Field journal of Nathaniel Faust, Curse-breaker and Master of Mystic Science
25 Dec. 20–
Why do most media portrayals show mystics as a paganist cult who observes the winter holidays by sacrificing a goat or something? Waiting for a horrifying demon instead of Santa Claus? Pagans exist outside of Germanic regions—they don’t all believe in “Krampus.” Well, that they shouldn’t; and I’ve shaken the hand of The Devil and the tentacle of Gorath. I know the things that lurk in the skies and shadows of the darker months, and a goat demon that hits people with sticks is NOT one of them. Interestingly, though, I did just recently deal with a demonic goat problem for a client (nobody, however, was hit by any sticks).
Twas the morn after Dongzhi, when all ‘cross the lawn, every creature was stirring, even great Hēilóng. As the black dragon rose to spread out winter’s chill, I opened my eyes to the image of Rel. At first glance, she was lovely, a princess in waiting, yet as soon as I moved, she began the berating; something along the lines of, “Did you REALLY stay up ALL NIGHT for a dragon’s birthday party?” My response that we’d all started nodding off sometime around dawn seemed only to tick her off more (but what was she going to do—I already sleep, if at all, on the couch. In a different part of the house than her. Just like I always have), as evidenced by the string of infernal invocations she muttered, causing the pentagram to ignite on my palm.
I suppose I deserved that. The solstice party DID get a bit out of hand1. I doused my hand in holy water and set to cleaning up the strewn dumplings and baijuu bottles (and animal shit) before someone called the police. Police are such a bother. Unfortunately, I was not quick enough. Constable Herley was not very pleased to find a hungover American with no ID surrounded by the aftermath of a raging party (and goat, yak, dragon, and other dung) in the middle of Kensington Gardens the day before Christmas Eve. Apparently, Kensington’s hoodlums took the holidays off. My holding cell was empty; the better to escape from. I figured Rel wouldn’t bail me out for a day or so, so I set to figuring out a way to unlock the door without my blade, lighter, or spell ingredients (they took my coat and everything in my pockets). Fortunately, they didn’t touch my lapel pins, and the cell provided a small legal pad, so I was able to construct a magic circle with some blood glyphs.
1 See file for 23 Dec. 20
Unfortunately, I was stuck at that point with no clue what sort of spell I could even try. A spectral summons would only be able to get a very low-level familiar, likewise any translocation without a prepared exit point would only get me about a foot in the direction of the ley line, which would at most just put me one cell over. While I pondered, the constable brought a small tray with a bowl of tomato soup and a couple biscuits with a cup of water, which he delivered with some jab about there being “no decency left in young people.”
I could’ve kissed him. Soup and bread were enough of an offering to at least attempt a summoning. It worked like a dream, a rather pudgy little imp called Norbert greedily slurped down the mixture of biscuit, soup, and blood that I set out, almost before I finished the first chant from the Wonderings of Suleimon. It seems that the London mystic scene was not particularly concerned with the wellbeing of lesser demons any more, so Norbert was more than happy to help me. He brought my things from the impound locker, and even gleefully took it upon himself to, unprompted, give the good Constable a rather severe case of indigestion. Imp urine makes a terrible diuretic.
As I was leaving the station, I was greeted by the pallid face of a woman who looked to have had less sleep than I. She broke down in tears.
“Finally, an officer!” she squacked. She had been trying to get someone to listen to her problem, and not even animal control would believe her. I was about to explain that, no, I was not in fact an officer of this fine constabulary, when I noticed her perfume. Not many things have the odor of hay, blood, and manure. Intriguing.
“Of course. Madam?” Hard to tell the right honorifics in England, but she looked old enough, “I’m Nathaniel Faust, the specialist.” If my accent surprised her, she gave no indication. What seemed to surprise her was the fact that there was a “specialist” for her problem. No surprise there—the London House is too concerned about werewolves and vampires in Germany or wherever to advertise to its own neighborhood. Reminder to gloat at Lord Percival about helping one of his constituents for him while on vacation.
I asked the lady to start at the beginning with her problem, though I already had an idea where it would go. Fortunately, Norbert was still around and was willing to take notes in exchange for the licorice drops in the Constable’s desk. I’m still surprised he could use a typewriter (but more surprised there was one in a police station).
My name is Amanda James. Um, well… was that important? Yes. Keep going. Okay, um… how do I put this? Everyone thinks I’m crazy. It sounds crazy when I say it out loud. Am I crazy? Do I seem crazy? Ma’am, just keep going, if you please. Well, see, the thing is… there’re these goats—three of them. They… they’ve taken over my shop. I’m a psychic, you see, and—oh! I forgot: the weird thing is that they— You won’t believe me. I promise I believe you. So far, nothing you’ve said seems crazier than a regular Tuesday for me. Well… If you don’t tell me the problem, I can’t solve it, so just say it. The goats have two heads! And they talk in some weird… language—not goat language. And you say they’ve taken over your psychic parlor? Yes, go ahead and laugh about me “inviting the devil” by doing that (I’ve heard it before, from both my nephew and animal control), but it’s really just a performance art. I don’t really believe in all that—that’d actually be crazy, right? Sure. Straightjackets. Now how did they take over? They just… did! They sell the crystals and give the readings and everything, and none of the customers seem to notice anything weird! Ah. But you do. I’ll be needing some blood—not to see if you’re on anything, just to see if you might have some immunity to hallucinations. B-blood? Don’t worry, it won’t hurt. There, see? O-ok. How did you—? Practice. Now, when did they appear? Umm… was it bonfire night? No, let’s see… Maybe… last Christmas? Around then. Ok. Do you have any other employees? No, I work alone. Or, I did before— Got it. And do people come back? No… Do you still get money, or do the goats take it? I still get it… God! (Hiss) Do they kill the clients? Maybe. But if the obits aren’t blowing up, it might be something else. Ok, Norbert, you can stop now. Stop. Norbert! For the love of, I said STO
Norbert, while he would make a good stenographer, is nowhere near as good as the Stylus of Setne. I had to rip the typewriter away from him. Maybe all stenographers are imps… I got the address of Ms. James’ psychic shop and told her to stay away for a while. She seemed all too happy to obey.
Note: During the interview, approximately half a cup of blood was extracted from Ms. James. Smoke showed no abnormalities—conclusion is she has no natural immunity from enchantment or lessened susceptibility to illusions. Secondary conclusion: she was originally under the illusion, but eventually escaped due to long-term exposure.
Before I could tackle the goats, I would need help. I had to find Rel, or, failing that, a member of the London Resolute sect. Fortunately, I didn’t have to look far. There was one of each sitting on a bench right across the street. Rel didn’t seem either happy or impressed to see me, she actually asked why it took so long. I replied with a “nice to see you too” and turned to the English mystic.
Benton seemed in good spirits. I hadn’t seen him since the unpleasantness in Norway about two years ago2. He broke out in a grin when I held up my hand in the Mane-Claw! pose before pulling him into a hug. It really is nice to see a good friend every once in a while. He told me he made it to third class using the methods I’d taught him, even though most in the English sect frown on ritualism. I responded by reminding him that he could be Arcanix in New York, but he shrugged me off again.
2 See file for 22 Jun, 20-
Rel asked again why I’d taken so long. The two of them had apparently found me independent of each other while I summoned Norbert. I explained about Ms. James and her goats. Benton wanted to report the issue to his superiors, but Rel was actually interested in a monster hunt for once—even rarer when the monster has no obvious worth as a potion ingredient. I pressed her on the topic.
Rel said she was curious about something. I should’ve guessed right there that this would turn out to be a headache.
“Right,” I started walking down the street, “Benton, you must have portal rights in the city. Open a way to the store!”
Benton and Rel didn’t follow me. When I returned and asked again for a portal, he told me that he wasn’t registered for using portals in England, just Wales, Scotland, and France. The Resolute sect’s rules are such bull. I asked if we could count on getting away with it this once, but apparently they’re extra strict around solstices or other auspicious days. The Tube is rather cramped during the winter holidays.
While I couldn’t feel the magical energy from Kensington, getting off the train in Putney was accompanied by a barnyard smell, with some… floral? undertones as well. We followed the smell, no longer needing Ms. James’ address. Rel started pinching her nose at the stench; we were closing in, just a block away and—
The world flipped. I was in a hall surrounded by dark haze. An altar was dripping with gold—or sap? Now, a river with a bloody bathtub. Now a barnyard—
I woke up with a throbbing in my ankle. My comrades were also on the ground.
“Did you see that?” I tried standing on my ankle. It held my weight, but it hurt quite a bit.
“What was—was that a temple?”
“Na, that was a king’s hall,” Rel was sure. It had been a familiar sight—a magician god-king’s home.
I was the only one who got more than a bruise, but we slowed our pace out of caution. Benton and I caught up more while we walked. He’d been part of the British sealing ritual, keeping the gateway to the Duat closed3. He’d heard about my trip to Hæffléthīr’s palace4 (apparently, the Sorcerer Mystique was not overly enthused that I’d done that) and was curious to see the file. I told him it’d be open to him if he ever came back to New York.
3 See record of Golden Sealing, HMSR archives
4 See file for 19 Apr, 20–
We made it to Ms. James’ shop without any more visions. The aura got to be too much for Rel, who started coughing uncontrollably. I poured some spirit on a rag and gave it to her. She happily pressed the makeshift nosegay to her face, mumbled a thanks, and walked into a wall.
There was a barrier to keep magical beings out. Fortunately, it was a hazemark rune. No physical spell. It was child’s play to rend it.
We decided Benton, who had neither cursed seals nor magical blood, would go in first. As he opened the door, the floral smell overpowered the animal for the first time, and was accompanied by a third scent for the first time. I’d never had such trouble parsing out the odor of carrion before. In as short a while as it took to do so, Benton returned with his report. The shop was closed, there were no signs of snares, wards, or traps, but the basement door was heavily sealed.
“It’s always the basement, isn’t it?” I held the door open for Rel, and we stepped inside. It seemed to be a perfectly normal psychic shop: there were random crystals, chimes, feathers, bones, and doodads all over the place. In the back, behind a curtain, there was a “divination chamber” with a crystal ball in the middle of a star, along with several packs of tarot cards. There was nothing on the residential upper levels. The basement door was hot with magic. It had been sealed, yes, but Benton had been wrong in thinking it was to keep the room secure. It was a spacial seal—the building did not actually have a basement (there was a boiler, but it was accessed by a trapdoor). The seal was fully carved into the wood; tricky to undo, but not necessary here. We didn’t want to break the seal, just open the door.
I made some negative star dust with some lapis and amethyst from the crystals section (I also replenished my pocket supply of silver) and used it to expand the seal. Benton made a Bakersford serpentine ward around the building in preparation of whatever was behind the door. Rel more impressively made a completed Astr brew using junk from the back. I swallowed it and dove through the door before my body started rejecting air.
The other side was dark. It wasn’t like the vision—it was a forest. The scent of spring was everywhere: wildflowers, or tree blossoms? Moss, and wood, and… also that rotting odor. What could that be? I should read up on plants. I turned to ask Rel what they were, but the door wasn’t there. Of course it wasn’t.
The ground was hard, so maybe I was in some kind of ruin. I opened my lighter. The eternal flame didn’t add much to the darkness, but I could at least see something. That something barely extended past my hand, however. I was almost tempted to light up an Occled crystal to force open my inner eye, but the dark silence was broken.
A terrible tandem of bleating echoed around me. I instinctively used a dispersion on the light from my lighter to show the fiends. It wasn’t a tandem—it was a trio. Three two-headed goats stood on crux points for a Nonacle Circle—a Circle whose core I accidentally stumbled into. My hand burst into hellflame in response to the bleating. The flames poured down into the Circle, fueling the spell. I started to black out—I had to retreat. I called out to any otherbeings. Even He would’ve been accepted.
“My, my, my… a Hell mark,” an emotionless voice passed over my mind. The forest disappeared to be replaced by the hall from the vision. Only, this time the altar was covered in bones and either hair or fur, I had no time to determine which. The space was much wider than it had appeared before; there was a grand throne set on a high dais a ways behind the altar. Or, it WOULD’VE been a grand throne, if not for the scratches, which had utterly shredded the cushion, and the array of large feathers which didn’t match the down from the cushion, and the secondary collection of bones and fur. The overall image was ghastly. And distracting.
A pair of talons crashed down on me from above, holding me in a cage made of stronger-than-steel keratin. The attack had seemingly come from nowhere–there hadn’t been the slightest whisper until I was on the floor. The scent of flowers was now all-encapsulating, though it conjured up more of a sense of frolicking through a valley than of a department store perfume f loor.
“Are you going to kill me now?” I asked, expecting either an affirmative or simply the action taking place. Instead, my question was met with a sonorous… giggle? The pressure lessened as whatever held me shrank. Soon, I was being held down by human feet, planted firmly on my shoulders.
“Llad chi?” the voice from earlier sang in welsh, now with a hint of amusement running through it, was, now that I heard it with my ears, clearly female, “now why would I want to do that?” She whispered, crouching down until I could feel her breath on my neck. Her perfume made it tricky to think, my mind kept wandering to summers with Rel, when she would fill the entire basement with wildflowers to “bring SOME fresh air into my sorry life,” and even further back, spring break when we would go visit mother in the country…
“The great Nathaniel Faust deserves SOOO much worse than just death,” her laughter pulled me out of the bittersweet memories, “do you know how much any number of gods would be willing to pay to have YOU at their feet? Especially since you killed that gwyddelig ast Scatach?” Whoever she was shifted her feet to be just over my lungs and began grinding the ball of her left foot into my back.
“Well… at least… you’ve heard… of me,” I managed to gasp. Even with the Astr brew it was hard to breathe with someone pushing the air out of you.
“HA! Even if I HAVE been punished in this cursed realm for over a millennium, I was always the kind to figure out how to get what I wanted,” she crowed.
“How… flattering…” I was starting to black out as she started alternating the grinding, “damn.” The hellfire exploded out of my hand, swirling around me and forcing my captor off with what would, at about one tenth as loud, have been a cute squeaking noise.
I pushed myself to a crouch, dousing my hand with a vial of holy water. While the burning ebbed away, my eyes started to clear. I could see that I was now back in the boiler room of the psychic shop. That explained why it was still so hot. I decided to take a moment to gather my breath before heading upstairs. I should’ve figured my luck was too poor for even a moment of quiet.
A cacophony rang out from the floor above me. The air twanged with the combined power of several dangerous magical peoples or things. That meant my friends were fighting at least two other entities. Aloud THWOMP! echoed down from the small trap door. I pushed it, figuring it was blocked. Not an inch of movement. I was now appropriately pissed off at the universe and all the realms beyond to stop caring about the consequences of overusing my own magic.
“TYCH’N QU’N!” I commanded. The trap door, the part of the shelf that had fallen upon it, as well as a small chunk of the upper floors and roof of the building, and even a portion of a cloud overhead instantly dissolved in greyish red light. Good thing there hadn’t been any planes or birds overhead. I stepped out over the rubble to find Rel and Benton having a rather heated battle with two of the trio of bi-goats. Rel was apparently trying to catch one in an opal mirror (though it looked slightly more like she was playing marbles with it, since it kept head-butting the opals back… that is marbles, right?), while Benton was engaged in a kind of tug-o-war, pulling futilely on his staff while the goat’s other head gnawed on the wood that was stuck in its first head. Neither had noticed me yet, the benefit to using a quiet annihilation spell. I picked up a handful of chicken bones from the ruins of a “fortune fun” display, tossing them into the air with a silent plea for help.
“Looks like mutton boyos!” came a voice from the aether.
“Those ain’t sheep, ya eejit!” a second voice corrected the first, “they’s two-billys.”
“I thought Billy were that bloke up in Norfolk?” Squeaked a third.
“Ahhhh, don”t matter,” the first voice growled, “tasty meat either way.” This statement was followed by the traditional imp suppertime song5 as Norbert, along with two of his lesser-daemonic ilk, popped into being from among the scattered bones and joined the fray. Fortunately, my friends now had allies, meaning that I could go deal with whoever-she-was. Unfortunately, the imp suppertime song is quite loud, and I’d forgotten about the third goat, which promptly double-head-butted me so violently that I nearly found myself catapulted outside. Fortunately, again, the window was in the way. And still warded to prevent comings and goings. Sadly, magic-resistant coats are still not very good at protecting one from bruises.
5 See The Collected Works of the Great Reveler, King Feastony, wall 418
“Ok,” I muttered, throwing myself past Norbert and co. riding/hanging on to Rel’s goat while she forced the opal into the largest of its four eyes. Pulling my blade out of my coat, I leapt over Benton’s staff/limbo stick, and, muttering the recipe for Sultan’s Chevron6 under my breath, stabbed at the third goat. It dodged, and bleated flames at me. I flourished the side of my trench coat like a matador, letting its protective enchantments deal with the blaze. Raising my voice, I chanted the instructions for butchering and marinating the chevron, “quarter the beast upon a golden slab thoroughly coated with salt, letting its blood drain and pool around it. After three days, bathe it in honey and oil, and wrap it with mint, parsley, and sumac. Wait another three days!”
6 Tousseau, Pierre, Mystical Meats: The Archmage’s Guide to Cooking Magical Creatures and Animal Sacrifice (London, UK, 1957) pp. 181-3
My chant seemed to have the intended effect (beasts that can understand languages are often unsettled by hearing the recipes for preparing their flesh), and the goat started to move more hesitantly. I lunged, stabbing it in the chest before quartering it in a way that would’ve made Monsieur Tousseau proud. In death, the poor creature was freed from the curse that had caught it in the womb, and the twin bleats of two separate kids faded against the sounds of the surrounding melee.
“Scáthán!” Rel’s cry was followed by a shattering sound as her opponent was imprisoned within the milky black stone, which she promptly destroyed lest the goat return in seven years. Benton was apparently able to convince one of the imps to help him push his staff forward, so as to choke out his goat’s head. The poor creature then found itself at the mercy of all three imps, who had thus far been denied the supper they’d been singing for.
The incident at Ms. James’ psychic shop turned out, as expected, to be a matter of otherbeing infestation. The two-headed goats had been magically prepared from conception, using a pair of goats that had each come from litters of six where they were each the only kids born alive, and sacrificing the male at the point of orgasm during their conception. The mother was fed on a ritualistically prepared diet, and ceremonies were performed upon it, which caused its litter to pair up, male and female, and led to the females in each pair to absorb the bodies of their brothers, allowing only the male’s heads to survive. As to who did such a thing, there are many possible individuals or groups, though research into the mysterious sorceress encountered on the other side of the veil they guarded indicates it was likely done by the welsh hero, Lleu Llaw Gyffes’ , wife, Blodeuwedd (flower faced), who was cursed with the form of an owl as punishment for killing her husband in a scheme involving a goat. This identity has not been confirmed, and the true motivations at the center of the infestation remain a mystery.
Having sought out as many patrons of James’ shop as were deemed reasonable, and, under the guise of a “medical checkup,” tested for abnormalities in spirit, aether, and other energies, it was concluded that nothing particularly vital was stolen from then, though there was often a noticeable, albeit not unusually so, tautness to the patron’s souls, as would be consistent with slight draining, though could also be a symptom of stress or poor health/life choices. His Majesty’s Sorcerers Resolute were notified of the incident, and they have posted a novice from among their number to maintain a dimensional seal around the store so long as it is deemed necessary. As a further precaution, the false door, though the spell etched upon its surface is now warped and likely useless, has been removed to the attic of the Sanctum. Ms. James paid the sum of £27.50 for services rendered, and graciously extended an invitation to Christmas supper with her family, though the offer, sadly, had to be declined for reasons related to encroaching upon the jurisdiction of the Resolute sect, as well as draconic celebration in a civilian town.
P. S. Norbert the minor daemon has been offered a position with the Resolute sect as a corpse-feeder, though it seems likely that he will turn down the offer, as he has been sighted by several clients within the West Village.
Case Closed
About the Author
John (Jack) Turcotte is a sophomore from Minnesota majoring in history. He spent most of elementary through high school daydreaming about superheroes, and uses what he remembers for creative writing. The cat’s name is Pumpkin Spice Latte.
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