Page 43 of The Rules of Magic

“I’m not really sure about anything,” Vincent said, shaking the big man’s hand, making sure not to run his mouth for once in his life.

“Well, keep playing,” Van Ronk said. “That’s one thing you should be sure of.”

These were the times when children dreamed about nuclear testing and falling stars. There was an undercurrent of unrest, like a wave, racial division in the cities, the war halfway around the world blooming with blood. When Vincent walked through Washington Square Park he could hear the thoughts of the people he passed by, such a ragged outcry of emotion he sometimes thought he would go mad. He understood why Jet seemed not to care that she had lost her gift. It was awful to hear the voices of dead paupers buried in unmarked graves beneath the cement paths. All but forgotten, they cried out to anyone who might hear them. For them the world had been a veil of tears. The murdered, the abandoned, the ill, the ruined, victims and criminals alike all cried out to him. He wished he’d never had the sight. What had been a game when he was a boy had become an affliction. He had no desire to tap into other people’s pain, to know them better than they knew themselves.

He took to wearing a black cap woven out of metal thread in an attempt to shut out his clairvoyance. He’d found the cap on the Lower East Side, where he’d bought his first book of magical instructions. He’d never admitted the truth to Franny, but he’d first read about The Magus in a book he’d found on a shelf in their father’s office, for Dr. Burke-Owens had studied folklore and ancient magic and Jungian archetypes. Vincent had been a kid, but one who knew what he wanted. He wanted to be the best at what he did, no matter the price. He searched for The Magus, but in every bookstore the clerks laughed at him and told him all of the copies had been burned long ago. Then he had come upon a shabby vendor strung out on drugs who peddled magic from a makeshift room in an abandoned building. There, hidden in a wheelbarrow, beneath a threadbare blanket, Vincent found the book. In exchange for the text, Vincent had handed over a fifty-dollar bill filched from the coat pocket of one of his father’s patients and a strand of his mother’s pearls, stolen from her jewelry box. He’d assumed the vendor had no idea of the true worth of this treasure, but then the old man had said to Vincent, “I’ve been wanting to get rid of that. It will lead you down the wrong path if you’re not careful. It’s a burden.”

When Vincent returned to search for the iron hat, he’d looked up the old vendor, but the magic man had long ago disappeared. Squatters had claimed the building he’d once occupied. They’d tried to turn Vincent away when he examined his predecessor’s space, discovering the hat left on a shelf, as if meant for him. Harassed, Vincent began a fire without flame or wood, and the squatters backed off. Standing in the ruin of a place, he’d felt oddly at home. He knew the creed he’d been taught by their aunt, the first rule of magic is, Do no harm, but that was not the world he was drawn to. Hexes, curses, conjuring for causing spiritual sickness, such practices could be addictive, especially when customers were willing to pay high prices for them.

He set up shop in his predecessor’s room. It was sympathetic magic he dealt in, some so exhausting he had to sleep for days to regain his strength. In no time, he had a list of wealthy clients who didn’t care about the rule of three. They took it upon themselves to turn evil back on the one who had created it, which meant that a candle must be burned backward or a container spell with mirrors must be put into use. Wicked magic was used to bind an enemy, often in business, wherein a photograph or doll or other image was used to represent the one who would be cursed. Some of the spells were painful and risky. All were unethical. And yet, Vincent began to collect and sell the paraphernalia of jealousy and hate: coins, mirrors, combs, pyramids, figurines, amulets to protect and those meant to harm. Franny had been right about his magical leanings. They led to trouble, and always had.

His sisters loved him, but he couldn’t be the person they wanted him to be. There was no reason for them to know how he earned his money. When he brought home bags of groceries and footed all the bills, they asked how he could afford to do so. He simply remarked, “What can I say? I’m a great waiter.” He didn’t bother to mention he’d been fired from the Gaslight. Did they truly believe the expenses were paid off in tips? Or from the profits of their shop, empty of customers most days?

There was a fellow in Washington Square Park who dispensed certain illegal items needed for such spell work—vials of blood, the hearts and livers of animals—who warned Vincent to be careful in the occult world. What you send out will come back to you, this fellow had whispered in a thick voice. Not once but threefold. What do you think happened to your predecessor? Are you ready for that, brother?

Vincent ignored the advice. He knew he was squandering his talents, but he didn’t give a damn. There was always a price to be paid. What you get, you must also give. But he had cash now, and he didn’t seem in the least bit jinxed. At least, not yet. In fact, he was gaining an audience in the Village. He’d helped this along with invocations from The Magus, but so what? Fame was addictive, even the tiny bit he’d garnered. People crowded round him in the park, and often a group was gathered there waiting for him before he arrived. But he wondered if it was magic that drew them to him, and, when they dispersed, he felt more alone than ever. He could make it happen if he wanted to, the crowds, the fame, the records, the stardom. But what would the price be? He thought of a story Franny had told him when he was a boy. A minstrel used sorcery to climb to the heights of fame. Don’t worry about the price, the wizard the musician had gone to had advised. And then the time came for reparations, when it was too late to change his mind. Only then did he discover that the price was his voice.

On the night of his birthday Vincent wandered home in the September dusk, a tall, stark figure, rattled by the magic in which he’d recently been complicit. Every time he had sold a spell for some perverse intention—to ensure that a rival would fail or a wife would disappear—he felt he’d sold a portion of his soul. It paid the bills, but he slept fitfully and then not at all. In the middle of the night he dressed and walked the streets in a daze, with a hollow feeling, as though he were famished and couldn’t get enough to satisfy his hunger. He wanted to stop, but magic took hold and wouldn’t let go.

He was turning eighteen, but he felt so much older. Master of denial, master of dark magic, master of lies and loneliness. What good was it to be a conjurer if he couldn’t conjure his own happiness?

Now he was late for his own birthday dinner. Jet was making his favorite meal to celebrate: coq au vin, with potatoes and fresh peas. Franny had baked Aunt Isabelle’s tipsy chocolate cake, the mere scent so intoxicating a person could get drunk on it. Still, he wasn’t ready to face a celebration and pretend to be happy. He found an empty bench in Sheridan Square and gazed at the old streetlights, there for over two hundred years. He made them dim, then go black. He could go in a bad direction and he knew it. What would happen then? Would he lose his voice? Be unable to make amends?

He smoked a joint and tilted his head up. There were no stars in the sooty sky. Eighteen years of being a liar, he thought. When he looked down he saw that a creature was staring at him.

“If you’ve come for me, you’ve made a mistake,” he warned it. “I’ll turn you into a rabbit.”

The animal came close enough for Vincent to feel its hot breath. It was no rabbit, but a black German shepherd, without a collar or leash. The dog faced him with a serious expression, his eyes flecked with golden light. Vincent smiled despite his glum frame of mind. “Friend or foe?” he asked. The dog offered his paw as an answer, and they shook. “You’re very well trained,” Vincent said admiringly. “If you have no name, I’ll call you Harry after the greatest magician, Mr. Houdini. I would discuss your situation further, but it’s my birthday and I have to go home.”

The dog trailed him across Sixth Avenue, following to Greenwich Avenue. Vincent looked over his shoulder before coming to an abrupt halt. “If that’s what you have in mind we might as well walk together. We’re late for dinner.”

Vincent had no friends, yet after he’d come home, Franny overheard him conversing with someone in the entrance hall. Curious, she went to peek. There was an enormous German shepherd who waited patiently as Vincent hung up his coat. Male witches were often known to have black dogs, or so the texts in the library had stated. Immediately, Franny knew this beast was Vincent’s familiar, his double and alter ego, a creature of a different genus that had the same shared spirit.

The dog shadowed Vincent into the kitchen, then lay beneath the table, waiting for his master’s next move. Jet’s little cat let out a howl when it spied the huge dog, then leapt from Jet’s arms and raced from the room, skittering up the stairs to the safety of the second floor. The dog merely watched impassively. He clearly wasn’t about to humiliate himself by giving chase.

“Poor Wren!” Jet sighed. “Her home life has been ruined by a sibling.”

“Like ours?” Franny teased.

“You know you were both thrilled when I was born. Or did you hire that nurse to get rid of me? I could forgive you if you tell me there’s a tipsy chocolate cake,” Vincent said, far more upbeat than usual, delighted to find he could be surprised by fate.

“If you tell us who your friend is,” Franny countered. As his birthday gift, she’d wished he wouldn’t be so alone, and had burned a paper coated with honey to complete the spell, and now here he was with a companion.

“He’s Harry.” At the mention of his name the dog picked up his huge head. “He’ll be staying with us from now on.” When the sisters exchanged a look, Vincent added, “You have to admit, we won’t have any robberies with him around.”

“We wouldn’t anyway,” Franny said, “we’ve got a fixed spell on the door.” But she’d already filled a plate with chopped chicken and rice for the dog. She was pleased; everyone knew a dog was an antidote to alienation. “Happy birthday, dear Vincent.”

It was a cheerful dinner, and when it was over, Vincent took out the trash without being asked, around to the alley where there were a dozen garbage cans. He was actually whistling. After all, he’d never liked his youth, maybe he’d prefer being older. He inhaled the night air and listened to the city sounds he loved: sirens in the distance, laughter and catcalls on the street. It was then he noticed a card atop the trash can. The ink was faded, nearly invisible to the naked eye, but he managed to read the message. Abracadabra. It was Aramaic in origin, meaning I create what I speak, the most mystical and powerful blessing and curse. Begin by walking down Bleecker Street.

Vincent glanced around. No one was in sight, only the dark silky night. But he felt his pulse quicken. Clearly, he had somewhere to go.

He went out after his sisters had gone to bed. He did this nearly every night, but this time was different. He was not headed for the Jester and a night of drinking that would leave him blotto. He felt unusually elated as he headed down Greenwich to Bleecker. At the corner, he noticed the street sign was unfamiliar. It read Herring Street, the original street name of the address where Thomas Paine had lived, a name that hadn’t been used for over two hundred years. Something odd was happening. There had been a fusion between the present and the past; things that were logical and those that were impossible were now threaded together. Well, if this was the way his eighteenth birthday was to be celebrated, so be it. He was a man tonight. Legal in the eyes of New York State.

There was a mist rising from the asphalt as he followed along Grove Street, where Thomas Paine had died in 1809. In honor of Paine’s The Age of Reason, the surrounding lanes had virtue names: Art Street, now part of Eighth Street; Science Street, which became Waverly Place; and Reason Street, renamed Barrow. Only Commerce Street, running between Seventh Avenue and Barrow, was left with its initial name, a remnant of the past. Vincent realized he was headed onto an even tinier lane, one he’d never before noticed. Conjure Street. There he found a wood-and-brick town house with a knocker in the shape of a lion’s head. Once he went inside, he realized it was a private club, yet no one stopped him from approaching the bar.

He ordered a whiskey, not taking note of a man who came to sit beside him until he spoke. “I’m glad you could make it,” the stranger said. “I’m a fan.”

“Of folk music?”