(AUTHOR’S NOTE: Materia Magica contains a quick recap of the previous adventures in this series.)

Al Majius surveyed the jumbled mess that filled the aisles of Feldspar Sporting Goods. He spotted the splintered remains of baseball bats and hockey sticks, tennis, racquetball, and badminton racquets, skates (in-line and ice), golf clubs twisted into pretzel shapes or tied into knots, and scraps from exploded soccer balls, basketballs, and volleyballs; there were other bits and pieces that he couldn’t identify.

"I think it’s a poltergeist," Edward Feldspar said. "The actual ‘noisy ghost’ kind, not the ‘pubescent kid with telekinesis’ kind."

"It does look a lot worse than anything human vandals could do," Al said. "At least not without a wood chipper, a machine shop, and a lot of time."

"All this damage was done in less than ten minutes," Feldspar said. "The video cameras caught most of it -- until they were destroyed."

Edward Feldspar had reported "the worst case of vandalism I’ve ever heard of" to the local police. They had called in the Fire Marshal, figuring that some kind of bomb had been used. The Fire Marshal had run tests and found no traces of any conventional explosives ... which left magic as the only possible cause. Feldspar had called the College of Masters to ask for the name of a wizard who could investigate -- and the College had sent him to Majius Magical Services.

As jobs went, Al thought this one would be a nice break from the dire conspiracies and apocalyptic threats looming over his head. As a plus, Feldspar had offered a nice bonus for a quick resolution to the situation ...

"Let me take a look at that video," Al said. "I won’t be able to magic any extra information out of it, but even seeing exactly how this happened will help me to identify the cause."

They adjourned to Feldspar’s office, which fortunately had been spared by whatever had turned the interior of the store into a recycling bin. Feldspar typed a few commands into his computer, then turned the monitor so Al could see the video playback.

As Feldspar had said, incredible amounts of damage had been done in minutes. The video showed the contents of shelves and bins surging into the air and being torn to shreds as if they had been tossed into a giant blender, with the shelves themselves doing likewise a few moments later. It was like watching a Category Five tornado at work in a confined space.

"Anyone in the store when this happened would have been killed," Al said. "I guess it’s lucky -- relatively speaking -- that it happened in the middle of the night."

Feldspar gasped. "I hadn’t even thought of that. I was worried about what this will do to my insurance rates -- and the time it will take to replace all my stock. But you’re right -- my God, if this had happened when the store was open --"

"It didn’t," Al said. "And I suspect that it won’t, even if we can’t figure out what cause the mess. This looks -- playful, not hostile."

"I don’t think I want to see what ‘hostile’ looks like, then," Feldspar said.

"You might as well go home," Al said. "Unless you have some work that needs to be done here in the office?"

Feldspar shook his head. "All the paperwork for the insurance claim and the calls to my suppliers have been handled already. For obvious reasons, the insurance adjuster doesn’t want to authorize the settlement until I can provide assurances that it won’t just happen again."

"Well, we’ll do our best to take care of that end," Al said.

"‘We’?"

"One of my associates will be assisting me," Al said.

"I’d like to meet him," Feldspar said.

No, you wouldn’t, Al thought. "He prefers to keep a low profile -- he does a lot of undercover surveillance work," he said.

"Oh, well -- I understand," Feldspar said. He turned to leave, then paused. "You’ll call me as soon as you have any news?"

"I have your crystal code right here," Al said. "With luck, you should be back in business in no time."

Al waited until he saw Feldspar leave the building, then said, "All clear, Githros."

Githros swan-dived from Al’s left earlobe, executing a neat somersault as he grew from three millimeters to two meters in height.

"Undercover work? Only if the hair in your ears counts as cover."

"Keeps you warm at night, doesn’t it?" Al retorted.

"Warm -- and waxy," Githros said.

Al sighed. "We could keep this up all day, but it’s costing our client money. You saw the video?"

Githros nodded. "I was watching from the balcony -- your ear, that is. It wasn’t any kind of demon I’m familiar with -- unless it was a whole pack of ’em working together."

"And demons aren’t know for working and playing well with others," Al said.

"Except for that ‘Legion’ bunch," Githros said. "Anyway, I think it was either a ghost, or an air elemental. You noticed the way things were swirling around?"

"Like a tornado," Al said. "In either case, the question is, why here, and why now?"

"That’s two questions," Githros said. "Let me take a closer look in the trash heap out there to see if I can pick anything up."

"No looting intact items," Al said. "Even if you shrink it down with you, I do not want anything with cleats in my ear."

"What, I have to amputate my feet? Claws aren’t cleats, but they’re just as pointy."

"Just go. I’m going to poke around in the files here in the office, see if I can find any reasons why a ghost or elemental might be trashing the place."

####

It took only a few minutes for Al’s magic-aided search to find something that might be relevant. Feldspar was a history buff, and had done some research on the background of the neighborhood and his property in particular. Al’s spell brought up a document that Feldspar had been writing on his office computer regarding the history of 149 Slater Street.

"It’s not an elemental, or elementals, Al," Githros said. "But there’s traces of ectoplasm all over the place."

"Gah!" Al’s legs spasmed and the wheeled chair scooted out from under him. His tailbone struck the floor with a jolt that brought his teeth together with an enamel-jarring crack.

"Gee, Al, should I have knocked or something?" Githros asked.

Al picked himself up from the floor and lowered himself carefully back into the office chair. "Thank you so much for checking my arteries for weak spots," he gasped. "Since I didn’t die from a massive stroke just now, they must be fine."

"Hey, I didn’t exactly sneak up on you," Githros said. "The floors in this place creak like anything when I move around at this size. What’s that you’re reading?"

Al moved aside to let Githros see the screen.

"Kid ghosts," Githros said. "A bunch of kid ghosts. And ones that didn’t get to play a lot of sports and games."

"Looks like they died almost exactly a hundred years ago," Al said. "So they woke up -- don’t know exactly why, maybe just because of the date -- and found themselves with the biggest collection of sporting goods in town to play with."

"You’d think they’d play a little more carefully, then," Githros said. "Being anxious to hang onto the first bats and balls they’ve ever gotten their -- hands? -- on."

Al nodded thoughtfully, then shook his head. "Maybe they wouldn’t," he said. "Objects and buildings can retain impressions of spirits -- but suppose they have spirits of their own."

"News to me if they do," Githros said. "But maybe it’s something only a ghost can sense."

"I’ll ask next time I Summon one," Al said. "But anyway, it may be that the ghosts of the children now have the ghosts of all Feldspar’s inventory to play with."

"Huh. That would be sorta nice, in a gooey sentimental kind of way. A little hard on the inventory, though."

"We should make sure," Al said. "If it’s true, the ghosts will have no reason to do any more damage, and Feldspar can restock his store."

Githros grinned. "After you. Unless you’re afraid I’ll sneak up on you again?"

At the edge of the debris field, Al extended his hands, palm up, then pulled them toward his chest. "I Summon the spirits of the children who perished here, one hundred years ago. I Summon you to learn what awoke you from your long sleep --"

"Al, stop! Cancel the spell!"

"Huh? Why? What harm can it do --"

Suddenly it was painfully obvious what harm it could do. Bits of mangled wood, metal and plastic were already rising into the air and spinning around the room at frightening speeds; with each passing instant, more debris joined the chaotic dance.

"Get close to me, Githros!" Al shouted. There was no wind, in spite of the tornado-like maelstrom of junk, but the junk itself was making a lot of noise as its component parts collided with each other and the walls. He felt a constellation of stabbing pains in his back as Githros’s spiny skin pressed against him, then a jolt as a large chunk of metal caromed off the demon’s shoulder -- a weight from a set of barbells?

"Mibtsar!" Al said, and a shimmering dome of magical force closed over them. The impacts of thousands of scraps and splinters on the fortress spell bathed them in a continuous glare of blue-white light, but nothing penetrated.

"They’re playing, Al," Githros said. "I don’t think they even understand that what they’re doing could hurt us."

"The youngest ones were the most likely to have died in the fire," Al said, "the ones too young to find their way out on their own. That’s what we’re dealing with -- hyperactive toddler ghosts!"

"That’s so cute," Githros said, "I could just die."

"If we don’t get out of here, we might both die," Al said. "The fortress spell can take a lot of punishment, but this is insane, and it isn’t stopping."

"If you drop the spell, we get pulped," Githros said. "But you can’t apport us out of here with the spell in place."

After a moment, Al said, "I have an idea. Shrink down and get into my ear."

Githros said, "That’s really noble, Al, but if you get julienned while I’m in there, it’s gonna kill me, too."

"Shut up and do it," Al said. "I can feel the fortress spell weakening."

Al felt the pressure on his back vanish, then the tickling that told him that Githros was making his way over Al’s clothes and back into Al’s left ear.

He had only one rabbit left in his hat: a spell that only vampires had ever been known to use. The Countess Lamia had assured him that it should be safe, but she could not make any guarantees -- Walachian-diplomatic for it could be fatal. The question was, if the spell killed him, would it hurt more or less than getting pureed in the debris storm?

A splinter of plastic struck the fortress spell and clung instead of glancing off. It wiggled its way through a sparkling tunnel of blue-white light like a worm boring through the bark of a tree, then accelerated and buried itself in Al’s shoulder.

"Asmodeus on toast!" Al hissed. "Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. Githros, hang on to your molecules!"

"Al, you’re not gonna try that change-of-state spell, are you?" Githros said. "I’m no djinn -- I’m a solid kind of demon!"

"Shut up, Githros, and deveni fuma," Al said.

Turning into mist felt very strange. Al felt himself spreading out to fill the space inside the fortress spell’s boundaries, then spreading further as the shield collapsed under the relentless assault of the shredded sporting goods. Githros, he knew, had also been "mistified", and was floating with him, his "eentsy bits" mingled with Al’s.

And they were floating, unaffected by the driving force of the ghost children’s will. The bullet-fast bits of wood, metal, and plastic passed through and between their scattered atoms without damaging them.

Now the problem was finding a way to tell the ghost children that playtime was over. In solid form, he could speak and make them hear him; as mist, he was voiceless -- or was he?

Al let his component particles spread out further until they pressed against the walls and windows (unbreakable glass, thanks to the threat of theft and vandalism). Then he concentrated on moving against the glass in a very particular and controlled way ...

"Children, hush!"

The voice was nothing like Al’s own, or the voice of anything even vaguely human, but it was clear and loud enough to carry over the roar of the swirling debris.

"Hush! Playtime is over!"

At first, Al thought that the ghost children would ignore his commands, that they would not consider him to have any authority over them. But they had seen that he was a Grown-up, and they knew somehow that this strange voice belonged to him.

The maelstrom faltered. The heavier scraps began to sift down to the floor as the force driving them dissipated; then solid fragments of wood and metal rained down; and finally, even the feather-light bits of cloth and cellophane settled.

Abroga, Al thought.

It took almost a minute for his body to reform. For a moment, he was afraid that Githros had been right, and he would wind up with the demon’s miniaturized body blended with his own, or would come out with pieces of assorted football jerseys protruding from his eyeballs, but as Lamia had assured him, the spell "knew" which particles belonged and which did not.

"Al, are you in one piece? And are all your parts in the right places?"

"Yeah, I seem to be fine, aside from the puncture wounds on my back," Al said. "How about you?"

"I’d swear there’s some wax and ear hair mixed in with my skin -- but that’s probably just me being paranoid," Githros said.

"I could say that any change in your skin would be an improvement, but I’m above that sort of thing," Al said. "Anyway, let’s see if I can make our little ectoplasmic rug-rats understand the problem here."

"Children -- I understand that you have been asleep for a long time, and you want to play," Al said. "But this is not the place for it, and the way you are playing can hurt other people."

Al felt something odd in the air. It felt like regret and sadness and confusion -- exactly the reaction he would expect from a small child who has accidentally hurt another.

"You don’t need to stay here anymore," Al said. "There is a better place for you to go, where you can play as much as you want --"

"I don’t think they understand, Al," Githros said. "Or if they do, they don’t know how to get to Heaven, or whatever it is you’re talking about."

Al frowned. "I think you’re right. Some of them, maybe all, were so young that they never understood the concept of an afterlife, let alone learned anything about what it might be like."

"What you need is someone just a little older ..." Githros said.

Al grimaced. There was only one spirit he knew that would fit Githros’s description, but he was reluctant to call on her. She had suffered more than enough already.

Still, these ghost children had suffered too, and their pain had been worse. And little girls tended to love smaller children ...

"Jenica Comaneanu, I Summon you from your rest," Al said. "There are little ones here who need your help."

A cloud of silver light formed a meter or so in front of them and flowed into the shape of a small girl. Al muttered his reverse-Babel spell to handle translation duties, extending it to cover the entire room.

"I remember you," Jenica said. "You talked to me before, when I was lost."

Al nodded. "But you found your way to where you belonged, didn’t you?"

The girl-spirit nodded in return. "Yes. It’s nice there, but I miss Mommy and Daddy."

"Jenica, do you see the children here? They’re lost, too, and have been for a long time."

The girl-spirit turned. She could see what Al and Githros could not, and what she saw delighted her.

"Oh! They’re so little! And they have so many toys, balls and bats and everything."

"They don’t know where they’re supposed to go," Al said. "Could you lead them there?"

"I guess so," Jenica said. "It’s a grown-up job, but I think I can do it."

The silvery girl-shape walked toward the center of the room, her hands seeming to mime patting the head of a smaller child, taking the hand of another.

"Let’s go," Jenica said. "Follow me!"

The debris on the floor shifted, and for a moment Al was afraid that he would have to use the fortress spell again. But this time, it moved only slightly, as if dozens of small feet were shuffling through it toward the one spirit-form he could see.

"Here we go," Jenica said. Then she faded from sight. The room felt -- empty.

Githros emerged from Al’s ear. "If I had tear-ducts, I’d cry," he said.

"Shut up, Githros. Why don’t you clean up those holes you poked in my back, while I call Feldspar and give him the All Clear?"

Githros smacked his lips (or lip-like horny ridges), amazingly making an audible noise in spite of his tiny size. "Ah, chowing down on your blood," he said. "That’s one thing you don’t have to order me to do -- not that you can order me to do anything anymore --"

"Yeah, yeah, you’re my partner, not my bound servant, you don’t need to remind me," Al said. "Go, eat, heal me, and let me make the call."

####

Feldspar Sporting Goods had a Grand Re-Opening ten days later. Al dropped by and was given a half-dozen custom-screened T-shirts with "Majius Magical Services" and a stylized lightning bolt on the front, and numbers from "01" to "06" on the back.

"For your team," Edward Feldspar said, "in appreciation for your work here. You never said how many employees you had -- is a half-dozen shirts enough?"

"With a couple to spare," Al said. "The gang will love them, although they’ll probably refuse to wear them in public -- being associated with me isn’t nearly as popular as you might think!"

"Did you see the plaque I put up?" Feldspar asked. "The Historical Society paid for it, after the story of what happened came out."

Al nodded. "I did. It seems appropriate." He read the inscription aloud.

"Amen," Feldspar said.

"Amen," Al said.

Copyright © 2003 by Robert Moriyama

Robert Moriyama is a systems analyst who somehow wound up in Airport Planning at Toronto’s main airport. He has been writing sporadically for most of his life (with readership limited to family and friends) but has placed stories in various webzines over the past several years, including Dementia, Titan, and Aphelion. His most recent Aphelion appearances were A Matter of Time and A Matter of Taste. His story "Prufrock’s Problem" recently sold to Planet Relish webzine (the check is in the mail).

E-mail: bmoriyam@pathcom.com

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