safer.”
Then he seemed to remember that I couldn’t move around that way.
“You’d better use the fire escape.”
Everything he’d told me came as a surprise. I knew the kind of magic he could conjure. What was capable of making him that nervous? I thought about it on the way up, and didn’t like the answers that I got. Willets might be an outsider, but he’d taught himself the use of magic in his first months here. He’d turned out to have a natural aptitude for it. And by this time he was, for all his shortcomings and foibles, one of the strongest sorcerers in town. Most adepts can’t cure injuries or wounds, for instance. But Willets could.
Whatever had spooked him, it had to be something really serious. If he’d felt obliged to alter his habits, then everyone had cause to worry.
He had been, back in the normal world, a researcher of the paranormal. That was what had brought him here. The curse had not deterred him. And once he had arrived, he had learned witchcraft so quickly that—for a while—it had sent him on a downward spiral into pure dementia.
He was no longer that way. Dotty, yes. Unpredictable, sure. But insane, like in those early days? It was better not to think about it.
I reached another door at the top. And when I let myself through, trumpet music washed around me. It was very dim in here. Not that he had covered up the windows. He’d simply made them go opaque. The holes in the glass too, which seemed impossible. But not for Willets, apparently. I hung back while my eyes adjusted.
He’d lived underground for so long that he couldn’t abide direct sunlight. He seemed to have left most of his possessions downstairs. The big leather-bound volumes on the subject of arcana. And the old-fashioned iron kettle that he usually kept on the boil. His folding bed was here, though—he’d already sat back down on it. And at the center of the room was the source of the music. A matt black plinth with a turntable on top, the one thing left in the whole world he really seemed to care about. There was no other equipment, not even speakers. The chords lifted straight off the vinyl and then floated up into the air.
You could feel the power rising off him. As he came into clearer view, I could see that he was dressed in his habitual serge pants and tweed jacket. He didn’t even look at me. His chin was resting on his knuckles, and his features were intense and furrowed as he drank the music in.
“When there’s something genuinely bothering me,” he told me, still not looking up, “I always find myself going back to Miles. He soothes me like no one else can. This was recorded at the Blackhawk Club in San Francisco, April 1961. I went there once. A lovely city. Probably still is.”
He came from South Carolina himself, although he’d been a lecturer at Boston U. But it was rare for him to mention the outside world at all. So he was in a peculiar mood this morning.
His eyelids slipped shut, and he waited for the final chords of “Love, I’ve Found You” to slip away. Then he raised his right hand slightly, gave a gentle click of his fingertips. The turntable and plinth both vanished. And a canvas chair—for my benefit—appeared on the same spot.
As I settled down, I noticed something else. He’d only been up here a few hours. But small creatures had already started gathering around him. Spiders were spinning brand-new webs off in the corners. A few mice were watching him over by the skirting board. A pigeon had got in somehow, and was eyeing him from a rafter. That was the way it was, with the good doctor. His power was so massive that it captured everything’s attention.
It has to be pointed out, he used it very sparingly these days. When he first became deranged, you see, he’d tried to spread his newfound powers to the other people in this town. An act of charity, to his mind. Twelve had died as a result. Which was why he now lived where he did, completely on his own. He couldn’t
Then he seemed to remember that I couldn’t move around that way.
“You’d better use the fire escape.”
Everything he’d told me came as a surprise. I knew the kind of magic he could conjure. What was capable of making him that nervous? I thought about it on the way up, and didn’t like the answers that I got. Willets might be an outsider, but he’d taught himself the use of magic in his first months here. He’d turned out to have a natural aptitude for it. And by this time he was, for all his shortcomings and foibles, one of the strongest sorcerers in town. Most adepts can’t cure injuries or wounds, for instance. But Willets could.
Whatever had spooked him, it had to be something really serious. If he’d felt obliged to alter his habits, then everyone had cause to worry.
He had been, back in the normal world, a researcher of the paranormal. That was what had brought him here. The curse had not deterred him. And once he had arrived, he had learned witchcraft so quickly that—for a while—it had sent him on a downward spiral into pure dementia.
He was no longer that way. Dotty, yes. Unpredictable, sure. But insane, like in those early days? It was better not to think about it.
I reached another door at the top. And when I let myself through, trumpet music washed around me. It was very dim in here. Not that he had covered up the windows. He’d simply made them go opaque. The holes in the glass too, which seemed impossible. But not for Willets, apparently. I hung back while my eyes adjusted.
He’d lived underground for so long that he couldn’t abide direct sunlight. He seemed to have left most of his possessions downstairs. The big leather-bound volumes on the subject of arcana. And the old-fashioned iron kettle that he usually kept on the boil. His folding bed was here, though—he’d already sat back down on it. And at the center of the room was the source of the music. A matt black plinth with a turntable on top, the one thing left in the whole world he really seemed to care about. There was no other equipment, not even speakers. The chords lifted straight off the vinyl and then floated up into the air.
You could feel the power rising off him. As he came into clearer view, I could see that he was dressed in his habitual serge pants and tweed jacket. He didn’t even look at me. His chin was resting on his knuckles, and his features were intense and furrowed as he drank the music in.
“When there’s something genuinely bothering me,” he told me, still not looking up, “I always find myself going back to Miles. He soothes me like no one else can. This was recorded at the Blackhawk Club in San Francisco, April 1961. I went there once. A lovely city. Probably still is.”
He came from South Carolina himself, although he’d been a lecturer at Boston U. But it was rare for him to mention the outside world at all. So he was in a peculiar mood this morning.
His eyelids slipped shut, and he waited for the final chords of “Love, I’ve Found You” to slip away. Then he raised his right hand slightly, gave a gentle click of his fingertips. The turntable and plinth both vanished. And a canvas chair—for my benefit—appeared on the same spot.
As I settled down, I noticed something else. He’d only been up here a few hours. But small creatures had already started gathering around him. Spiders were spinning brand-new webs off in the corners. A few mice were watching him over by the skirting board. A pigeon had got in somehow, and was eyeing him from a rafter. That was the way it was, with the good doctor. His power was so massive that it captured everything’s attention.
It has to be pointed out, he used it very sparingly these days. When he first became deranged, you see, he’d tried to spread his newfound powers to the other people in this town. An act of charity, to his mind. Twelve had died as a result. Which was why he now lived where he did, completely on his own. He couldn’t
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