An Apple for the Creature

“No,” he said. His voice was a ghost of a whisper.

“No,” agreed the demon. “You can’t. And how much has that one word cost you, my fractured disbeliever? What, I wonder, do you believe now?”

Tears rolled down Trey’s face.

“Answer this, then,” said the demon, “why am I not bound to the circle of protection? You think that it was because Mr. Kidd played pranks with the wording? No. You found every error. In that you were diligent. And the circles and patterns were drawn with precision. So . . . why am I not bound? What element was missing from this ritual? What single thing was missing that would have given you and these other false conjurers the power to bind me?”

Trey wanted to scream. Instead he said, “Belief.”

“Belief,” agreed the demon softly.

“I’m sorry,” whispered Trey. “God . . . I’m sorry . . .”

The demon leaned in and his breath was scalding on Trey’s cheek. “Tell me one thing more, my little sorcerer,” whispered the monster, “should I believe that you truly are sorry?”

“Y-yes.”

“Should I have faith in the regrets of the faithless?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I . . . didn’t know.”

The demon chuckled. “Have you ever considered that atheism as strong as yours is itself a belief?”

“I—”

“We all believe in something. That is what brought your kind down from the trees. That is what made you human. After all this time, how can you not understand that?”

Trey blinked and turned to look at him.

The demon said, “You think that science is the enemy of faith. That what cannot be measured cannot be real. Can you measure what is happening now? What meter would you use? What scale?”

Trey said nothing.

“Your project, your collection of spells. What is it to you? What is it in itself? Words? Meaningless and silly? Without worth?”

Trey dared not reply.

“Who are you to disrespect the shaman and the magus, the witch and the priest? Who are you to say that the child on his knees is a fool; or the crone on the respirator? How vast and cold is your arrogance that you despise the vow and the promise and the prayer of everyone who has ever spoken such words with a true heart?”

The demon touched Trey’s chest.

“In the absence of proof you disbelieve. In the absence of proof a child will believe, and belief can change worlds. That’s the power you spit upon, and in doing so you deny yourself the chance to shape the universe according to your will. You become a victim of your own close-mindedness.”

Tears burned on Trey’s flesh.

“Here is a secret,” said the demon. “Believe it or not, as you will. But when we whispered the secrets of evocation to your ancestors, when we taught them to make circles of protection—it was not to protect them from us. No. It was us who wanted protection from you. We swim in the waters of belief. You, and those like you, spit pollution into those waters with doubt and cynicism. With your arrogant disinterest in the ways the universe actually works. When you conjure us, we shudder.” He leaned closer. “Tell me, little Trey, now that your faithless faith is shattered . . . if you had the power to banish me, would you?”

Trey had to force the word out. “Yes.”

“Even though that would require faith to open the doors between the worlds?”

Trey squeezed his eyes shut. “Y-yes.”

“Hypocrite,” said the demon, but he was laughing as he said it. “Here endeth the lesson.”

Trey opened his eyes.

—13—

Trey felt his mouth move again. His lips formed a word.

“Username?” he asked.

Anthem looked sheepishly at him and nibbled the stub of a green fingernail. “You’re going to laugh at me.”

Trey stared at her. Gaped at her.

“What—?” she said, suddenly touching her face, her nose, to make sure that she didn’t have anything on her. “What?”

Trey sniffed. He could taste tears in his mouth, in the back of his throat. And there was a smell in the air. Ozone and sulfur. He shook his head, trying to capture the thought that was just there, just on the edge. But . . . no, it was gone.

Weird. It felt important. It felt big.

But it was gone, whatever it was.

He took Anthem’s hand and studied her fingers. There was blood caked in the edges. He glanced at the keyboard and saw the chocolate-colored stains. Faint, but there.

“You got blood on the keys,” he said. “You have to be careful.”

“Why?”

“Because this is magic and you’re supposed to be careful.”

Anthem gave him a sideways look. “Oh, very funny.”

“No,” he said, “not really.”

“What’s it matter? I’ll clean the keyboard.”

“It matters,” he said, and then for reasons he could not quite understand, at least not at the moment, he said, “We have to do it right is all.”

“Do what right?”

“All of it,” said Trey. “The spells. Entering them, everything. We need to get them right. Everything has to be right.”

“I know, I know . . . or the program won’t collate the right way and—”

“No,” he said softly. “Because this stuff is important. To . . . um . . . people.”

Anthem studied his face for a long moment, then she nodded.

“Okay,” she said and got up to get some computer wipes.

Trey sat there, staring at the hazy outline of his reflection. He could see his features, but somehow, in some indefinable way, he looked different.

Or, at least he believed he did.

Academy Field Trip DONALD HARSTAD

Don Harstad is a retired deputy sheriff who lives in Elkader, Iowa, with his wife of forty-eight years and two foundling beagles. Don is the author of several novels, including Eleven Days, Known Dead, The Big Thaw, Long December, and Code 61. This is Don’s first short story, as well as his first venture into the paranormal. He found both experiences to be thoroughly enjoyable.