The Arrows of Hercules

Fidgeting, Zopyros wondered if they were going to sit there all night. Then a stir at the mouth of the cave announced the last arrival, a man of mature years and dignified bearing, albeit Zopyros could see little of him beside his long white beard and the black cloak that covered him from head to foot. This, he understood, was a visitor of no common degree. The man was one of the two suphetes or chief magistrates of Utica.

The suphete murmured a brief greeting; Saphanbaal handed a cushion to the sitter next to her, who passed it on around to the magistrate. As the suphete sat down with the rest, Zopyros thought that Saphanbaal must be no ordinary adventuress, to draw to her sittings a man from the haughty Punic merchant aristocracy, and moreover compel him to sit with rag, tag, and bobtail of her regular circle of clients.

Still the witch sat silently. At last, when Zopyros was ready to jump out of his skin with impatience, her deep voice boomed through the cavern. She intoned:

"Friends, we are gathered together here to pierce the veil that hides matters of moment from mortal sight. To this end I have spent the day in prayer and fasting." (Zopyros, smiling in the dark, recalled that she had eaten a dinner big enough for a hungry lion.) "I have cast a mighty conjuration to summon a host of fell spirits across the black gulfs of space and time. My spell went forth through all the corners of the universe, rousing the winged daemons of the lofty aether and the scaly monsters of the bottomless pits, as the twitch of a trapped fly in a spider's web arouses the spider. In mystic caverns in the cragged mountains beyond the desert, bats flew squeaking in circles to warn the black wizards who dwell therein. On ancient battlefields, the ghosts of the unburied dead stirred restlessly. The night wind whispered the spell as it flew, and were-leopard and were-hyena slunk to their lairs, whimpering with fear. The serpent under the rock knew; and the owl on its bough knew. They knew. The very gods in their jeweled heavenly palaces"—she touched breast, lips, and forehead—"looked at one another and said: 'Saphanbaal conjures again. Well, let her conjure, for she is beloved of the gods!' "

Saphanbaal picked up the scoop, dug a small quantity of charcoal out of the pail, and sprinkled this fuel on the fire. She did this a second time. After another wait, she spoke again:

"Now my attendant spirits draw nigh. I feel the magical wind of their coming. From the blue-green depths of the sea, from the jungle-lost ruins of ancient temples, from the icy caves of the Mountains of the Moon they come. If any have arrived, let them signify their presence!"

There was a long pause. Then the charcoal fire hissed. The coals moved and seethed as if something alive were under them. The sitters gasped with awe. Zopyros, watching from his side chamber, would have gasped, too, had he not helped to prepare the fuel. Mixed with the first scoopful of coals were a number of lumps of alum coated with wax. When the wax melted, the alum bubbled, stirring the coals.

"They are here!" cried Saphanbaal. "They have come! Now for the sacrifice!"

Her hands came out from under her cloak. In her left hand she held one of the little birds from the cages, securely trussed. The bird uttered one cheep of protest. Then the witch cut its throat and let its blood trickle into the coals, making them hiss more loudly.

"Let us all sing the invocation to the moon!" she said. In an unmusical mixture of voices and keys, they sang: