Ghosts, Gears, and Grimoires

by Unknown

  Both wear thin, almost translucent, shifts. Thinking of Emily, I avert my gaze.

  “Greetings, Goodwife Smythe,” Resilience says.

  The young woman curtsies.

  “And to you as well, Goodwife Black,” he adds.

  The middle-aged witch nods acknowledgment.

  Resilience holds up his watch. “It is time.”

  “Not yet. We have a few minutes more,” Smythe and Black reply, their lips moving in unison, their voices melding like singers in a church choir.

  “I saw your handiwork downstairs. I don’t know what you hope to accomplish, but it will change nothing. The treaty, signed by my grandfather Cotton Mather and Aurora Thistleton, is binding.”

  “So you say,” the women reply.

  The clattering of the cauldron grows louder. Droplets spill over the rim, landing on the flagstones where they bubble and smoke, eating into the rock.

  “Where is your fourth?” Resilience asks.

  “Our fourth?”

  “There are only three of you. When Goody Jordian departs, who will take her place? Or are you going to allow the coven to die with her?”

  The women smirk. “The coven will survive. We have found another way.”

  Resilience shakes his head. “There is no other way, unless you wish to return to the days of Salem? Have you forgotten the trials?”

  The witches blanch.

  “No, we do not want to return to those times,” says Goody Smythe, her eyes tearing.

  “No,” echoes Goody Black, her sweet face wrinkling into a wrathful scowl.

  For the first time, the ancient woman in the bed speaks. “No,” Goody Jordian whispers without opening her eyes, “never again.”

  Resilience nods. “I thought not. You can repair the coven in your own time. We must make ready for what comes next. Seize him.”

  Two steel hands grab my arms.

  “What is happening?” I shout, struggling against Red’s grip. It’s as if Sampson himself has me. I try to point my pistol at the cogsman, but cannot twist my wrist far enough.

  “I have found a better use for you than strutting around like a peacock and leeching off my niece. Don’t worry, though, I’m certain Pastor John will comfort her.”

  Resilience produces a hatchet from beneath his cape and hands it to Slippery. “I will give you the signal. Do not hesitate, the timing must be perfect. Goodwife Smythe, did you prepare the helm?”

  The young witch retrieves a familiar bronze ball, with large, reflective glass lenses. Unhooking a clasp, she swings the front of the ball open, like a knight’s visor.

  “A cogsman’s head?” Looking from Slippery, to the hatchet, and then the empty helmet, I finally understand. “The witches are the cogsmen?”

  A joyless smile spreads across Resilience’s countenance. “I applaud you. Your predecessors never understood. Cotton and the coven came to an agreement many years ago. He halted the Salem purges, and, in return, the witches agreed to serve my family for eternity upon their deaths. There is just one small catch.”

  The cauldron lid goes flying off as a column of steam spews upward. A stench fills the room, reminding me of the months sitting at my mother’s bedside, inhaling her rotten breath as the pox overpowered her.

  “The master,” the two witches whisper, their voices trembling.

  “What is it?” I ask hoarsely.

  Resilience said, “Come, Captain, you can’t guess? Everyone knows to whom witches sell their souls. With Goodwife Jordian about to expire, he has come to collect. If she’s to serve my family, we have to settle her debt. Fortunately, one soul is very much like another, and the beast isn’t a particularly stringent account keeper.”

  “You’re going to give my soul to the devil?” I cry. Twisting and fighting against Red’s grip, I kick the machine’s shins and knees with my heels, to no avail.

  Resilience ignores my struggles and addresses Slippery. “Get ready. Jordian’s last moment will soon be upon us, as will her master.”

  “Sisters!” The old witch sits up, her milky eyes wide, her hair playing about her head as if caught in a lightning storm. “We can free you from your servitude! We can break the spell!”

  Red’s grip on my arms loosens ever so slightly.

  “Ignore her, she’s gone mad,” Resilience says. “She has less than a minute until the end.”

  Goody Smythe shouts, “Horbeth Sontorum Madras!” Drawing a curved dagger, she stabs Resilience.

  The minister staggers back, the knife handle jutting from his side.

  Resilience’s pocket watch begins to chime. Through gritted teeth, he shouts, “Strike! Strike now or all is lost!”

  Slippery raises the hatchet. Before it can swing, Red drops me and grabs Slippery’s wrist, halting the beheading.

  For a moment, the machines are frozen in a contest of wills. Then, with a squeal of metal, Red rips Slippery’s arm from its body.

  “What have you done?” cries Resilience. “The beast is…”

  A forest of tentacles explodes from the mouth of the cauldron. The thick, purple arms are dotted with mustard-yellow suckers. On the tips of the writhing limbs are snapping, foaming beaks.

  A tentacle strikes Red’s head, sending the cogsman’s visor flying.

  I stare into a tortured face. The yellow, desiccated skin is tight against the skull, and a few strands of hair cling to the scalp. One blue eye and one brown glare back at me.

  “Save me!” Resilience cries, as he ducks under a thrashing tentacle.

  The young witch stalks Resilience, a second knife in her hand. She never sees the two tentacles that swoop in and seize her arms.

  Goody Smythe screams as her limbs are torn from her shoulders. Gouts of blood splatter the walls and floor.

  “No!” cry the other witches.

  A beaked tentacle winds towards me like a viper. As I take aim with my pistol, a second tentacle wraps itself around my knees and yanks me from my feet. My gun discharges and I hear an anguished howl.

  Red staggers back, a shilling-sized hole just above her blue eye. She blinks, then topples over, sending a shiver through the floorboards.

  “Aurora!” Goodwife Jordian shouts.

  A beak snaps shut inches from my throat, and I hammer at it with the butt of my gun. The tentacle unwinds from my legs and retreats.

  Other tentacles slither toward me. I spot Slippery’s arm on the floor, still clutching the axe. Snatching up the hatchet, I give a wild swing, and am lucky enough to sever one of the tentacles.

  The dismembered appendage flops about on the floor, spouting green ichor. I feint toward the others, and they withdraw, buying me a moment to survey the battlefield.

  Two tentacles toss Goodwife Jordian back and forth, like cats playing with a mouse. Goodwife Black scurries back and forth, trying unsuccessfully to catch the old witch.

  There is no sign of Resilience.

  Four enormous arms pin Slippery to the wall as others pound on the cogsman’s body and crush its exhaust pipes. A high pitched whistling emits from its boiler and the needles of its chest gauges are buried in the red.

  A rivet shoots like a bullet from its bloated chest, embedding itself in the wall next to my ear. Three more go ricocheting around the room.

  I drop to my belly just as the boiler explodes in a ball of steel and flame. Shredded, burning tentacles flail wildly about as the floor, rafters, and bed ignite.

  I toss away my burning hat and cloak. Goodwife Jordian lies in the corner, her neck bent at an impossible angle. Beside her kneels Goody Black, her hands covering her ears. I grab the witch’s arm and drag her out of the room.

  The fire is racing along the hallway ceiling, devouring the building like a starving man at a banquet. Goodwife Black stops resisting and starts to run with me. We reach the staircase just ahead of the flames.

  Previously, the stairs seemed to go on forever. Descending, however, I am relieved to discover there are only ten steps.

  The sitting room cei
ling is burning and already weak when we stumble into the parlor and race for the exit.

  We stagger outside just as the cottage collapses into an inferno.

  The witch falls to the ground weeping. I stare at the burning house, searching the flames and smoke for any sign of the owner of those hellish tentacles. I see nothing but a rundown old cottage burning to the ground.

  A familiar cackle fills the air.

  “We survived! Can you believe it? Truly the work of the Lord.” Resilience grimaces and coughs. He clutches his side, where the dark wool is heavy with blood.

  “Not everyone survived,” says Goody Black, her eyes puffy and red from weeping.

  Resilience covers his mouth as he coughs again. When he takes his hand away, I see his fingers are red with blood.

  “She must die, Captain,” Resilience hisses. “You saw the monstrosity she consorts with. Imagine if she unleashes it upon the innocent.”

  I look down at the hatchet in my hand, then to the witch’s tearstained cheeks.

  “What does it matter now? The coven is broken. I am alone.” Goody Black curls into a ball, repeating, “Alone, alone.”

  I slip the hatchet into my belt.

  The witch looks up at me, confused.

  “Mercy,” I say.

  “Damn you, Captain, do your duty!” Resilience shouts.

  I walk past the minister to the road.

  “Where are you going?” Resilience cries, coughing. “What about me?”

  I do not reply. The long walk back to Boston will do me good. I can plan where Emily and I will elope. Somewhere far away, I think.

  Where there are no witches.

  Or ministers.

  The Horrors of War

  Stephen Sanders

  It is late at night; you are traveling east, in the dining room of the stately Air Steamship Olympic. Earlier in the evening, you noticed a man sitting by himself at one of the tables near a window. Using one of the prearranged signals, he made you aware that he was also a member of the semi-secret organization known as the Foxglove Society. It is an international collection of scholars, explorers, scientists, and adventurers.

  You have spent the last several hours in pleasant and informative conversation with this gentleman. He appears Chinese, but he wears the tailored clothes of a New York businessman. He is a medical doctor by profession, somewhat older than you. As the evening wears on, you ask him about interesting cases he has seen in the past. A strange look passes over his face. He hesitates, looks directly into your eyes, glances into the darkness, and says…

  “We were strangers before tonight. I know you are a member of the Foxglove Society, but, other than what I have learned in the last few hours, you are a blank sum to me. The past is sometimes like a disease which one has survived. It leaves its scars, in memories, but is often best forgotten if one wishes to continue on their journey.

  “If you never forget the past, never forget the fever and the lesions, you may never expose yourself to life again for fear of contracting the same disease. I have experienced something like that, a nightmare perhaps better left undescribed. But, you are a stranger and, most likely, we will never share a night like this again. Perhaps I can tell you what occurred, and, in so doing, excise the scar tissue so that I may walk freely through my own past and into my future again.

  “You may not have heard of the Taiping Rebellion, but more human beings lost their lives in that war than in the American war with Mexico, the American Civil War, and the Franco-Prussian Wars combined. Over thirty million—million—people lost their lives in battle, in slaughter, and to the depredations which accompanied the conflict.

  “The war began, indirectly, as a result of the development of wonderful steam-powered agricultural machines. Certain brilliant Chinese scientists and industrialists designed these marvels to work in the great rice fields of China. In less than a decade, what had once required the efforts of dozens of peasants—the planting, tending, and harvesting of a single field of rice—was accomplished by one man operating a rice cultivator.

  “As I am sure you know, rice is the most important crop in China—in certain of the dialects spoken within China, the words for ‘rice’ and ‘food’ are the same. One would think that such a giant leap forward in technology would result in a better life for all. But one would be wrong. Such thinking does not take into account the barbarous designs of the Manchu-led Qing dynasty.

  “The Emperor Xianfeng and his court saw this advance as a means to eliminate a large portion of the ignorant peasant population. Beginning in 1848, the Emperor began issuing proclamations which dictated that rice was to be allocated to families in direct proportion to the amount of effort the family provided in the cultivation of the local rice crop. In addition, any excess rice was to be collected and transported to the Emperor’s Old Summer Palace in Beijing.

  “As you can anticipate, what this resulted in was a significant portion of the population having no food. Like the loss of the potato in the land of the Irish, the lack of rice resulted in famine on an enormous scale.

  “At this same time, and perhaps as a result of the frustration and anger aroused by these changes, a man named Hong Xiuquan came to prominence in the southern province of Guangxi. He began preaching that he was a prophet of the Christian God and began a movement called the Taiping Heavenly Kingdom or the Heavenly Kingdom of Peace. In one of the first military actions of the rebellion, Hong captured a large amount of rice being transported to the Summer Palace. Tens of thousands of peasants flocked to his army in order to get food. But, of course, these provisions could not last.

  “What did last was the war; numerous battles followed and the war expanded. The rebellion lasted approximately fifteen years and, during that time, both sides learned to weaponize the steam-powered cultivation machines which had begun this calamity. Before all was over, most of China had seen the large steam-powered machines of war driving across the land, flattening towns and doing great damage even to the cities, killing soldier and civilian alike. All of this made the plight of the people even worse. Hundreds of thousands of Chinese either starved to death or were starving.

  “This was the situation I faced as a young man who had just learned to care for other human beings. I was in the final year of my quest to become a doctor, a healer. Like so many young people, I was infused with the passion which comes with knowledge and the power that it can give a person to help one’s fellow man.

  “Do not mistake me—I supported the Emperor. I might not have agreed with all of his actions, but I was raised in a China which revered its leaders and the empire they had built. However, I saw the horrors of the war, and I wanted to go among the people and do what I could to help those less fortunate than I.

  “The Dowager Empress Cixi had ordered the formation of an army within the army of the Emperor. This organization was called the Wholesome Agency and was created to assist wounded soldiers of the Emperor and those civilians who were adversely affected by the war. We wore the same uniforms as the military forces of the Emperor, but instead of red, green, or brown vests, we wore white vests outlined with green. And, of course, we did not carry weapons.

  “All of this explanation is leading to the memory I wish to share with you. It is one which comes from a mission I undertook with some of my fellow members of the Wholesome Agency near the middle of the war. The devastation, the destruction, all the horrors were at their height. I was in the field with a section of the Agency near the city of Anqing. We were four doctors, three nurses, four orderlies, and two guides.

  “I can still remember the sights, the sounds…the smells. There were dead everywhere. Shot with muskets or slashed with swords, stabbed with bayonets or spears, killed by shrapnel from the artillery, crushed or burned in destroyed buildings. But this was nothing compared to what I would see when we moved out of the city into the outlying areas.

  “Our small detachment had been assigned to travel out and see if we could find living people we could provide
assistance to. We had been helping with the wounded of the Imperial forces around the city, but our charter also called for us to aid the civilian population being affected by the Rebellion.

  “The day I shall never forget, and which still—after almost thirty-five years—haunts my dreams, began on a clear, summer day about twenty leagues from the walls of Anqing. I had not eaten that morning; my companions and I shared a pot of hot tea and moved out from our bivouac shortly after daylight.

  “We advanced through a land which had been horribly devastated by the war. The effects of the giant war machines were everywhere. Whole forests had been flattened, farm houses and storage buildings razed, entire villages destroyed—even those with heavy wooden or brick construction.

  “I had once seen some of these machines in combat and the effect was terrible to behold. Not only were the machines capable of crushing buildings and trees with their size and great power, but there were other ways that the machines could kill.

  “Each carried soldiers inside who would fire their weapons through apertures designed specifically for this purpose. Most horrible of all, each machine had at least one tube which was capable of emitting boiling steam which would roast alive those in its path.

  “But none of that compared to what we would face that night. The first sign of this terror actually escaped my understanding.

  “Quite by accident, our party discovered a body around two hours after noon. One of the orderlies stepped into a wooded area to relieve himself and cried aloud, calling us all to come quickly. The rest of the small group hurried to where he was and discovered what remained of a human body.

  “We determined that it was a woman, and that after being killed her body had been partially consumed by animals. Great chunks of her flesh were missing. So much damage had been done that we were unable to tell what had originally brought about her death. At first we thought she might have starved to death, but her stomach, which was still somewhat intact, was partially full and rigid.

  “It was a colleague who first noticed that her eyes were untouched and her tongue still in her mouth. These soft parts are usually the first part of the body attacked and consumed by scavenging creatures. Then, one of our guides noticed the intestines had been pulled from the body and either dragged or thrown a fair distance away. This seemed unusual as well; didn’t carrion birds and jackals find the intestines particularly good to feed upon?