What I mean is, how would it grab you? You’d be surprised, maybe appalled, probably aghast at your powers. Perhaps you’d done the same thing a hundred times and nothing happened. But now, suddenly, inexplicably, there’s a result. It would scare the living daylights out of you.
That’s what it did to the practitioners of witchcraft who’d been going through the rites of summoning up a demon. They’d gone through the ceremony many times, but the results were always symbolic and they never figured to be anything but symbolic. Yet now, inexplicably, a real live demon with golden gonads had appeared.
Me!
The four naked witches backed off from me and joined the warlock behind the bonfire. Several others huddled there, pointing at me and speaking in low, awed voices. They’d been summoning demons for many a midnight, but now that they’d landed one, they didn’t know what to do with him.
It was easier for me. I had some practice in being awe-inspiring. I’d been a caveman deity and a Greek god. Making it as a demon shouldn’t be too tough.
For the moment, however, I was giving thanks to my own personal deity, Papa Baapuh, for jumping me forward in time before Nero’s horses had made off with my limbs. As I digested the fact that I really had escaped death, I started to consider the situation. I was flat on my back on a sort of plateau nestled among rocky hills. A full moon shone down on me. The bonfire was at my feet, only a couple of yards away, and the witchcraft enthusiasts crowded close together on the other side of it. Long goose feathers formed an outline around my body. They tickled. My head rested in a sticky pool of chicken blood which wasn’t doing my blonde dye job any good. I knew it was chicken blood because the wrung-out carcass of the dead bird lay a few aromatic inches from my nose.
Not knowing what else to do, I stayed put. I tuned in on the murmur of conversation, seeking some hint as to the where and when of my situation. It wasn’t too difficult to piece together certain facts.
For one thing, they were speaking Spanish. For another, there was some talk of starting back for Madrid, and so I deduced I must be in Spain, not far from Madrid. They were buzzing with anxiety over what might happen if they were discovered by Torquemada’s men. This told me that the period must be the Spanish Inquisition, the reign of Ferdinand and Isabella. Torquemada was the Chief Inquisitor of Spain during that time.
From what they were saying, I gathered that the rites in which they’d been engaging were forbidden by Torquemada and that the penalty for participating in them was torture and death. My sudden appearance had multiplied their fear of punishment. If Torquemada were to find out that they had actually summoned up a demon, there was no telling what horrendously slow and sadistic penalties he might inflict before granting the blessing of death. But there was also the hope among them that I might indeed be Wica, the Wise One, supreme demon who might be pitted against Torquemada and vanquish him.
But if I wasn’t, if I was a lesser demon, if Torquemada exorcised me, then any who had contact with me would be fair game for his wrath. For this reason, none of them, including the chief warlock, was willing to risk speaking with me. They feared there might be a spy among them. The upshot was that they crept away in small groups and very shortly I found myself lying there all alone.
I got to my feet. I felt very stiff, but I didn’t stretch. I’d already been stretched enough to last me the rest of my life. I definitely had the feeling that I’d grown.
I glanced around me, and that’s when I spotted her. She was crouching in the shadows off to one side of the bonfire, watching me. She was dressed now, wearing a high ruffled gown with a long, sweeping skirt, but I recognized her nevertheless. The shimmer of her long red hair against startlingly white skin wasn’t easily forgotten. She had been one of the naked witches I’d seen dancing at my feet before.
“Buenas noches.” I greeted her in Spanish.
“Buenas noches.” Her voice trembled.
“Are you afraid of me?” I asked her in Spanish.
“Si.”
“Don’t be. I won’t hurt you. Come closer.”
She circled the bonfire and stopped a few paces from me. She was holding a bundle under her arm.
“Are you really Wica, the Wise One?” she asked.
Well, why not? “Si,” I told her. “What have you got there?” I pointed at the package.
“Clothing for you. I thought--”
“Good thinking. Even Wica can’t wander around in the buff.”
I took the package and started to dress. The garb wasn’t exactly to my taste. Short pants with ruffles aren’t my idea of mod sartorial splendor, and when your knees are as knobby as mine, you don’t favor skin-tight hosiery. But beggars can’t be choosers, and so I hooked my garters and straightened my seams. At least it served to cover my gilded glory. “What’s your name?” I asked my benefactress.
“Maria Rosalia Carmelita Mendoza Alvarez Senapinoma Mendicino.”
“You must have a hell of a time endorsing checks,” I observed.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. What do they call you when they don’t want to sound like an ad for California wine?”
“I don’t understand.”
“What do they call you for short?”
“Doña Maria.”
“Why did you come back, Doña Maria? Why did you bring me clothes?”
“It was my duty.”
“Your duty?” I didn’t follow that.
“I am a witch.”
“And a pretty bewitching witch at that,” I granted, running my eyes over her slender and voluptuous figure in the firelight. “But there were other witches here. Why you?”
“I am also the loyal handmaiden of Queen Isabella. I am a lady of the Court and devoted to the Crown—-as well as being dueña to the Princess Joanna.”
“But what does all that have to do with me?” I wondered.
“If you are truly Wica, then the Queen must meet with you.”
It was my turn not to understand now. I told her so.
“It’s rather complicated, but I will try to explain,” Doña Maria said. “It has to do with Tomas de Torquemada, the Grand Inquisitor of Spain. Today he has become the most powerful man in Spain, more powerful, even, than the King and Queen. And the main reason his power exceeds theirs is because his influence on them is so great that it often supersedes their own judgment.”
“Because he’s responsible to Rome,” I guessed.
“No.” Doña Maria shook her head. “That’s not true. The Inquisition in Spain is not the same as in other countries. It is much harsher and it is the personal instrument of Torquemada. Far from being beholden to Rome, he is strongly opposed by Pope Sixtus IV. The Mother Church deplores his excesses and has repeatedly tried to mitigate the bloodshed he causes in the name of Christianity. To some extent, during the fourteen years he has held power, these efforts have been successful. But he grows stronger all the time. And the throne of Spain is in his debt for political favors he has granted in the name of the Inquisition. Many an enemy of Ferdinand and Isabella has been exiled or burned as an heretic. Many a property has fallen to the crown—although most of the wealth of Torquemada’s victims has accrued to him personally. But the most important hold he exerts on the King and Queen is that he’s convinced them that he’s divinely appointed and that the Inquisition is God’s will. They truly believe this.”