Sorcerer's Moon

When he heard the screams, Carnaday stopped walking. A fist closed about his heart. He stood perfectly still, waiting, sure that the end had come and that he had lost. The screams grew louder, raking across his eardrums like angry claws. He forced himself to look up.

"Damn!"

He sighed. Two crows. Just that. Two crows, on a telephone pole, fighting. And what else could it have been? He cursed again and wiped the cold film of perspiration from his face. Why should he be afraid? It was Farrow who ought to be worrying now, if only the fool knew.

He watched the crows till one shot up and out of sight, defeated; then he hurried on. The episode contained no symbolism. Although in his time, which was now approaching 400 years, he had fetched corpses back to life, turned lead into gold, and visited the moon, Simon Carnaday was nevertheless a skeptic at heart. What he did not understand, and he understood a great deal more than most people, he did not believe. Symbolism, to him, was nonsense. Psychiatry, though, was worse. Which compounded Farrow's insult, made it insupportable, the last, the final straw.

As he strode down the dingy street, his shoe leather (continued on page 85)Sorcerer's Moon(continued from page 35) grinding the dark coat of soot and cinders, Carnaday recalled again that monstrous conversation; and again it made his blood run hot. He could see Farrow's vulpine face, hear his soft mocking voice ...

"Really, Simon, you ought to see a good psychiatrist. I'm quite serious. This persecution complex of yours is beginning to worry me.''

"It isn't a complex. It's a fact. I am being persecuted, and by you."

"Oh, nonsense! Be reasonable, Simon: why should I want to persecute you? For what purpose? I have everything I want -- and so, for that matter, do you. Riches, comfort, eternal life. What could I possibly gain?"

"The one thing you don't have."

"Which is?"

"Distinction, Farrow. Distinction. We're the only two warlocks left on Earth, but that's one too many for you, isn't it? It upsets you. It gnaws at you. If I were a little less powerful, then it wouldn't be so bad. You'd at least have seniority. But our power is equal. And you can't stand it."

"Simon, Simon -- what can I say? You're being absurd."

"Am I? Yesterday a car missed me by less than an inch. The day before, I nearly stepped into a manhole. Accidents, Farrow?"

"Of course! I mean, give me some credit, old man. If I were really trying to do away with you. do you suppose I'd go about it so crudely?"

"Well -- --"

"Believe me, Simon, what you need is psychiatric treatment. We may be sorcerers, but we're human, too, don't forget that. I'll find a good man, someone to trust, and send you his address ..."

The letter had arrived the following day. But it had not contained an address.

Carnaday took the rune from his pocket and glared at it. Just a piece of parchment, with strange runic markings scrawled across its surface; yet it was a more powerful, a surer instrument of destruction than all the silly bombs in the world. "Damn Farrow!" he said, superfluously -- they were, of course, both damned in any case -- but then he remembered his cleverness and smiled once more. For a while, he'd been numbed with panic. The rune had given him three days, and he had tried desperately to pass it back, always without success. Farrow shrewdly resisted all attempts. He did not accept telegrams or special delivery letters. He did not respond to shouts of "Fire!" He did not touch papers. He stayed inside. And the time had drawn nearer, and nearer. Then Carnaday had had his inspiration, and he felt that all would now be well.

He walked up the evil-smelling, rickety staircase and opened the cracked door.

"Mr. Bryan?"

A bald, thin, tiny-eyed man with dewlaps squinted through a haze of cigarette smoke. "Yeah," he said.

"My name is Carnaday. I called."

"Yeah."

"Let us be frank. I've heard, Mr. Bryan, that you are one of the best private detectives in the state and that as a process server you recognize no peer. If that is true, then you stand to make a fair amount of money for a few hours' work. If it isn't true, we are wasting our time."

The thin man shrugged, blinked, exhaled.

"Well?"

"Put it this way, Jack. I been in business 25 years. You stay in business 25 years, you ain't exactly inexperienced. Check-o?"

"A good point. But, please be honest with me. In your capacity as process server, have you ever ... failed?"

"Not yet."

Carnaday frowned. "This job," he said, "will be difficult."

The thin man smirked. "Tell you something, Jack. They're all difficult. All these bastards, they try to give you the dodge." He laughed, harshly. "But I know the tricks. I know tricks they never even thought of. In the end, I get 'em."

Carnaday rubbed his hands together. "Excellent. Then you'll work for me?"

"I work for anybody, any time."

"Yes; but there is one catch, Mr. Bryan. The paper must be delivered -- personally, into the party's hands -- before midnight tonight. That is absolutely essential. Can you do it?"

Bryan shrugged.

Carnaday placed five 100-dollar bills on the glass-top desk. "Can you do it?" he repeated.

The thin man stared at the bills, then he put them into his pocket. "Let's have the paper," he said.

Carnaday took a last look at the markings on the rune. He inserted the parchment into an envelope and handed it, along with Farrow's address, to the private detective. "You will find him at home," he said. "I'll wait here."

Bryan nodded and went out.

Carnaday leaned back in the chair. He prayed to the daemons of the Outer Circle, then to those of the Inner Circle, and, finally, to each of the Black Powers. He walked to the window and raised it and stared at the moon, which was low and close, like a giant eye.

Nine o'clock came and went. Then 10. At 11, Carnaday began to perspire. He knocked his hands together and paced, glaring at the moon.

Then the cracked door opened and the private detective walked in.

"Well?" croaked Carnaday, in a choked whisper.

The thin man grinned. "I thought you said it was gonna be difficult."

"It -- wasn't?"

"Nah. A cinch. He played cute awhile, but then I gave him Routine Six. Routine Six always works."

Carnaday felt weary with relief. For the first time, he was pleased at Farrow's low opinion of his intelligence. It allowed him to catch the fool off guard. Hiring a process server to cast a rune -- could there be a grander joke? He glanced again at the moon, which seemed closer and lower, and started out of the office.

"Just a second."

Carnaday turned around. "Yes? What is it?"

The detective smiled and pressed an envelope swiftly into the sorcerer's hands. "You forgot your receipt. For the five bills."

"Oh." Carnaday nodded, turned and got nearly to the door before his heart congealed into a hard icy knot. He tore the envelope apart. He looked at its contents.

"Like I told you," said Bryan, shrugging. "I work for anybody, any time."

Then, slowly, suggestively, the moon outside the window blinked.