My new friend is not the most genial of companions. “Irascible” is the word that comes most readily to mind. I am sorely tempted to block up the wall again and spare myself the continuing trial of his irksome company.
It’s possible, of course, that I’m judging him too hastily. His sour disposition may be attributable to nothing more than poor digestion or lack of sleep.
It could also have something to do with the fact that he is, by my reckoning, over four hundred years old.
“Your name is Dee,” I said to him on the third day of our acquaintance.
“Who told it thee?” he grumbled.
“No one,” I answered. “But I know who discovered—or invented—the Enochian alphabet. And I know that the fourth letter, which you’ve scrawled there upon the floor, has the same phonetic value as the English “d”.
“Fie upon thee for a wizard!” he spat.
“Yes. And perhaps upon thee as well. It’s not hard to guess why you’re here. Like me, you went too far with your experiments and conjurings. Your thirst for knowledge betrayed you to the Morrigu.”
He glared at me. “How is it that thou speak’st of such things?”
“I made the same mistake,” I said. “She tried to make me tell her what I knew about a Stone.”
“And me,” he said bitterly, “she hath imprisoned for the sake of a Sword.”
“I think I know this sword,” said I.
* * * * * *