by Gwyn G B
She got up from the chair and went to prepare for her daughter’s return. She would wash and dress her wounds and if she was lucky, she wouldn’t become pregnant and they wouldn’t call on her again for some time.
In the forest, her daughter sits propped against a tree to watch the final stage of the Sabbath, witnessing its true power, so that she might realise the consequences of speaking out about the night’s events. The members of the coven had all awoken and although still drugged, are kneeling in reverence towards the altar, their athames pointing skywards, pressed against their foreheads with both hands.
Individually, they didn’t look powerful or fearsome, their unfit bodies, their flaccid penises drooping onto the earth, but united in their love of Satan and all he stands for, they become a terrible evil force.
The coven leader led them in their final prayer,
‘O Satan, thou art the Shadow of God and of ourselves, I speak these words of agony for thy glory.
Thou who art Doubt and Revolt, Sophism and Impotence, thou livest again in us and around us.
Today thy degenerate sons are scattered and celebrate thy cult in their hideouts. But thy people have increased, and Satan thy canst be proud of the multitude of thy faithful ones, as false as thy will has desired.
Thou has won, O Satan, though anonymous and obscure for a few more years yet; but the coming century will proclaim thy revenge. Thou shalt be reborn in the Antichrist.’
Silence followed the prayer while all around them in the forest, the trees began to shiver. A strong wind shook the branches, sending birds squawking into the air in fright. Then as the first signs of daylight broke the black night, large droplets of rain began to splash down onto the altar. Rumbles of thunder, as if the huge stone gates of Hell were opening, and streaks of lightning proclaimed Satan’s presence. The clan raised their arms in greeting, crying out their Lord’s name and drowning out the terrified sobs of the young girl as he spread his evil across the earth.
13
The Sunday weather matched Alison’s mood. She’d woken with a start in the early morning, a huge clap of thunder disturbing her sleep, as the heavy splattering of rain began. The bedroom windows were open and she’d left the unconscious bulk of Charlie and gone to close them. A chill breeze had made her shiver in the darkness but a strange animal noise, like the sound of a woman’s screams, made her stop and look into the forest. Nothing except the dark shadows of the trees met her eyes and she’d gently pulled the windows shut and returned to her dreaming.
The next time she awoke, the heat of the day before had turned into a soft grey mist. During the morning it hung low in the air, boosted occasionally by some drizzle and defiantly refused to allow the sun to show its face. Today Charlie overslept, probably aided by the alcohol in his bloodstream, and left Alison to be the first to view the day. She awoke almost with relief, nightmares had plagued her sleep since the start of the storm, making her feel insecure and taunting her inner fears. The air around her felt disturbed and her instincts were on alert, but she couldn’t quite remember her dreams or what it was that had frightened her.
One thing she did know was that she wasn’t looking forward to Charlie’s return to London. She’d got used to having him around, being able to rely on him and the thought of his departure made her feel a little anxious. Of course she knew she’d be fine, she’d more than adequately cope, but there’d be an inevitable period of adjustment when the house would seem empty without him. To put it in a nutshell, she was going to miss him and that was scary because that meant she no longer had control of her emotions.
Charlie currently lay asleep on his side facing her. His breathing was soft and rhythmic and his face looked younger and more innocent in his slumber. He hadn’t shaved for two days and the stubble was thick on his face, a black bloom, extending from his skin like the tops of hundreds of black beetles’ legs. The sight of his stubble reminded her of their passionate kissing the night before. Had he been able to see her face after they’d made love he’d have seen the pink skin around her mouth where his beetles’ legs had scratched at her. She rubbed her fingers over her face, the soreness had gone and hopefully the rash with it.
She lay there for a few moments longer studying his sleeping face and ruffled hair, dying to reach over and kiss his naked lips. But instead she’d slipped out of bed and into the shower, accompanied by a dull aching in her head from where a slight hangover marked its territory.
Sophie was up already. By the time Alison had made her way downstairs her daughter was sitting by the patio doors with Beelzebub, the pair of them staring out into the grey nothingness. Her first thought on seeing her there was to wonder if she’d spotted that Charlie’s room was empty, or had she gone in search of her mother and spotted him in her room. She decided the best policy would be to assume not, rather than draw attention to it.
‘Morning love. Have you had some breakfast yet?’ Alison asked, putting her hand lightly on Sophie’s shoulder.
‘No. Not hungry.’ Sophie didn’t’ look round or offer a greeting in return.
‘Darling you should eat something, as granny says, breakfast is the most important meal of the day.’ Alison bent down to stroke the cat in an attempt to make contact with her daughter. Beelzebub wasn’t having any of her false affection and disdainfully got up, stretched and went to sit over the other side of Sophie.
‘Not very friendly is he?’ Alison mistakenly said. Her statement at last got some reaction from Sophie, although it wasn’t quite the one she’d been hoping for.
‘Yes he is, you just don’t understand him that’s all,’ the little girl snapped back, turning to look at her mother, eyes burning and annoyance spread across her face.
‘Oh, OK fine,’ She didn’t know quite how to reply to that. ‘Well I’m going to fix us all something to eat, so you and your misunderstood fur ball can report to the kitchen in about ten minutes. Right?’ Alison left them to it and set about preparing some fresh orange juice, wondering just what there was about a cat to understand other than the fact it wants to eat, sleep and occasionally, if it can be bothered, try to catch small birds and animals.
They all had breakfast together in the kitchen. Charlie had dragged himself down and consumed a glass of alka seltzer before even uttering a word; while Sophie sat glum faced staring at her bowl of cereal and making a huge show of the fact she was being force fed. Alison looked at them both and sighed, her slight hangover had given an edge to her hunger so she wasn’t about to let them put her off her breakfast.
Sophie was putting one Cheerio at a time onto her spoon and very slowly taking it to her mouth and chewing. Alison reckoned that after the third chew it would have disintegrated anyway, and at the rate she was going with one Cheerio per fifteen chews, she would be there until two o’clock that afternoon and have eaten an awful lot of air.
Charlie was quick to perk up and managed three waffles, some cereal and a piece of toast before opting out for a shower. Eventually Alison lost patience with Sophie’s miserable face and told her to sit there until she finished, while she went off to help Charlie pack. Beelzebub quickly discovered that Cheerios and milk are delicious.
‘All ready then?’ she asked, walking into his room. She knew he was virtually packed, that had just been an excuse so that they could say goodbye properly in private.
‘Yeah, ‘fraid so. I’ve got to get off. I need to sort a few things out ready for work tomorrow and I don’t want to hit the weekend traffic going back into town.’
‘I know. I understand, ‘she’d replied, looking sad and walking over to him to give him a big hug. ‘I’m going to miss you.’
‘I’m going to miss you big time.’
They kissed and Charlie couldn’t help but feel a little smug at the fact she obviously didn’t really want him to go. With any luck, a few more fond farewells like this and she’d be ready for him to talk about moving down to be with them and setting up his own business, something he’d been doing a lot of thinking
about in the last week. His shopping trips into the village and surrounding areas hadn’t all been innocent food gathering. He’d been sniffing around, doing some research and checking out the possible competition.
Eventually all four of them, three humans and one feline, made it out onto the courtyard. Charlie loaded his bags and Alison fetched him apples and mints for the journey. Sophie reminded him to throw his apple cores out the window in a country area so that the animals could eat them and they wouldn’t go to waste. He kissed her for that, this was the little girl he knew, always caring and generous, not temperamental and disobedient. He noted that she seemed to have perked up since breakfast and he hoped it wasn’t because he was leaving.
He was waved down the lane and onto the main road. As he turned the corner out of sight, both he and Alison experienced the same sensation of loss and loneliness, Charlie grabbed the loudest, boppiest CD he had and whacked it into the CD player. Just five days and he’d see her again.
14
Alison and Sophie walked back to the house hand in hand, their furry escort trotting along behind. Alison was lost in her memory, re-living some of the best moments with Charlie over the last week, when suddenly Sophie asked the question.
‘Mummy, are you going to marry Charlie?’ It caught Alison totally by surprise, she had no idea Sophie would be having such thoughts and so she hadn’t considered a reply. She stalled for a bit.
‘Why do you ask that sweetie?’
‘Because he spends lots of time with us and because I saw you kiss him yesterday.’
Alison kicked herself mentally for being indiscreet. No wonder Sophie had been acting strangely, her mood change coincided with the garden kiss. She’d been insensitive, Sophie still missed her father.
‘I don’t know darling, does it bother you? I thought you liked Charlie?’
‘I do, but…’ the little girl frowned like an old man as she tried to work out her confusion. ‘Don’t you love daddy anymore?’
They’d reached the hallway now and Alison pulled Sophie over to the stairs to sit down.
‘Of course I do. I’ll always love daddy, always. But he’s not able to be with us now, he can only watch over us and I know that he wants us to be happy and to carry on without him. He’ll be glad that Charlie wants to look after us.’
Sophie had picked Beelzebub up and was clutching him to her, burying her face into his black fur.
‘I still miss daddy,’ she said after thought, ‘Charlie can’t stop me missing him.’
‘Oh sweetheart,’ Alison hugged her now, sandwiching the unimpressed cat between them. ‘Of course Charlie would never want you to forget daddy. Charlie loved him too, you know that. Daddy will always be with us, I still miss him terribly as well and that’s OK you know.’
Then the mother-daughter embrace was unceremoniously forced apart by a loss of patience on the part of Beelzebub who let out a screeching meow and attempted to wriggle his way to freedom.
Alison wasn’t sure, but she thought their little chat had been successful. It was such a classic reaction, she was stupid not to have realised that’s why Sophie had been upset. She and Charlie would have to be more considerate and just take things slowly, Sophie would soon get used to the idea she was sure of it. In the meantime, there was the usual round of household chores to be addressed, including a large pile of washing which had taken second place to organisation and DIY for the past week. The grey mist had been almost burnt away and she figured that by the time the first load was ready the day would be back to its recent standards of bright sunshine. She cleared away the breakfast things, choosing to ignore the little black cat hairs all round Sophie’s cereal bowl, and then went upstairs to change the beds.
Alison had indeed timed her first load of washing just right, when she went into the garden to peg out the sheets there wasn’t a scrap of damp mist in sight. As she was hanging them on the line she noticed that Martha’s cottage was still asleep, its doors and windows shut to the morning. ‘She’s having a long lie in,’ thought Alison, immediately worried in case something had happened to her. ‘I’ll give her until lunchtime and then go and check she’s OK.’
By lunchtime, the household chores were under control and with her new-found solitude, Alison’s mind was turning to thoughts of freelancing again. They just had a light lunch, boiled eggs and bread soldiers, after which she formulated an action plan. Sophie was definitely more relaxed and warmer towards her mother and even Beelzebub managed a rub against her legs when she gave him some milk in an effort to appease her daughter.
‘Can I play out with Michaela this afternoon, Martha’s given us some baby herb plants and our own growing area?’ she’d asked with a blob of runny yolk making a break for freedom down her chin.
‘Sure, just don’t be a nuisance,’ Alison wiped the egg off with her serviette, and then remembered that Martha hadn’t surfaced earlier. ‘I’ll just check she’s up first though, she seemed to be having a bit of a lie in.’ Concerned and a little guilty at not having thought about her earlier, Alison popped into the garden to see if there were any signs of life next door. She needn’t have worried, all the doors and windows of the cottage were open to the fresh air and Martha was obviously doing the same household chores as Alison, for on her washing line a black silk sheet shimmered in the light breeze. ‘Kinky old dear,’ she laughed to herself. ‘Who’d have thought it. I’d have expected flowery cotton or flannelette sheets, not black silk’. She put that down as one to tell Charlie later, that would crease him up!
Thinking about speaking to Charlie on the telephone reminded Alison that she was going to call her mother – if she was in that is. Elizabeth Wright was in her mid-sixties, but far from winding down towards old age, she had found herself a new lease of life. For as long as Alison could remember, she’d been a mother and a housewife, her days filled with looking after her two children and her husband, and later working at a local solicitor’s office to help the family purse. Four years ago, the whole image of her mother had changed. Obviously the kids had flown the nest years back. Alison’s older sister married an American and went to live in Connecticut and Alison had left for University at eighteen, never to return home, but throughout this she didn’t stop being ‘mum’. What did stop four years ago was the job. For the first six months of retirement she marvelled at the spare time she had to do all the things she’d been wanting to do for all those years. For the next six months, she wondered at how she’d ever been able to fit everything into one day; the job, the kids, the house and the husband. After that she just felt like she was losing it – her brain was turning to pulp, her memory disappearing and she seemed incapable of getting enthusiastic about anything. The longer this went on, the more her confidence ebbed away and the worse the problem got.
Her father was fine, he’d always been a practical man and had kept himself busy after retirement with hobbies and the odd job for a friend – but Elizabeth Wright was more intellectual, more of an artist and although over the years she’d not indulged her main passion of writing because of the basic realities of family needs, with those gone, the frustrations were free to do their worst.
She joined a writing class, but every time that Alison rang, she’d get the same self-pitying wails of no confidence.
‘My stories are rubbish, I’m too old to start writing. Nobody will want to read what I have to say.’
Alison had nearly lost her patience several times.
‘For God’s sake mother, stop being so pathetic. You’ve got the rest of your life to live, make the most of it. It’s never too late.’
‘But I couldn’t write anything worthwhile.’
Then one day for some inexplicable, but God sent reason, Elizabeth Wright woke up and realised that what she really needed to do was let go and write something she was passionate about. She wrote for the millions of women who are just like her, and of course, the best education for that was her own life.
She started writing about a bored, retired housewif
e who, tired of the domestic shackles, had broken free and reached her own personal enlightenment. She wrote solidly for six months and when she finally sent it to a literary agent, they loved it. Elizabeth Wright the author was born and Elizabeth Wright the mother and wife, was re-born.
Jim Wright had initially been perturbed by this interruption to their domestic routine, but with time he’d realised that not only did his wife become happier and indeed younger in spirit, it improved their relationship and lifestyle. He learnt to cope with the idea that just because she wanted to achieve something for herself, it didn’t mean she loved him any less. For Alison it was wonderful, her parents seemed to shake-off the cobwebs and dust which had settled on them and stand up again ready to embrace life and enjoy it.
Now her mother was just about to bring out her third book and her huge army of fans were overjoyed. Alison knew she was busy, but she wanted to tell her about Charlie – the only question was, how would she react? The old mother might have asked if she was rushing things a bit, or perhaps have asked when or if they were planning to marry. The new mother, Elizabeth Wright the individual, would tell her daughter to be careful, but enjoy herself, live life to the full and not be afraid.
With trepidation Alison dialled her parents’ number.
‘Mum, it’s me, Alison.’
‘Oh hello sweetheart, are you all settled in?’ She held the receiver away from her mouth and shouted at the other end, ‘Jim, it’s Alison on the phone,’ then she resumed their conversation. ‘Your father is so excited, I’ve made him Chairman of my new fan club, but he’ll tell you all about that in a mo, so how is the house?’