Practical Demonkeeping by Christopher Moore Read Free Book Online

particular morning Brine was having a difficult time clearing his mind. The visit of the little Arab man to the store vexed him. Brine did not speak Arabic, yet he had understood every word the little man had said. He had seen the air cut with swirling blue curses, and he had seen the Arab’s eyes glow white with anger.
    He smoked his pipe, the meerschaum mermaid carved so that Brine’s index finger fell across her breasts, and tried to apply some meaning to a situation that was outside the context of his reality. He knew that if he were to accept the fluid of this experience, the cup of his mind had to be empty. But right now he had a better chance of buying bread with moonlight than reaching a Zen calm. It vexed him.
    â€œIt is a mystery, is it not?” someone said.
    Startled, Brine looked around. The little Arab man stood about three feet from Brine’s side, drinking from a large styrofoam cup. His red stocking cap was glistening, damp with the morning spray.
    â€œI’m sorry,” Brine said. “I didn’t see you come up.”
    â€œIt is a mystery, is it not? How this dashing figure seems to appear out of nowhere? You must be awestruck. Paralyzed with fear perhaps?”
    Brine looked at the withered little man in the rumpled flannel suit and silly red hat. “Very close to paralyzed,” he said. “I am Augustus Brine.” He extended his hand to the little man.
    â€œAre you not afraid that by touching me you will burst into flames?”
    â€œIs that a danger?”
    â€œNo, but you know how superstitious fishermen are. Perhaps you believe that you will be transformed into a toad. You hide your fear well, Augustus Brine.”
    Brine smiled. He was baffled and amused; it didn’t occur to him to be afraid.
    The Arab drained his cup and dipped it into the surf to refill it.
    â€œPlease call me Gus,” Brine said, his hand still extended. “And you are?”
    The Arab drained his cup again, then took Brine’s hand. His skin had the feel of parchment.
    â€œI am Gian Hen Gian, King of the Djinn, Ruler of the Netherworld. Do not tremble, I wish you no harm.”
    â€œI am not trembling,” Brine said. “You might go easy on that seawater—it works hell on your blood pressure.”
    â€œDo not fall to your knees; there is no need to prostrate yourself before my greatness. I am here in your service.”
    â€œThank you. I am honored,” Brine said. Despite the strange happenings in the store, he was having a hard time taking this pompous little man seriously. The Arab was obviously a nuthouse Napoleon. He’d seen hundreds of them, living in cardboard castles and feasting from dumpsters all over America. But this one had some credentials: he could curse in blue swirls.
    â€œIt is good that you are not afraid, Augustus Brine. Terrible evil is at hand. You will have to call upon your courage. It is a good sign that you have kept your wits in the presence of the great Gian Hen Gian. The grandeur is sometimes too much for weaker men.”
    â€œMay I offer you some wine?” Brine extended the bottle of cabernet he had brought from the store.
    â€œNo, I have a great thirst for this.” He sloshed the cup of seawater. “From a time when it was all I could drink.”
    â€œAs you wish.” Brine sipped from the bottle.
    â€œThere is little time, Augustus Brine, and what I am to tell you may overwhelm your tiny mind. Please prepare yourself.”
    â€œMy tiny mind is steeled for anything, O King. But first, tell me, did I see you curse blue swirls this morning?”
    â€œA minor loss of temper. Nothing really. Would you have had me turn the clumsy dolt into a snake who forever gnaws his own tail?”
    â€œNo, the cursing was fine. Although in Vance’s case the snake might be an improvement. Your curses were in Arabic, though, right?”
    â€œA language I prefer for its music.”
    â€œBut I