That was why we had so few dark magicians! No one in his right mind would agree to such a travesty—if he had a choice, of course. From this reasoning followed a sad conclusion that all those present, except for me, were insane.
Mr. Rakshat wasn’t particularly spiteful with me, but he did not improve my mood; perhaps, I was the only dark in the university’s history who fell into the autumn depression. My finances were dwindling like golden leaves falling off trees; it didn’t matter how frugal I was; money could not multiply in the absence of income. Add to that the cost of supplies, essential for a novice magician, payment to the “chatterbox”—my answering service, a fine for the violation of municipal bylaws (for drinking with Quarters), and you will understand that I was on the rocks long before the foliage had flown off.
My mulishness did not allow me to ask for help from the family. I had already borrowed from Ron and a few other friends with the promise to pay it back at the end of the month. Students were short of money after summer vacations and lent with reluctance. The day that I went to bed hungry for the first time in my life inevitably came. That fact impressed me deeply. No room left to maneuver; reluctantly, I set a date for an appointment at Gugentsolger’s Bank and tried to figure how much money they would snooker from me. Apparently, I would give them back twice as much as I would borrow.
The first call came at the peak of my desperation.
The “chatterbox” handed me a piece of paper with the address and name of the client.
“I said that your next free day would be Saturday, and they didn’t mind. I don’t know what you’re gonna do, but good luck to you.”
I laid out a course on the map and was making a detailed plan of the campaign all of Friday; a trip through the fields and communication with the client needed to be thoroughly prepared for. That day I ate only two pies stolen from a freshman’s bag (shame on me); hence, I approached the preparation with the uttermost care.
My bitter experience suggested that it was not enough to be a dark magician—you ought to look like one. So when I approached the farm gate, I was dressed in a shiny black raincoat (on a perfectly clear day), official business attire from a rental shop, and wore black dance shoes (brand new; it was a gift from my mother on admission to the university). That was exactly how a classic dark mage should look. One my hand played with a bunch of keys from storage lockers with a shiny nickel-plated pendant shaped like a car, another held a spacious gripsack, borrowed from the university’s amateur theater. Let people think that I came here by car rather than guess that I walked ten miles from the station!
A little girl sat on the grass before the gate and played with a rag doll.
“Good afternoon,” I hissed coldly, “how can I find Mr. Larsen?”
She squeaked and ran away. A minute later a middle-aged gentleman in traditional farmer clothes (plaid shirt, homespun overalls) came out from the house (I suspected an uninitiated white mage in him). He looked at me childishly, with a mixture of fear and admiration. “Wow! A genuine dark magician!”
I smiled sternly and condescendingly, imitating the most hostile teacher from my school, and then demonstrated a silver business card with my initials and indistinct logo (I had a whole five of them with me).
“Have you called our firm?”
“Yes!” he breathed out, stunned.
“‘Neklot & Sons’: we will solve all your problems!” I proudly announced. “I understand that you believe your house is cursed. Can I take a look around?”
“Yes, yes, of course! Will you allow me to take it?” he held out his hand toward my gripsack.
With pleasure, I handed my heavy baggage to him and added strictly: “Be careful with it! Inside are my tools.”
Just one look at the interior of the house was enough to understand—this task was beyond my skill level. The supernatural was certainly present there: all corners were covered with thin black gossamer, visible on the walls in some spots and translucent on the glass. That was phoma, one of the simplest manifestations of the otherworldly, a brainless mold. It was dangerous if it struck roots—in that case it was easier to burn the house than to clean it. Almost no time remained until the moment when all isolated pockets of phoma would merge in a deadly black cocoon.
“Has anyone died already?” I tried to stay as indifferent as possible.
“No, no,” he shook his head.
Well, it would not stand true for long. In any other circumstances, I would have smiled sweetly and buzzed off, but the money wasted on renting the suit was big enough to make me cry. And then, the phoma was primitive; I knew curses to expel it (though I never used them—Chief Harlik taught me the basics, but he was not stupid enough to teach the youngster anything serious).
“Have you seen our price list?” I asked him in order to buy some time and gather my thoughts. “Have a look at it! Your case is number five.”
He took out of my hands a piece of paper filled with letters of elegant gothic font.
“Three hundred crowns?”
I shrugged, rejoicing inside: if he refused, I would retreat without losing face.
“If you are not happy with our prices, I would recommend calling the local ‘cleaning’ service.”
The farmer shook his head: “He had already been here and done nothing. Let it be three hundred! Will you do the job?”
If the local mage had been here and found nothing, he had to be burned—not as a sorcerer, but as a charlatan. So, he will not notice my mistakes and won’t be able to track me down.
Three hundred crowns…
I feigned the most disgusting smile I was capable of.
“Who do you think I am? Our company guarantees the expulsion of any dangerous phenomenon and warrants no otherworldly recurrence. Of course, if you manage to curse your house twice, we won’t be responsible for that.”
He quickly nodded: “I got it! When can you start?”
“I would like to finish everything today—I don’t really want to come this far twice. And fuel is not cheap these days…”
“Good! Is there anything you need?”
I nodded: “Remove all people, pets, and plants from the house. I will start working after the dusk, so you have time. It would be better if you stay overnight at your friends’ place.”
All inhabitants of the house (there were many) sprang into motion. The farmer harnessed two heavy carthorses into a hefty three-axis cart. Then they loaded it with everything they needed for a sleepover. Cats and kittens, puppies and dogs, rubber plants, violets, two boxes with a collection of cacti and a cage of parrots, an aquarium, and what not! A pile of pillows, embroidered by hand; a porcelain set, carefully packed in a basket; bundles of albums with pictures of family and bags of clothes—as if all of them were just waiting to be taken away. Perhaps the people subconsciously sensed the approaching crisis and were glad to get out of there at least for a short time.
Ignoring the hustle and bustle, I watched for the phoma: it was a clear day, and the otherworldly was quiet, but such violent activity would wake it up early.