Ghost of Christmas Past
My mother once said I was priceless. I think she meant 'priced less'.
A hundred pounds…
For what? To be a magician? She said they were bad men.
But Mister Underwood says it's the highest calling.
I don't know. I don't know.
I don't like him.
Is he my father now?
I don't like him.
But Mrs. Underwood, I like her. She's nice.
Am I supposed to be a magician now? She said they were bad men. Am I supposed to be a bad man now?
I don't know. I don't know.
I'm tired. This house is nice. The bed looks nice.
"Tomorrow my lessons begin." He said.
I'm tired…
Tomorrow… Tomorrow…
A Hundred Pounds…
…
…
Ghost of Christmas Present
Monsters.
There are monsters under my bed.
At least… at least they were there in the study.
Those imps, spirits… Demons… had touched me, just barely with their black claws. I had red marks all over my skin.
The beat of parchment like wings, the click of claws, the screeching…
Deafening.
I stared at the roof of my room. Was this part of becoming a magician? A trial… a trial by fire?
Maybe, I don't know. I don't care. There are monsters under my bed.
Or are inside my mind?
"Nathaniel?"
I start. A sharp intake of breathe. Mrs. Underwood…
"Are you alright, dear?"
Was I alright? I don't think so.
A trial by fire…
"I've made you some sandwiches, and some tea. I'll leave them by the door. Eat, when you feel hungry."
Footsteps. The sound receded. Soon, she was gone.
Was I alright?
The clicking of black claws, the harsh screeches, the snapping of moist teeth…
Monsters.
I shift and look at the clock affixed on the right wall.
It was late morning. No doubt my master was downstairs, drinking his tea, reading the morning newspaper…
The clicking of black claws, the harsh screeches, the snapping of moist teeth. Louder, More insistent this time.
Monsters.
…
…
Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come
It was afternoon. Sunlight streamed from my office windows, I stare out, contemplating.
Somewhere, Armies where clashing, empires were being built, ministries and governments churned, ponderously taking action…
"Why are you staring out of the window? I'm not done with you yet."
And my slave was whining.
"Bartimaeus, you are never done."
"Finally! A response! Mortal, I am Bartimaeus of Uruk, Sakr al jinni, the serpent of the silver plumes! I have spoken with Solomon…"
I raise a hand. "Get to the point." I wearily intone.
"Listen Nat, when you think of a 5000 year old Djinni, particularly Bartimaeus of Uruk, Certain things come to mind. Mighty wars, maybe. Or swashbuckling adventures. What one does not think is the same Venerable spirit reduced to pasting your propaganda on some alleyway in London…! This is an outrage! You are going to hear me out this time, Natty boy or-"
"Fine! You are dismissed! Anything to get some peace…!"
A clamp of hands and he was gone. Vile demon.
"……"
It was hard not to contemplate on such an afternoon.
Devereaux was paranoid. He was weak, desperately hugging power… A Horla was dispatched today, the latest incident in a series of accidents. The demon consumed a mid level Magician who questioned Devereaux policies. The whispered details were just gory enough to be true.
Such incidents did not bespeak the clear head of a war leader.
For we were at war, the American rebels were not crushed as initially believed; they soon began fighting a guerilla war, dispersing our noble troops. We were overstretched. Coward's tactics, but they were slowly proving to be effective.
The commoners were restless, our armies were far away, overseas and our Prime Minister dispatches Horlas to the houses of his own magicians! Clearly something had to be done.
And I knew what. The staff of course. The staff of state. Gladstone's mighty staff.
But Devereaux was not the man to wield it.
Someone once said 'power is the ability to deny that pleasure to others'. Who wielded the staff wielded true power. Devereaux was simply not the man.
Was I? I had almost brought the staff into my control, then. Then facing that golem.
Almost… but now, now I was by far more powerful.
"……"
I read the memos scattered around my desk.
A commoners protest, another commoners protest. Crumpled, the paper lands deftly in the Dustbin.
Something had to be done, The Empire wobbled, ever so little much. A leviathan unsteady on its legs.
"……"
One day the commoners will be taught their place.
One day the Empire will be steadied.
One day I will be Prime Minister.