The Juliet Spell. Douglas Rees
the words,” he said. “Ye said the words and did not burst into flames.”
“Yessss… Now get down. And sit down over there.”
“If ye are not a demon, are ye an angel?” the boy asked.
“No,” I said. “Get down.”
“Then are ye a fairy?”
“Not even close. Get down. That table really does have a weak leg. I’m not kidding.”
“Return Doctor Dee and I will,” the boy said.
“I don’t know where he is,” I replied. “You’re the only one here besides me, and you shouldn’t be. But if you’ll start calming down I’ll try to help you.”
“Tell me first what manner of creature ye be. Tell me truly by the power of the Cross.”
“I’m just a girl who doesn’t like people breaking into her house and pitching their religion at her,” I said. “Especially when they erupt out of thin air.”
“A girl? Nay, wench. Ye are like no girl on earth. Ye dress in pants like a Tartary savage, ye’er arms are bare as sticks. Ye’er hair is shorter than mine own. Ye speak strange words in an unknown accent. And ye’ve a—a conjuring thing there in ye’er hand to summon— Copse, ye’er familiar, I doubt not. Tell me what ye truly are.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” I said, trying for calm again. “Why don’t you get down off the table and sit over there in the corner and tell me what you think is going on? ’Cause I don’t have a clue.”
“I’ll not—ye are Queen Mab, or one of her servants.”
Mab, I thought. Queen of the fairies. Mercutio talks about her in Romeo and Juliet. He thinks I’m her?
Then the table collapsed. The boy fell backwards, my little round tabletop flew out from under his feet, and his head hit the wall.
“Ow! Blessed Saint Mary, save me now,” he yelped.
“Damn it, I told you that leg was weak,” I said.
“Don’t turn me into anything,” the boy begged. “I implore you, spirit, or fairy, or whatever thing ye be, have mercy on a poor lost soul.”
I put the cell phone to my ear again.
“—in the order it was received—”
The boy was cowering in the corner now.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen,” he said, crossing himself a couple of times.
Well, at least I had him off the table and into the corner.
“Sit. Stay,” I commanded, like he was a dog, and pointed the phone at him.
He whimpered and drew his knees up to his chest.
One of the things Dad always said about dealing with crazy people was that, before you could help them, you had to find out what reality they were living in.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have mercy on you, I promise.”
“Swear you will not turn me into a toad or other loathsome creature,” the boy said.
“I swear not to turn you into anything. Now, my name’s Miranda. What’s yours?”
“Edmund’s me name.”
“Fine,” I said. “Now, where are you from, Edmund? And how did you get here?” My voice was getting calmer. Almost like Dad’s shrink voice. He would have been proud of me.
“London,” he said. “Though as ye can tell from me accent I’m not born there.”
“Actually, I wouldn’t have known that,” I said. “Where are you from originally?”
“Warwickshire, of course.”
“Okay. And who’s this Doctor Dee?”
“As I told ye, Doctor John Dee is the greatest man in England. A mighty mind that knows everything, a valiant heart that dares everything, even the darkest depths of knowledge. Cousin of the queen, friend of all the greats of England. Ye must know of him!”
“Nope. Never heard of him,” I said, kind of amazed he expected me to know some guy half-across the world. “But go on. Tell me what he has to do with you.”
“We were in his secret rooms in Cheapside…. Doctor Dee was casting a spell. A necromancy.” He crossed himself again. “Greatly have we offended. Thus am I punished. Oh, my God, have mercy.”
“Just get back to your story,” I said slowly and calmly. “What’s a necro—what you said?”
“We meant to raise the ghost of Helen of Troy,” he said. “For Doctor Dee, necromancy remains the last great thing undone. He wished to question her about the Iliad. To know how truly it depicted the battles. For me—fool that I am, I wanted to see Helen. To see ‘the face that launched a thousand ships and burned the topless towers of Ilium.’ ’Twas why I addressed ye in Greek at first.”
I was actually calming down a little. And because I was, my legs started shaking really bad. “Edmund, I’m going to sit down now. Don’t be afraid.”
He didn’t say anything.
I sat down beside the broken table. That felt better.
There’s a quick test they give you to find out if you’re crazy or not. If you’re ever taken to the hospital unconscious they’ll give it to you when you wake up. Here it goes.
“Edmund, I’m going to ask you five questions. Real easy ones, okay?”
“What means ‘okay’?”
“Okay? It doesn’t mean anything. I mean, it means a lot of things. It just means okay, okay?”
“I’ll not answer any more questions of yours, save you answer as many questions of mine,” he said.
“Okay,” I said. “In this case, that means ‘yes.’ Okay?”
“Yes. Okay.”
“First question. What’s your name?”
“Edmund Shakeshaft,” he said.
“Almost like the writer.”
“Writer?” he said, as if he didn’t know the word.
“Never mind. You’re Edmund Shakeshaft. Fine. Second question. What country is this?”
“I’ve never a notion,” Edmund said. “What country is this?”
I decided to tell him. “The United States of America.”
“The what of America?”
“Let’s go on,” I said. “You can ask your questions next. Third question. What year is this?”
“1597.”
“Fourth question. What day is this?”
“’Tis the Ides of March,” he said.
“Which is what day of what month?” I said.
“’Tis March the fifteent’, o’course, or a day on either side.”
Maybe it was the Ides of March where he’d been, but here it was the beginning of May.
“One more question,” I said, knowing it would make no sense to him. “Who’s the president of the United States?”
“Who is the what of the what?”
“That’s good, Edmund. We’re done. Now you get five questions.”
Edmund shifted a little. He was getting a bit more comfortable, too.
“First question.