A CLATTER OF IMPS

A CLATTER OF IMPS*

* from the Book of St. Albans (1486), attributed to Dame Juliana Barnes.

The hamlet of Pidley-on-Crauch evolved hand in hand with Pidley Abbey, deep in the hinterlands of the Cotswolds. Many of its oldest houses were Tudor rustic, of plastic walls and blackened beams and bundled thatched roofs. Its quaint architecture attracted enough tourists each year that the town council had blocked off its charmingly cobbled High Street to all traffic save for pedestrians. They could wander its shops and explore its black alleys and generally annoy the residents.

Maurice Bellacore, aged twenty-seven but looking years older, walked unsteadily along the street, past the ubiquitous Starbucks and a store that, by appearances, sold suits and ties to the pre-schooler set, until he found it:

LeSinistre’s Bookstore

Libri Antiqui et Esoterica

It was a narrow storefront with mullioned windows and little else to recommend it.

Celestial globes, alchemical beakers and boxes of magic wands made in China occupied a rough-hewn table at the front. Shelves to either side houses mass-produced fare — von Daniken and Childress and Madame Batavsky, and children’s books about sorcerous academies.

However, LeSinistre’s was deep. As he pressed onward, unsteady enough that one might mistake him for drunk, the books grew older — syndicate publishers and mass releases gave way to books from the turn of the century, then older still, the deeper that Bellacore penetrated, until with relief he came to a counter surrounded by incunabula and folios bound in shagreen or tooled leather.

Jules LeSinistre looked as if he’d always been expecting Bellacore. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said, bright and cheery.

“Afternoon,” he said. “I’m looking for a book.”

“Well, thank goodness,” LeSinistre said, in a breeze sort of voice, “as this just happens to be a bookstore. How may I help you?”

Bellacore, for some reason, had expected LeSinistre to wear something magical, or magic-adjacent — a pointy hat covered in stars, perhaps, or a cloak. But he wore a cardigan with leather patches at the elbows and rimless glasses. His salt-and-pepper hair needed a combing.

“I don’t suppose you have the Goetinomicon, do you?”

At that, LeSinistre leaned on the counter. “The Goetinomicon of the Turin Papyrii, sir? Described by Hippocrates and Flavius Josephus? Listed in the archives of the Library of Alexandria, its copy donated by King Solomon? On the Vatican’s Index of Banned Books? That one?”

“Yes, that Goetinomicon.”

“No, sir. Its last sighting was at a book burning in Paris in 1350, although Roger Bacon claimed to have had a copy. It’s not been seen for over six hundred years.”

“Yes, well, no mind.”

As he spoke, Bellacore, woozy, gripped the counter. He wore a carefully tailored suit and smart tie, but put on with slap-dash care, and his hair not so much combed or brushed as shoved into place.

“If you’ll pardon me, sir, you don’t look the ticket. May I ask why you want the Goetinomicon?”

As if in answer, a tiny head — human in shape — popped out of Bellacore’s left ear hole. It was red, hairless but for a carefully sculpted moustache, and bore a pair of nubbin horns sprouted from where its forehead joined the scalp.

“I say,” LeSinistre uttered, almost under his breath.

Bellacore’s response was to close his eyes.

“Pardon me, sir, but you seem to have a case of impish possession.”

“Demonic possession,” Bellacore corrected.

As he spoke, the tiny figure pulled itself out of his ear, the flesh stretching over its tiny shoulders. It was red throughout, quite naked, and bore a pair of small bat wings on its shoulderblades, and a tail out of its posterior, nearly as long as its legs and capped with a fleshy dart.

“That is an imp, I believe, sir. Ibrahim ibn-Sabbah wrote about them in his treatise on Djinn, which St. Prometheo of Lisbon translated into the Occulographico.”

“Doesn’t alter the fact that I’m possessed.”

“I’ll grant you that, sir. Do you know there are orders of demons, just as there are orders of angels? Madalena fils wrote about them in Possessio Secretorum Mahaziothum.”

The tiny figure, by now, had used the ridges of Bellacore’s ears to reach the ear lobe. It dropped to his shoulder. Bellacore paid it no mind.

“Are they of demonic origin?” he asked.

“Well, of course, sir.”

“Then Madalena fils can kiss my ass. For the sake of simplicity, we shall call it demonic possession and be done with it.”

“Of course, sir.” LeSinistre clucked his tongue. “A little matter of demonic possession, one supposes. So how did this happen to you?”

“Oh, you know, the usual thing. Faustian deal gone wrong.”

“I figured as much. Any deal with the Devil can be tricky, believe me. You have my sympathy. What were you asking for?”

“What anybody asks for — riches and the power of princes and ecclesiastics, women at the drop of a hat, no harm to come to me whether spear or pestilence, all the knowledge of the world, that sort of thing. And then, when I’d had my fill of life, I’d accompany Satan to his realm, rule at his left side, et cetera et cetera.”

“A Jeff Bezos special.”

“Something like that.”

“I suppose there was a yearly tithe as well.”

“Tread on the Sacraments, curse God and Heaven and all the Heavenly Host, blood sacrifices. Easy.”

“When was this?”

“Three weeks ago. These little bastards?” He flicked at the tiny man figure now climbing down his lapel. It dodged Bellacore’s fingers by rappelling in behind the cloth fold. “I’ve got six of these little demons, and they’re moving constantly. I’ve barely slept since then.”

“Six?”

He nodded. “And they’re constantly in and out of every orifice.” He leaned forward and emphasized, “Every orifice.”

LeSinistre winced in sympathy. “Have you tried exorcism?”

“First thing. Bloody useless. So I’m hoping to find a counter-spell, if you will. It’s well known that performing a demon-summoning or invoking the Devil, in reverse, can undo this sort of possession.”

“Why not use your own book, sir?”

“Because in performing the rite, I inadvertently burned the book.”

“Oooh, costly mistake. May I ask what book you used?”

“De Veritatibus Occultis. The Venetian edition.”

“A good book, but which edition?”

“I told you, the Venice one.”

“Of 1651 or 1662?”

“The 1662, of course. There’s two?”

“There’s your problem, sir. The 1662 is a copy of the 1651 edition. Printed by Giunta Zaravesco, whom the Prince-Bishopric of Münster described most uncharitably as a ‘poor typesetter, and illiterate to boot.’ His works are famous for their errata and misspellings.”

Bellacore nodded to himself. “Well, that’s on me, then I suppose. Do you have De Veritatibus Occultis?” As he spoke, his right nostril flared, then a head poked out.

“No, I’m afraid not.” LeSinistre’s voice remained laudably affable. “Doesn’t that hurt, sir? It looks painful.”

“Of course it hurts.”

The figure executed a balletic turn, so that it dropped feet-first down Bellacore’s upper lip. It scampered along his lip to the edge of his mouth and descended to the chin.

“Have you considered collecting them into an empty jar, sir? It won’t fix the possessive elements, of course, but this way they won’t be clambering all over you.”

In response, Bellacore slapped viciously at the tiny man-figure, which deftly avoided the palm by dropping to his necktie. It gave Bellacore the finger, then disappeared into his shirt.

“I take your point, sir.” LeSinistre chuckled. “The art of locking up devils, demons, imps and the like is quite ancient. Gervase of Tilbury wrote about it in the 13th century in De Spectribus. Gerson also mentioned —”

“Mr. LeSinistre?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Every orifice.”

“Right, sorry.”

“Do you have Albrecht Magnus’ Integumentum Mortem Praeterit Liber?”

“No, sorry, sir.”

“No matter. Jakob Boehme’s Carminography?”

“The 1682 edition?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Any edition?”

“Sorry, sir.”

“No matter. Perhaps Ex Chthonia or Magica ex Aegipticus?”

“Afraid not.”

“Prave Facti Versus de Malus? Arcana Esoterica? Communicare Mortua?”

To each of these, LeSinistre shook his head.

“You do have books on the occult, yes?”

“It’s on our sign, sir.”

Two ridges of hair on Bellacore’s scalp rose up and moved independently from each other, rather like wormsign on a distant desert planet. “Any of Ataboes’ books?”

“We have Repugnat Mortis, the 1566 Nuremberg edition.”

Bellacore brightened. “Well then, let’s have it.”

“It’s reserved, sir.”

“I’ll pay literally any price for it.”

“For a very special client, sir.”

“Any price, LeSinistre.”

“A very, very special client, sir.”

“Any, any price, LeSinistre.”

LeSinistre made a show of looking under his counter, then checked a leather volume at his elbow. “Sorry, sir. Shipped this morning.”

Bellacore tapped fingertips on the counter. “This morning.”

“You missed it by two hours, sir.”

Bellacore pursed his lips. On top of his head, the two lines of hair met, rather like Livingston and Stanley in darkest Africa.

“Ad Respondendum Quaestionibus non Positis?”

“No, sir, sorry.”

“Via Quae Occultatur?”

“Ah, Roger Bacon’s lost tome.”

“And?”

“Lost, sir.”

“Of course.” He sighed, then scratched himself. “Bélletriz’s De Magica Ars ex Aegiptica?”

“Not a popular author, sir.”

“Ad Penetrandum in Regnum Noctis?”

“Nope.”

“Fervefacit, Coquit, Laborat et Vexat?”

“Brűs Kampf-Belle’s only known work. Alas, no.”

“Ars Diavoli?”

“No, sorry.”

“Ars Occulta?”

He shook his head.

“Ars Produnda —” another head shake “— Ars Magna —” another one “— Ars Necromantica —” another “— any books with the word ‘Ars’ in its title?”

“‘Ars’ you being served?” LeSinistre chuckled at his own joke, which wound down under Bellacore’s baleful stare. “Sorry, sir. Antiquarian humor.”

“What exactly do you sell, LeSinistre?”

“Actually, we’ve had quite a run on bookbooks. Liber ex Porcina by Rouet, the 1710 edition. Le Cousine Syriac, 1801, Praescripti Rituale Graecorum, the infamous Praescripti Regula Orientalis, Chromicum Presciosum, Squilla Macerata, all best-sellers by our humble standards. Even the excitable Traitè de la Richesse des Princes. Our internet sales are through the roof.”

“Anything by Anton leVay or Alestair Crowley?”

“I don’t think they wrote cookbooks, sir.”

“Look, LeSinistre, what books on magic do you have in stock?”

“J. K. Rawling, mostly.”

Bellacore sighed again, long and deep, and ticked nailed on the counter.

As if in response, two of the tiny demons dropped from his left cuff to the countertop, and two more from the right. They ran across the surface toward each other, a tiny gibbering sound emanating from them.

“LeSinistre?”

“Sir?”

“Do you have have any empty jars?”

FIN