Borrower of the Night: The First Vicky Bliss Mystery by Elizabeth Peters Page B

could determine, the others had done the same. I could have sworn no one in the circle was exerting enough pressure on the planchette to move it.
    It moved again. Rocking unsteadily, it shifted toward the side of the circle.
    Miss Burton’s voice was hoarse with excitement.
    “Is there a spirit present?”
    At opposite sides of the circle of alphabet cards were two cards bearing the words “yes” and “no.” The planchette sidled across the table and nudged the “yes” card.
    Someone gave a little gasp.
    “Quiet!” hissed Miss Burton. “Do you wish to communicate with someone here?”
    The planchette edged coyly away, and then, with a swoop, again pushed the “yes” card.
    “What is your name?”
    The diabolical little wooden triangle teetered out into the center of the table. It hesitated. Then it moved purposefully around the alphabet cards.
    “K-O-N——”
    My elbows ached. I watched the animated chunk of wood with horrid fascination as it bobbed and dipped around the “N” card, scraping back and forth in painful little jerks. I realized that I was mentally describing its actions with words I would have used for a living creature. It seemed to be alive, to be directed by a guiding intelligence.
    After an uncanny suggestion of struggle, the planchette slid slowly toward the “no” card. “No” — then “no” again — then it gave a violent heave — upward , against six sets of fingertips. It fell over and lay still. I felt as if something had died.
    “What the hell,” George began.
    “Hush,” said Miss Burton solemnly. “There is conflict — a hostile entity….”
    The candle needed trimming. The room was noticeably darker. The other faces were dim white blurs. I rubbed my elbows, and wondered how much practice it would take to manipulate a planchette unobstrusively. It could be done. It had been done, in thousands of fake séances. Maybe it didn’t require practice. I mused, ignorantly, on the eccentricities of the subconscious.
    “This is a very strange thing,” Schmidt began, and then gasped. “Look — the young countess!”
    Irma had fallen back in her chair, arms dangling at her sides. I could hear her breathing in low, deep sighs. It was a horrible sound.
    Blankenhagen got to his feet.
    “Don’t touch her!” Miss Burton’s voice stopped the doctor as he reached for Irma’s wrist. “She is in trance. If you try to waken her, it could be disastrous. Let me handle this. Irma — can you hear me?”
    There was no answer. The doctor looked from Miss Burton to the unconscious girl. Miss Burton took a deep breath and said distinctly, “Who are you?”
    For a few seconds there was only silence. Then, from the sleeping girl’s mouth, came a voice speaking a strange garble of words. It sounded like German, but it was a form of the language I had never heard. Or…had I? It sounded vaguely familiar.
    Then, for the first time, my hair literally bristled. I had heard the language before, when a visiting professor of Germanic literature read some of the Meistergesang of the sixteenth century in their original form. Irma was speaking Frühneuhochdeutsch — the earliest form of modern German, the language used by Martin Luther and his contemporaries.
    Miss Burton scribbled like a maniac, taking the speech down in phonetic symbols. Her cold-blooded competence was repulsive.
    The voice — I couldn’t think of it as Irma’s — stopped.
    “Why have you come?” Miss Burton asked.
    This time, prepared, I caught some of the answer. I didn’t like what I heard. Tony understood, too; his breath caught angrily, and he pushed his chair back.
    “This has gone far enough,” he began, and was cut short by the scream that ripped from Irma’s throat. The next words were horribly clear.
    “ Das Feuer! Das Feuer !” She shrieked, and slid sideways out of her chair.
    Blankenhagen caught her before she hit the floor.
    That broke up the séance. Miss Burton moved about lighting candles. Her