“Lilith,” Alter said. “She’s mentioned in the Talmud, and in the earlier incarnation, the Babylonian Talmud, but the name and the mythology date back to Mesopotamian religion.” Maude looked at the journalist and cocked an eyebrow. “My older brother is a rabbi,” Alter explained. “Our uncle as well, he’s at Congregation Shearith Israel. I was exposed to a lot of religious schooling as a boy. I’ve always been fascinated by the mystical side of my faith. My uncle said I liked the assur a little too much. Guess that’s how I ended up a journalist. You like poking about in evil works, this is the job for you. My understanding is that Lilith is described as either a demon or the first wife of Adam, who turned against God and her husband. She is supposed to be the mother of all monsters.”
“Don’t believe everything you read,” Maude said. “I was taught Lilith refused to submit to the will of anyone—man or his gods—and for wanting to be free of the control of others, she was driven out into the world to make her own way. She used her mind and body to survive, honed them to a superhuman edge. We consider ourselves Daughters of Lilith, heirs to her power, freedom and responsibilities.”
“A cult of Lilith worshipers,” Alter said, rubbing his chin. “All women. And what you do, all the miraculous things you can do, that comes from these teachings of Lilith? You know, even if I did print any of this, which I swear I won’t, no one would believe it.”
“We don’t worship Lilith,” Maude said, shaking her head. “The whole point is to be truly free of anyone’s and everyone’s control of your destiny, save yourself. The teachings give you near-absolute mastery and understanding of your body. It’s not magic, but Gran told me it can sometimes seem that way to someone on the outside. There are holy men in the East who can slow their heart, ignore the pain and injury of walking on red-hot coals, and even control their breathing so as to appear dead. There are monks in the Orient who have mastered martial combat that uses their bodies as very versatile and deadly weapons. Not magic, merely discipline, focus and will.”
Maude decided Cline didn’t need to hear about the Blood of Lilith, about how at the completion of her initial instruction, Maude had ritually drunk from an ancient flask that Gran told her contained the moon-blood of the first woman herself. That blood seemed to fortify and strengthen her body to allow Maude to endure some of the more rigorous aspects of the training. Cline was already swimming a bit from her revelations, and she was certain that talk of ancient mystical blood from a mythological figure would be too much for him right now. Not to mention sometimes it was hard for her to believe it, and she had lived through it.
Maude didn’t fully understand what the blood was or how it did what it did. Gran had told her once that she had been given the old iron flask by an African witch, who had instructed Gran long ago. Gran also said the blood forged a link between all those who had drunk it, an unconscious “knowing” of information shared between all the Daughters of Lilith.
The origins of the blood may be a moot point now, Maude thought. Two years ago she had been forced to give Constance a draft of the Blood of Lilith before she was ready in her training to accept it. The desperate measure was to counteract the effects of a hideous venom that Constance had been exposed to—the supposed blood of an antediluvian creature coiled at the heart of the Earth itself, a thing called the Greate Olde Wurm by its nihilistic worshipers.
The Wurm’s followers had come to Golgotha and discovered the secret chamber that acted as the seal for their god’s prison. They had succeeded in awakening the slumbering monstrosity, which then began literally tearing the world apart as it thrashed itself free.
Maude had given Constance some of Lilith’s blood to heal her and then drained the rest of the flask into the well that opened into the Wurm’s prison in hopes of subduing the creature and healing the shuddering planet. Far more of the Mother’s blood had poured out into the well than was possible for such a vessel, and yet the effort seemed to empty the flask. In the end, the Wurm returned to its eons-old imprisonment and slumber. The world was saved, but the flask Gran had entrusted her with for future generations of the Daughters was empty. The Blood of Lilith was gone forever, and with it the Daughters of Lilith would die out too.
“How many of you are there?” Alter asked, as if he had been reading her mind. Maude took a sip of wine.
“Not many,” she said. “A handful in any generation, scattered across the world. I don’t know exactly.”
“Don’t you have gatherings?” Alter asked. “Um, covens, whatever you call them?”
Maude couldn’t help but laugh. “You are determined to make us some kind of nefarious cult, aren’t you? No, no meetings, no eating babies on the night of the full moon…”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m trying to understand all this, it’s just … outside my experience. You seem so, well … normal.”
“I am,” Maude said. “I work, I own a business of my own back in Golgotha. I love and care for my daughter.” She held up her wineglass. “I enjoy a good wine, and this one is excellent, by the way. I’m a typical person.”
“There is nothing typical about you,” Alter said. Maude felt the tension pass between them, read Alter’s body language as if he was holding up a sign. She smiled but made sure that she presented nothing that he might interpret as an invitation for more.
“I was told that the only reason all of the Daughters would ever gather together would be some kind of emergency. I’ve never seen another Daughter of Lilith in my life, besides my Gran.”
“She sounds remarkable,” Alter said.
“More than you know,” Maude said. She had decided that Alter Cline also didn’t need to know that on that beach, so long ago, Gran Bonnie Cormac had told nine-year-old Maude that she was in reality Anne Bonny, an ancient, mythic pirate queen.
“So, satisfied? Worth the wait?” Maude asked.
“You’re holding back on me,” Alter said, “which only leads to grander questions, I’m afraid, but thank you, for being good to your word, and for giving me the truth, even a bit of it.”
“It’s such a fantastic story,” Maude said, “how do you know it’s the truth? How do you know I’m not mad as a hatter?”
“I don’t believe you’d do that,” he said. “I don’t have supernatural powers, but I am a damn good judge of character, comes with the job, and you are a very good person … and not crazy. I can tell.”
“Thank you,” Maude said.
“I got the impression you are here in Charleston for some personal reason and that it is causing you some distress,” Cline said. “I don’t want to pry, but I did make inquiries about your father and I learned that your daughter Constance has been residing at his townhouse here for the last several months. Is there anything I might be able to do to help you?”
“You don’t appear to need supernatural powers to perceive things,” Maude said. “Yes, actually there is a way you can help me, if you don’t feel it conflicts with the integrity of your profession.”
“A-ha,” Alter said, raising his own wineglass, “so the real reason for this little dinner date becomes clear. Well done.”
“It’s not a date,” Maude said, “and you’re the one who asked if you could help. I can guarantee you a story, Alter, almost as sensational as ‘a secret cult of Lilith worshipers,’ and this one you can give to your editors.”
“I’m all ears,” Cline said, leaning forward across the table.
“Well,” Maude said, “I have a few particulars to firm up first. Before I can give you all the details, I need to consult with my attorney.”
* * *
It was finally starting to feel like spring in Charleston. The morning was warm when Maude took the carriage out from Grande Folly into the city. She had very much wanted to ride a horse in, but Maude decided it might attract undue attention, so she settled for the small, two-wheeled buggy.
She stopped at the same rail passenger depot on Line Street that she had disembarked from when she first arrived back in Ch
arleston in December. Maude was dressed sensibly for the warm weather in a simple pale blue house dress. Her hair was up in its usual bun, and she had seen no reason to carry more than a half-dozen concealed weapons on her for the simple trip.
She paid a young man at the cab stand to mind her carriage and lead her horse to a water trough, while she entered the depot. Maude checked the schedule scrawled on the large slate board near the ticket window. Satisfied that she was on time, she took a seat on one of the long wooden benches that stretched along the backside of the platform wall, making sure to take one as far from a large brass spittoon as possible, and waited for the train.
Within twenty minutes, she heard a long blast on the train’s whistle cry out; a few moments later, there was the magnificent rumble of the powerful engine, and then the train came into view. It slowed, and she watched the passenger cars flash by her vantage point. Finally, there was the groan of the brakes and the hiss of the steam engine as it came to rest. Maude stood as the passengers began to disembark and make their way to the platform. It only took a moment to find who she was waiting for.
The woman making her way down the platform was tall and blond. She wore her hair short, to the nape of her neck, and swept back in a very man-like style. Her attire was a conservative gray. She wore a short-waisted Basque bodice and a narrow skirt. Her cuffs and collar were noticeably plain, not trimmed in ruffled lace as was the current fashion. She wore no cosmetics—her ears were slightly elfin in their points, and her fair eyes held a formidable and almost radiant intelligence. Maude saw she carried herself with utmost confidence and authority. Even though she was stepping off the train in a new city, this woman walked without a hint of hesitation or trepidation. The woman noticed Maude, gave a slight smile and approached.
“Miss Stapleton,” the woman said, offering her hand in a handshake, “I’m Arabella Mansfield. It’s a pleasure to meet you in person at last.”
“No, the pleasure is mine, Mrs. Mansfield,” Maude said, shaking her hand. “I hope the trip from Iowa was pleasant. Thank you so much for agreeing to come.”
“Well,” Mansfield said, “it isn’t every day you get offered an opportunity to make history.”
“You’ve already made history,” Maude said.
“I suppose I did, didn’t I?” Mansfield said. “Well then, an opportunity to make history twice, and give some pompous old gasbags a good fright while we’re at it. I must admit I’m intrigued by your proposal, Miss Stapleton.”
“Maude.”
“You can call me Bella,” Mansfield said. “I’ve actually come to prefer Arabella, but it’s always hard to shake a childhood name. My brother says ‘Arabella’ is too ‘putting on of airs,’” she said with a laugh. Arabella had very small, white, even teeth. “I must tell you, I have thoroughly enjoyed our correspondence, Maude.”
“As have I, Bella. I have a carriage waiting, and I can have someone attend to your luggage.”
“Thank you,” Mansfield said. “Could you recommend lodgings to me?”
“You are more than welcome to stay at Grande Folly, my family’s estate,” Maude said, gesturing for a porter.
“You are very kind to offer, Maude,” Bella said, “but I think I will need to be as close to the courthouse and city hall as I can possibly be. I have a lot of South Carolina law to review, and some key documents that need a proper examination.”
“Of course,” Maude said. “I’ll make arrangements for you at the Mills House. A friend of mine is already staying there, and I think you will find it to your liking. The dining is excellent.”
“Good,” Mansfield said, walking toward the exit from the depot. “Well, Maude, this will not be easy, but I already have a few notions on how to proceed. We have quite a bit to do, you and I, quite a few feathers to ruffle. Let’s get to it, shall we?”
8
The Magician
Badagry, West Africa
July 8, 1721
If there were a place upon the earth where Hell had pierced the skin of this world and festered, it was the slave market in Badagry. Anne walked through the wide, crowded streets of the three-hundred-year-old town nestled in a lagoon. Badagry was part of the great Oyo Empire of the Yoruba people. While it was part of an ancient, sprawling African civilization, European gold and guns gained more power here with each passing day.
There were a dozen different languages from across the world buzzing in the humid air. Rows of slaves, Africans, captured enemies of the Yoruba or tribute offerings from across the empire, shuffled by in heavy chains, linked collar to collar, with iron gags bolted across their jaws. Men, women and children were hustled to the auction blocks, then out across the Ajara River to the “point of no return,” as it was known, where the slave ships were docked. There they would be packed in the holds one atop another, sealed in darkness, and bound for the West Indies and the Americas.
The flesh trade was big business, growing bigger by the day, and Badagry was one of the busiest ports for it on the Slave Coast. Anne had been here once before. She had hated it then. Now, after a year in prison, she was filled with a longing to draw her brace of pistols and shoot the slavers—European and African both, who were leading this long chain of human misery.
Anne had ditched her disguise once she had taken her curt, and not terribly sentimental, leave of Captain Curran and the Lough Sheelin. She had let her hair down and finally freed her bosom from the accursed wraps. She carried the strange, painted box on one shoulder and had a ditty bag with all her worldly possessions over the other.
Anne’s gaze caught that of one of the children in a line of slaves. The boy was no older than ten, perhaps, with a look of terror and confusion on his face. The boy walked along in a tiny iron collar, fashioned especially for child slaves. She knelt by the boy, setting her load down and stopping the procession in the process.
“Akerele,” Anne whispered to the boy in broken Yoruba. “You may be small, but you must be strong.” The child tried to smile behind his iron gag, but the fear shone out of his eyes.
“Move along!” one of the white slavers called out. He sounded Portuguese by his accent. “You’re holding up the line, you stupid bitch.” The slaver reached for Anne’s shoulder. She came up with one flintlock cocked and planted it under the slaver’s chin. The other pistol flashed out to cover the Yoruba slaver who was unslinging his musket.
“Think how much your peggin’ line will be held up if I take that meat pie you call a noggin off,” she said. “You raise that musket, my lad, and I’ll put a hole in you too,” she called out to the Yoruba, who got the idea and lowered his weapon.
For a moment, Anne thought of ordering the men to unlock the slaves, starting with this little boy. Then she heard the shouting and the thick click of gun hammers being cocked and readied. This was only one link in the long train of slaves being led to the marketplace. There were dozens of slavers, dozens of guns being pointed at her. Even though it meant death, Anne still considered taking at least these two shit-eating carrion with her.
She stepped back, keeping her guns trained on the two slavers. The Portuguese spit at her, shouted out, and the procession began to move again. The boy kept looking at her with pleading eyes until he was swept away in the tide of lost lives. Anne stood there until the line passed her by. It was followed by another and another. It was not the first time in her life she had wished she had the power to fix broken things, and it sure as hell wouldn’t be the last.
“Fuck,” she said to no one at all.
* * *
One of the older inns in Badagry was the Broken Shackle. Anne and her mates had stayed there before, and she hoped that Titus was still the owner of the place. She walked in and heard his booming baritone before she even saw him through the throng.
The inn was packed with sailors and a good number of pirates, since Titus had been one of their number a long time ago. There were no slavers in here; none dared. Titus’s reputation preceded him.
“Is that a ghost I�
�m seeing?” The voice rumbled across the tavern. “Anne Bonny, Queen of the Cutthroats herself, walking back through my door!”
The crowd shifted to make way for the former slave and pirate. Titus was close to seven feet in height, broad and thick with muscles. Ugly raised scars covered his dark skin. Titus shaved his head but maintained a thin beard. He had a gold hoop earring in his right ear, and his eyes were the color of glass. The legends said he sold his soul for revenge against his former owners and that his eyes lost their color because of it. Anne suspected that story might have some truth to it. She knew those eerie eyes could be warm and welcoming, as they were now, or cruel and merciless, as she had seen them in a scrap.
Titus hugged Anne firmly, lifting her up off the ground as she cackled and kissed his forehead. “Ah, get off me, you hulking leviathan,” she said, “you’ll snap me like a twig!”
He sat her down and shouted to one of the sailors at the bar, “Make way for the lady!” The patron scuttled off, tipping his hat to Anne as he did. “As I recall,” Titus said, going back behind the bar, “the last time you and I crossed, you kicked my sorry ass, handily.”
“True,” Anne said, “but I think you might have grown a wee inch or two since then.”
“Aye,” Titus said, “in all kinds of places, love.”
“You old charmer,” Anne said. “Gimme a bottle of port, and is there any chance you have a room open for a weary old hoyden?”
Titus gestured over the bar. “For you, Annie, of course.” A young black boy, about twelve, walked up to Titus. “Kalu, take the lady’s things up to the third private room,” Titus said to the boy in Yoruba.
“Mind the box, lad,” Anne said to the boy as he hefted the strange chest and her ditty bag.
“What brings you back here?” Titus asked, handing Anne the wine bottle. “You swore you’d never set foot in Badagry again.”
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