free PDF

out his mouth.
    His eyes are glued to mine. He trusts me. “Demons do things . . .,” he whispers.
    I blow again into the reed and again I cover the end.
    “. . . in reverse,” he says.
    “You’re right,” I cry. Oh, how could I have been sofoolish? I have not practiced Astaroth’s name in reverse in my head. But if I don’t call properly, he will not come. What a miserable woman I am! How could I expect to take on the devils when I have never studied the devils? I know less than this bedridden child. Now there is no hope.
    As if the devils can read my thoughts, the air is at once weightless again. Astaroth is no longer alarmed. He tastes success. I know he laughs at me. He wants the burgermeister to enter the room now and see his son swathed in blood. He wants the burgermeister to breathe the light air. He steals all support from my excuse. I look at the red-dipped sword helplessly.
    I should drop this sham and run.
    But, oh, then the boy would die. His skin speaks of imminent death. The hole in his throat provides Astaroth another entry. I must help Peter. He has entered my heart. And he trusts me now. His hope is alive. It doesn’t matter what I know or do not know of devils. The boy has saved me from the error of mispronouncing Astaroth’s name. God wants me here; otherwise, he never would have put the plaice fish in Asa’s hands. Otherwise, he never would have given Peter the interest in demons that allowed him to save us both this time. God is with me. I know this.
    I look out the window. The sun is high. It is afternoon.The shadows will come soon. I cannot run and hide and practice the devil’s name in reverse inside my head. And if I try to come another day, the burgermeister will turn me away. He will never allow me to come near Peter again after I have used his own sword on his son. He will lose faith in me. And woe be to the sorceress who loses the faith of the people, for it is among the gravest of crimes to put yourself forth as a sorcerer and not succeed. You will be condemned as not truly a servant of God.
    I am dressed in my brown cloak, and I dare not strip down to my white shift in front of this boy. He is young, but not that young. It wouldn’t seem right. But even though I’m not dressed in the traditional white of the sorceress, my cloak is good, I know. It has no buttons, buckles, hooks. It has no knots. There is nothing in my cloak that would stop the flow of power from my body.
    I pick up the sword. I marvel to see my hand does not shake. Peter keeps his eyes on me. His respiration is loud and labored. I draw a magic circle around the bed. As it nears completion, the reed in Peter’s throat suddenly squashes shut. I complete the circle as fast as I can. I sit on the bed with Peter, holding both his hands in mine. His chest is still now. He doesn’t breathe. The flow of blood on his throat has slowed to a sluggish wellingof drops. His eyes are hot, but he fights the panic. “Htoratsa,” I whisper. The word is flawless. Hallelujah, “Leave this child’s body. Be gone!”
    A hiss of steam rushes around the reed, making it flap piteously. Peter writhes. I pull the reed from his throat and press my thumb over the gaping hole. “Cough, Peter. Cough.” I put my face to his and command, “Cough!”
    Peter’s knees jerk upward and press against his belly. He curls around his middle. It is all I can do to keep my thumb over the hole in his throat. Peter’s mouth stretches open wide—wider than I have ever seen a person’s mouth open. It is as though his jaw is hinged, like a snake’s.
    “Cough!” I shout.
    He rocks and twists and finally spasms. A yellow river of phlegm shoots out and hits the floor. A foul odor fills the room. Peter coughs again and again, each time adding to the pool of phlegm. His chest is like a barrel that must empty.
    Finally, the coughing stops. Slowly, slowly Peter uncurls. He lies back on his pillows. The hole in his throat is closed, though a purple