The Night of Wishes, Page 2

  “What do you mean?” screamed Preposteror. “His Excellency has to understand. It’s in his own best interests. After all, I’m no magician. That is to say, of course I am, but there are limits—especially time limits—even for me. And what’s the terrible rush, anyway? The end of the world is nigh, in any case—we’re well on our way. One or two years more or less aren’t going to make such a difference.”

  “I mean,” said Mr. Maggot, responding to Preposteror’s initial question with icy courtesy, “that you have been warned. At the stroke of midnight, at the turn of the year, I shall return. Those are my orders. Should you not have fulfilled your contractual quota of evildoing by then . . .”

  “What then?”

  “Then, my dear Shadow Sorcery Minister,” said Mr. Maggot, “you can count on a personal foreclosure ex officio. I wish you a merry New Year’s Eve.”

  “Wait,” cried Preposteror. “One more thing, please, Mr. Slug . . . uh . . . Mr. Maggot . . .”

  But the visitor had vanished.

  The sorcerer sank down in his armchair, removed his thick glasses, and covered his face with his hands. If black magicians could cry he certainly would have done so. But only a few dry kernels of salt trickled from his eyes.

  “What to do?” he croaked. “By all the test tubes and tortures, what to do?”

  Magic—be it good or bad—is no simple matter. Most amateurs think that all you have to do is murmur some secret hocus-pocus—at the very most it might be necessary to wave around a magic wand like a conductor—and presto, the metamorphosis or conjuring is achieved.

  But that’s not all there is to it. In reality, every kind of magic is incredibly complicated; one needs an enormous amount of knowledge, masses of paraphernalia, material that is, for the most part, very hard to obtain, as well as days, and sometimes months, of preparation. Plus the fact that it is always an extremely dangerous business, for even the slightest mistake can have a totally unforeseeable effect.

  With flowing dressing gown, Beelzebub Preposteror ran through the rooms and corridors of his house in desperate search of a means for his salvation. But he knew only too well that it was already too late for everything. He moaned and sighed like a wretched ghost, all the while delivering a mumbled soliloquy. His steps reverberated in the silence of the house.

  He was no longer able to fulfill his contract and now cared only about saving his own skin by hiding from the hellish bailiff, somehow or somewhere.

  Of course, he could turn into something else, into a rat, for example, or a common snowman—or into a field of electromagnetic oscillations (whereby he would, however, be visible as a picture disturbance on all the television screens in town), but he knew very well that he could not thus hoodwink the emissary of His Hellish Excellency, who would recognize him in every form or shape.

  And it was just as pointless to escape somewhere far away, to the Sahara Desert or the North Pole or the mountaintops of Tibet, for spatial distances made no difference at all to this visitor. For a moment the sorcerer even considered hiding in the town cathedral, behind the altar or in the steeple, but he immediately dropped the idea since it seemed in no way certain to him that hellish officials have any difficulties nowadays walking in and out of churches as they please.

  Preposteror rushed through the library, where ancient tomes and brand-new periodicals stood row upon row. He skimmed over the titles on the leather spines of the books, including The Abolition of Conscience, A Manual for the Pollution of Fountains, and The Encyclopedic Dictionary of Curses and Spells—but there was nothing that could be of use to him in his dire straits.

  He hurried on from room to room.

  The Villa Nightmare was a huge, dark box, full of little cockeyed towers, steeples, and bays on the outside and of irregularly shaped rooms, crooked corridors, rickety stairs, and cobweb-covered vaults on the inside—exactly the way you would imagine a proper haunted house to be. Preposteror himself had originally designed the plans of this house, for in matters of architecture his taste was entirely conservative. During moments of high spirits he often called the villa his “cozy little home.” But at the moment he was far removed from such jest.

  He was now in a long, dark corridor, the walls of which were covered with high shelves filled with hundreds and thousands of large preserving jars. This was the collection he had offered to show Mr. Maggot and which he called his “natural history museum.” In each of these jars was an imprisoned elemental spirit. There were all manner of dwarfs, brownies, miniature hobgoblins, and flower elves alongside nymphs, little mermaids with colorful fish tails, tiny water sprites and sylphs, and even a few fire spirits called salamanders who had been hiding in Preposteror’s chimney. All the jars were neatly labeled with a precise description of the contents, as well as the date of imprisonment.

  The creatures sat motionless in their prisons, for the sorcerer had put them under continual hypnosis. He woke them up only occasionally, to carry out his cruel experiments on them.

  Incidentally, among them was a particularly hideous little monster, a so-called book grump, also known in common parlance as a smartass or nitpicker. These little spirits normally spend their lives grumping about books. Research has not yet determined with any certainty why such creatures exist at all and the sorcerer himself was only keeping him in order to get to the bottom of it through lengthy observation. He had been fairly certain that the spirits could somehow be used for his purposes, but now they no longer interested him. It was only habit that prompted him, in passing, to knock here and there on a jar with his knuckles. Not a thing stirred.

  Eventually he arrived at a certain small bay room, on the door of which was written:

  VIRTUOSO MAURICIO DI MAURO

  The little chamber was furnished with every luxury a spoiled cat could desire. There were several old pieces of upholstered furniture for sharpening one’s claws, and balls of wool and other toys lay all around. On a small, low table stood a saucer with sweet cream, and several others with all kinds of appetizing tidbits; there was even a mirror at cat’s-eye level, in front of which one could clean and admire oneself. And the crowning touch was a cozy little basket in the form of a small four-poster canopy bed with blue velvet cushions and curtains.

  In this small bed lay a fat little tomcat, all curled up and fast asleep. Perhaps the word “fat” is not quite sufficient, for he was, in point of fact, as round as a ball. Since his fur was three-tone—rusty-brown, black, and white—he looked rather like a ridiculously spotted, overstuffed sofa pillow with four somewhat short legs and a pitiful tail.

  When Mauricio had arrived here by secret order of the High Council of Animals more than a year ago, he had been ill and mangy and so emaciated that you could count his ribs one by one. At first he had pretended to the sorcerer that he was simply a stray; a very clever plan, he thought. When he noticed, however, that he not only was not chased away but instead was spoiled beyond all measure, he very quickly forgot his mission. Soon he was literally captivated by the sorcerer. Of course, Mauricio was quite easily carried away—most of all by anyone who flattered him and whose life-style fit his notion of refinement.

  “We members of high society quite simply know what counts,” he had frequently explained to the sorcerer. “Even in poverty we keep our standards up to par.”

  This was one of his favorite expressions, although he did not quite know what it actually meant.

  And a few weeks later he had told the sorcerer: “You may at first have taken me for quite an ordinary stray. I do not bear you a grudge for that. How could you have suspected that, in fact, I stem from an ancient lineage of knights. There were also many famous singers in the di Mauro family. You may not believe it, since my voice is a little brittle at the moment”—indeed, it sounded more like a frog’s than a cat’s—“but I, too, used to be a famous minnesinger and melted the proudest of hearts with my love songs. My ancestors came from Naples, home to all truly great singers, as is well known. Our coat of arms read ‘Beauty an
d Audacity,’ and the one or the other applied to every member of my clan. But then I fell ill. Nearly all the cats in the area where I lived fell ill all of a sudden. At least those who had eaten fish. And well-bred cats just happen to prefer eating fish. But the fish was poisonous because the river whence it came was polluted. That is how I lost my wonderful voice. Almost all the others died. My whole family is now in Kitty Heaven with the Great Tom.”

  Preposteror had feigned great distress, although he knew only too well why the river was polluted. He had displayed the deepest compassion for Mauricio; he even called him a “tragic hero.” This had pleased the little cat no end.

  “If you want me to and trust me”—these had been the sorcerer’s words—“I will restore you to health and give you back your voice. I will find a proper medication for you. But you will have to have patience, it will take time. And above all, you must do what I tell you. Agreed?”

  Naturally Mauricio agreed. From that day on, he referred to Preposteror only as his “dear Maestro.” He barely remembered the commission of the High Council of Animals.

  Of course, he had no idea that, because of his black mirror and other magic means of information, Beelzebub Preposteror had long known why the cat had been sent to his home. And the Shadow Sorcery Minister had immediately decided to exploit Mauricio’s small foible in order to render him harmless in a way which would not raise the cat’s suspicions in the least. Indeed, the little cat felt as if he was in the land of milk and honey. He ate and slept, and slept and ate, and got fatter and more and more comfortable, and had, in the meantime, even become too lazy to catch mice.

  Still, nobody can sleep for weeks and months without interruption, not even a cat. And so Mauricio had risen once in a while, after all, and roamed through the house on his stubby legs, with a paunch which by now almost touched the floor. Preposteror had to be constantly on guard lest the cat catch him at one of his evil conjurings. And this had put him in his present, desperate situation.

  Now he stood before the little canopy bed and lowered his bloodthirsty gaze on the snoring ball of dappled fluff which lay upon the velvet pillows.

  “Cursed son of a tomcat,” he whispered, “it’s all your fault.”

  The little cat began purring in his sleep.

  “If I have to go down,” Preposteror murmured, “then at least I’ll have the satisfaction of wringing your neck first.”

  His long, knobby fingers twitched toward the neck of Mauricio, who turned on his back without waking, stretching his paws and luxuriously exposing his throat.

  The sorcerer pulled back. “No,” he said softly, “it won’t do me any good—and besides, there will be time for that later.”

  A short time later, the sorcerer was back in his laboratory, writing at his desk by the glow of a lamp.

  He had decided to make a will.

  In a florid and hurried hand, he had already written:

  My Last Will and Testament

  I, Beelzebub Preposteror, Shadow Sorcery Minister, Professor, Ph.D., and so on and so forth, being of sound mind and body, and one hundred and eighty-seven years, one month, and two weeks of age on this day . . . do hereby bequeath . . .

  He paused and chewed on the tip of his fountain pen, which wrote with blue cyanide instead of ink.

  “Quite a ripe old age,” he muttered, “but still much too young for the likes of me—much too young to go to hell, in any case.”

  His aunt, the witch, was almost three hundred but still extremely active professionally.

  He gave a start when the little cat suddenly sprang onto the desk and yawned, daintily curling his tongue, thoroughly stretching himself front and back, and sneezing heartily a few times.

  “Phooey,” he meowed. “What’s that terrible stench?”

  He sat down right on the will and began cleaning himself.

  “Has our virtuoso had a good night?” the sorcerer asked testily, shooing him aside with a less than gentle hand.

  “I don’t know,” complained Mauricio. “I’m terribly tired all the time. I really don’t know why. Have we had any company?”

  “Not a soul,” growled the sorcerer in an unfriendly manner, “and don’t bother me now. I’ve got work to do and it’s very urgent.”

  Mauricio sniffed the air. “But it smells so funny. Some stranger has been here.”

  “Nonsense,” said Preposteror. “You’re imagining things. Now be quiet.”

  The cat began washing his face with his paws, but suddenly he stopped and stared wide-eyed at the sorcerer. “What’s the matter, dear Maestro? You look so terribly depressed.”

  Preposteror dismissed this with a nervous wave of his hand. “Nothing is the matter. Now be so good as to leave me in peace, understand?”

  But Mauricio did not. Quite the contrary, he sat back down on the will, rubbed his head against the sorcerer’s hand, and purred softly. “I can well imagine why you’re sad, Maestro. Here you are all alone, without a friend in the world, on this night, on New Year’s Eve, when all the world is making merry. I feel so sorry for you.”

  “I’m not all the world,” snarled Preposteror.

  “That is true,” agreed the little cat. “You’re a genius and a great benefactor of both man and beast. And the truly great are always lonely. I ought to know. But would you not perhaps like to step out for just a little bit and have some fun? It would surely do you a world of good.”

  “A typically prepussterous idea,” answered the sorcerer, who was getting more irritated by the minute. “I don’t like merrymaking.”

  “But, Maestro,” continued Mauricio eagerly, “don’t they say joy shared is joy doubled?”

  Preposteror brought his hand down with a bang on the table. “It has been scientifically proven,” he said sharply, “that a share of something is always less than the whole. And I don’t share with anybody, remember that!”

  “Will do,” answered the startled cat. And then added, in a flattering tone of voice, “After all, you’ve got me.”

  “Indeed,” growled the sorcerer, “you’re all I need.”

  “Truly?” asked Mauricio happily. “Am I all you need?”

  Preposteror snorted impatiently. “Now be gone with you! Beat it! Go to your room! I have some thinking to do. I’ve got worries.”

  “Could I perhaps be of some help in any way, dear Maestro?” inquired the little cat assiduously.

  The sorcerer moaned and rolled his eyes. “Oh, well,” he sighed, “if you insist, then stir potion No. 92 in that cauldron over the fire. But take care that you don’t doze off again, or who knows what will happen.”

  Mauricio sprang down from the table, scurried over to the fireplace on his short stubby legs, and grasped the wand of mountain crystal with his front paws.

  “Must be a very important remedy,” he conjectured as he began stirring gently. “Is it perhaps the medication for my voice that you have sought so long?”

  “Will you shut up now!” the sorcerer snapped at him.

  “Yes, Maestro,” Mauricio answered obediently.

  It was quiet for a long while. The only sound was the blowing of the snowstorm around the house.

  “Maestro,” the little cat ventured, almost whisperingly. “Maestro, there is something I must get off my chest.”

  Since Preposteror did not answer, but only leaned his head on his hand with an exhausted gesture, Mauricio continued a little louder: “I must confess something to you which has been weighing on my conscience for a long time.”

  “Conscience.” Preposteror screwed up his mouth. “What do you know, even cats have one.”

  “Oh, very much so,” Mauricio assured him solemnly. “Perhaps not every cat, but I do for sure. I come from noble stock, after all.”

  The sorcerer leaned back and closed his eyes with an expression of suffering on his face.

  “You see,” explained Mauricio haltingly, “I am not what I appear to be.”

  “Who is,” said Preposteror ambiguously.

 
The cat continued stirring. He stared into the black brew. “All the time that I’ve been here I’ve kept something from you, Maestro. And I am frightfully ashamed because of it. That is why I’ve decided to confess everything to you on this special evening.”

  The sorcerer opened his eyes and studied Mauricio through his thick glasses. His lips twitched with irony, but the little cat did not notice.

  “You know better than anyone, Maestro, that bad things are happening all over the world. More and more creatures are taking ill, more and more trees are dying, and more and more bodies of water are polluted. This is why we, the animals, called a big meeting quite a while ago, a secret one, of course, and decided to find out who or what is the cause of all this misery. To this purpose our High Council dispatched secret agents everywhere who were supposed to observe what is really going on. And that is how I came to you, dear Maestro—to spy on you.”

  He paused and looked with big glowing eyes at the sorcerer. “Believe me,” he went on, “it was very difficult for me, Maestro, for this activity does not suit my noble nature. I did it because I had to. It was my duty to the other animals.”

  He paused again and then added meekly, “Are you very angry with me?”

  “Don’t stop stirring!” said the sorcerer, who had trouble stifling a giggle, despite his gloomy mood.

  “Can you forgive me, Maestro?”

  “It’s all right, Mauricio, I forgive you. Let’s let bygones be bygones!”

  “Oh,” the little cat sighed, deeply moved, “what a noble heart! As soon as I’ve recovered and am no longer so tired, I’ll drag myself to the High Council of Animals and report what a good soul you are. That is my solemn promise to you for the New Year.”

  These last words pitched the sorcerer into a bad mood again immediately.

  “Stop with the sob stuff!” he bellowed hoarsely. “It gets on my nerves.”

  Mauricio kept silent, flabbergasted. He could find no explanation for his Maestro’s sudden rudeness.