The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

  “Come on, come on, don’t be like that. I was getting a bit confused, that’s all. You said the book was supposed to about beasts didn’t you? I’m not seeing the relevance. Tell you what, start again, explain it to me, I do want to understand.”

  The two men stared at each other for a couple of moments.

  “I wish Francine was here. She would have been able to tell you everything you needed to know without me having to look at this damn thing.”

  The other man sighed. “Well, sadly Scott she isn’t, so I’ll have to listen to your dulcet tones for a little while longer won’t I?”

  Scott laughed. “Okay, okay. Pour me another Courvoisier will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “Oh and Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks, this really does help you know.”

  Michael held up his hand. “None of that talk, not tonight my friend.” He went to the drinks cabinet, refilled two tumblers, stared out at the river, the bridge. “It looks like rain tonight.”

  Scott turned, gave it a quick glance. “There was something on the radio about a storm heading towards the city.”

  Neither said anything until Michael handed over one of the glasses.

  “Cheers,” Scott said.

  Michael lowered himself into the leather chair. “Tell me the rest.”

  Scott picked up the book again, flicked through the pages. “Where was I?”

  “You did the reporter.”

  “The one killed by the nails.”

  “Right. The witch.”

  “She was supposedly killed by the Spear of Longinus. They made him a Saint in the end you know?”

  “Really? I didn’t know that...the nun.”

  “That one was nasty – she literally ripped herself apart.”

  “She didn’t seem mentally stable did she? But then I remember reading something about the whole Priory being affected by something...LSD in the potatoes wasn’t it? Anyway, then came the Nazi.”

  “Ah. The Nazi.”

  “Well, more about the woman he loved, not so much about him.”

  Scott cleared his throat. “Loved? That was a joke I think. The only person that bastard cared for was himself. Anyway, when the time came, he got his just deserts.”

  “You hadn’t got to that yet.”

  Scott frowned. “Hadn’t I? It’s odd, I don’t know what’s wrong with me nowadays, I can’t seem to remember much about anything.” He sipped at his Courvoisier, scrunched up his face as he swallowed. “This is strong stuff isn’t it?”

  “Only the best for you my young friend, only the best for you.”

  “Young friend?! Ha, who are you kidding?” He scratched his forehead. “They caught up with him in the end: the Jewish Elders and the Resistance. A couple of days after the Liberation. They found him hiding in the sewer, down there, by the bridge, like the rat he was. They beat him to a pulp and then, to finish him off, they crowned him with a twisted garland of barbed wire. One or two of the men fucked him too, for good measure – like he had fucked their wives, their city, their country.”

  “Christ, that’s a bit over the top isn’t it?”

  “Think of the pain and misery that he caused. He was an evil sonofabitch – someone should write a story about him! After they crowned him, they crucified him. He deserved a lot more.”

  “But that girl...Hester...she must have meant something to him, he did search high and low for her.”

  Scott dwelled for a second. “Maybe he was just hedging his bets? Trying to make peace with whatever God he believed in. Who can know now for certain?”

  “Francine was convinced that there was a connection between all these events.”

  Scott beamed as he drummed his fingers on the book’s cover. “Indeed she did.” He got up, went to the window, stared out. Was that an owl he could hear? Francine loved owls.

  “It was all because of Qareen.” He whispered.

  “Qareen? What the hell is a Qareen?” Michael asked.

  “It’s not a Qareen. It is who is Qareen.”

  “A person?” Michael was intrigued.

  “She was from Morocco originally, Syria, Persia...no, Egypt...perhaps? Somewhere like that way anyway – it’s probably not that important. As a young girl, she was raped, tortured, mutilated beyond belief by a village elder who had become entranced by her youthful beauty and wanted to take her for himself. When he had finished ravishing her, he dug a pit and buried her in it, filling it with thousands and thousands of black scarab beetles. The guilt got to him in the end, he threw himself off a mountain.”

  Scott took a breather, his eyes were wide. He was enjoying telling this tale. “Anyway. Miraculously she survived the attack, rescued by a wise-woman who nursed her back to health, tattooed her frail body with an incantation that apparently returned her from the abyss. She was different though, marked mentally some would say.”

  He took a sip of his drink. “The wheels of life turned without any major incident for a while but then one day, when she was out collecting water, she was taken prisoner by a band of marauding Christian crusaders crossing the Middle East. Not seeing a woman for a long time, they became overcome with rage and lust and forced themselves upon her. However, before they could do anything too serious she slit her own throat. She refused to go through that pain and misery again.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  “Indeed, yet that wasn’t the end to the story. As she lay dying, bleeding out, in the midday sun and as the knights spat and pissed upon her dying body, she cursed her divine soul. The legend tells that it was because of the wise-woman’s (or some would say witch’s) words that had been scribed upon her that from the moment she expired, she became immortal – forever roaming the Earth as a haunted spirit, searching for someone who will love her unconditionally and eventually sacrifice both body and soul for her. When she finds that person, she will be able to finally return to the sand that formed her. Until then, whenever she dies, she’ll keep coming back and back again, looking, searching, never giving up. A pure love, one could say.”

  Michael let his friend’s words sink in. “Sounds a bit far-fetched don’t you think? How did she end up in Paris?”

  Scott shrugged. “How does anyone?” No irony was meant.

  “She was beautiful?”

  “Undoubtedly. Men keep falling for her.”

  “Olive skin. Bright green eyes. Ginger hair?” Michael commented.

  Scott nodded.

  Michael looked at the framed photograph sitting on Scott’s desk. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but doesn’t that seem a little odd to you?”

  “I don’t understand?” Scott sat down in his chair, the leather creaked.

  Michael spun the photograph around so it faced his friend, tapped it for good measure. “Look.”

  Scott picked up the frame, studied it closely. “That’s just co-incidence.”

  Michael finished his drink. “Perhaps a little too coincidental?”

  “What are you saying, that Francine was lying?”

  “Did you hear me say that? No, what I’m getting at is the girl you have...”

  “Francine has...”

  “Okay...the girl that Francine has been describing in each of those stories looks and sounds remarkably like her. It seems to me that she’s written you a fable, a fairy story, a love letter if you will about her undying love for you, that even though she was dying of that terrible, terrible disease, you would both be reunited one day either in this life or the next.”

  Scott didn’t say anything right away but maybe Michael had a point. The more he thought about it...no, that idea was stupid.

  “I didn’t mean any offence.” Michael stated.

  “I’m not offended. I just don’t think that what you’re saying is right, that’s all. I mean you think Francine’s book was just about herself being reincarnated, that somewhere down the line you would meet again? That doesn’t sound credible to me.”

  “Tell you what,
forget it. Who knows what I’m going on about half the time? Something I am sure of though, it’s a brilliant collection of stories and its flying off the shelves isn’t it?”

  “A testament to her creativity.”

  “Then that’s the best way to remember her isn’t it? She’s achieved her immortality, just in a different way.” Michael looked at his watch. “Is that the time, I promised to meet a friend from the station.”

  He stood, grabbed his coat from the back of his chair, went to the door. “Think nothing more of what I said. I’ll see you Thursday, okay?”

  Scott turned the book over, studied the back cover. The small author photograph of his now dead wife stared back at him.

  “Scott?”

  “Thursday...sure.”

  Michael opened the door, waited but when he saw that his friend was totally engrossed in the book, he smiled and exited.

  Scott heard the door close but didn’t look up. He wiped the tear from his eye – even though it had been almost a year, Francine’s death, understandably, tore at his heart-strings. He wasn’t over her now and if he was honest with himself, would probably feel like that for the rest of his life.

  The bridge: yes, that was where we had first met her, that cold wintry night when the rain was beating down hard upon him. The moment when he peered over the edge and stared into the freezing abyss below. Enough was enough. But, just as he was about to jump, to end it all, her voice called out to him, she’d stepped from the shadows, asked him for a light and that was that. He’d climbed down, lit her cigarette. They’d gone for a drink, something to eat, even dared to make love that very night – totally lost in each other, bodies and souls, no inhibitions. Two strangers, but both adamant that they must have met somewhere before. A past life perhaps, she’d whispered, though he didn’t really believe in that sort of thing, however, he was certainly willing to believe anything that his olive-skinned-bright-green-eyed-Francine told him.

  Of course, it hadn’t all been easy – once she’d started researching her book, her moods changed, she became darker, more introverted. Their love making also changed, more bizarre, kinky, sadistic perhaps – she had become fixated with the way that the women in her stories had been killed too. Sometimes it just got a bit too much.

  And then: the cancer.

  Scott threw the book down on his desk. He had to stop. Michael was right, those were thoughts for another time.

  He stood, went to the door, grabbed his coat, his hat and scarf. He switched off the light. For a second he turned back. The light from outside filtered through the window, illuminating the photograph on his desk.

  Was there the slightest element of truth in what Michael had suggested?

  No. Of course not, it was just all coincidence.

  ***

  Someone was following him.

  He wasn’t sure when he first realised it, but probably not long after he’d left the small office. At first he thought it could have been Michael playing games, but as he’d been walking, he texted his friend and received the answer: no. Michael said he was stuck in traffic on the way to the station and later they were going to Cafe Roziers, which Scott knew was on the other side of the city.

  Whoever it was then, it must have been someone else.

  If it was a thief or mugger then tonight was not going to be their lucky night. All he had on him was his phone and it was a cheap one at that. His laptop was back in the office and whilst he had his wallet in his back pocket, it only had a couple of small Euro notes inside, nothing to make a fuss about – but he fathomed a thief or mugger wasn’t going to know that in advance were they?

  As he walked, he cast a glance in a car or shop window to see if he could see who was behind him, but try as he might, he couldn’t get a proper look. It was certainly a cold night, the rain had started to fall, he pulled his scarf and coat tighter around him.

  He waited until the road was clear then ran across the Quai de Conti, onto the Quai des Grands Augustins, hoping to lose whoever it was.

  But once he got onto the Pont Neuf, he was more than certain that someone was close behind him. He could hear their footfalls, almost feel their hot breath upon his collar. He suddenly stopped, turned quickly but there was no-one! Odd - nowhere for them to hide so swiftly either, yet he knew it wasn’t his mind playing tricks on him, there was definitely someone behind him.

  He made his way along the bridge. The wind was blowing against him, forcing him back.

  “Scott.”

  He paused.

  “Scott.”

  He spun around in a circle, again, no-one.

  “Scott.”

  He shook his head, it must have been the wind making him imagine that he heard his name being called. He ignored it, started to walk again.

  Though now there was something else he could hear, the sound of an accordion, a baroque lament. Something ran over his shoe, then again, then again, crunched under his feet as he walked: beetles.

  A mist formed around him, people stepped from the shadows.

  “What the fuck?” He whispered, stopping in his tracks.

  The people came closer, they were carrying something: a body. Though it was wrapped, the head was visible. He recognised her instantly.

  “Let me through, please, let me through!” He shouted, yet they seemed reluctant to agree. They blocked him, pushed against him, stood in his way. But he kicked, punched, fought to get to her. After several futile attempts he gave up and decided to go with the flow and observe proceedings, waiting for another opportunity.

  Francine.

  The accordion player appeared. A Pierrot. Black oily tears dropped down his white painted face, staining the make-up.

  The woman was carried to the side of the bridge. Scott wondered what had happened to her, even though she was wrapped by the sheet, it seemed that she had been crucified. Blood poured from wounds to her feet, her wrists, the side of her body. A thorny crown sat atop her head. The sheet was originally white he guessed, but the redness, the blood, was spreading.

  A young man followed close behind her. Robed from head to toe in black velvet, he too wore a crown.

  “Francine! Please, that’s my Francine!” Scott called.

  The man turned and stared at him. “NO!” Scott screamed, collapsing to his feet, grabbing his head in his hands. What the fuck was happening here? The man looked like him, about twenty years ago, when things weren’t going right for him, when he didn’t think there was a way out, when he thought the only answer for him was to throw himself over the side of the bridge...

  ...what the fuck was going on?

  The crowd of people began to chant. The young man raised his hand. Silence reigned, even the Pierrot ceased playing. From his robes he took out a book, flicked through the pages, then began to recite:

  “C'est l'Ennui! —l'œil chargé d'un pleur involontaire, Il rêve d'échafauds en fumant son houka. Tu le connais, lecteur, ce monstre délicat, —Hypocrite lecteur,—mon semblable,—mon frère!”

  He signalled and the body was swiftly tipped over the edge, into the water.

  Scott yelled, not that anyone was paying him any attention now. Their heads bowed, they crossed themselves and turned their backs on him. The accordion player began again, returned unto the mist. The others reverently followed, filing past Scott, totally ignoring him as if he wasn’t there, as if he was a ghost, an echo in someone else’s dream.

  Scott found himself alone on the bridge. He ran to the railing, peered over the side, stared down into the water, but he couldn’t see anything. It was just too dark.

  He climbed up to get a better look. His body was shaking.

  “Francine?!” He called. “Francine?! Christ...”

  As he knew there wouldn’t be, there was no answer. The tears were streaming down his face, mixing with the rain, both were indeterminable from the other.

  Suddenly however, amongst all the grief, his pain and his agony, for the first time in an eon, everything made sense. He knew wha
t he had to do. He knew he had to be with Francine for all eternity and this was the only way.

  Scott didn’t even bother taking a deep breath when he took that first step off of the bridge and into the vacant expanse of thin air. What would be the point?

  ***

  Concealed in the shadows, the woman with the green eyes and olive skin stared on in silence.

  When she heard the splash, she fought hard not to call out. She knew she had to let him go. There would be others of course, as there were others before, but she had to admit there was something special about this one – he would be missed. He came so close.

  She tightened the scarf around her neck, pulled up the collar of her coat and began to walk away.

  The mist, it appeared, seemed to follow her.

  An owl watched her departure...

  R Is For Rusalka

  The Sad Lady

  Christine Morgan

  Pavla heard the girls squabbling, heaved a weary sigh, and set down the pails. Their contents sloshed but were in no danger of spilling.

  Squabbles were hardly a surprise on a day such as this, when Ladikov sweltered under a dry summer heat. Tempers throughout the village would be worn thin, frayed like old ropes. Some, surely, would snap.

  As those of Magda and Minka already had done.

  She got each by a shoulder and pulled them apart. Both girls panted with indignation, red-faced and sweating.

  Even out here in the manor’s side yard, away from the clay bread-ovens, brick hearths and cook-fires, the shade provided scant relief. A haze of plow-dust hung in the still air over the fields where farmers and their teams toiled. Cows stood listless, barely grazing at the brittle brown grass, moving only to flick their tails at the bothersome flies.

  “Now,” said Pavla, hands on her bony hips. “What is this fuss?”

  “Magda hit me!”

  “Liar!”

  “You did!”

  “I didn’t!”

  “You were going to!”

  “Magda?” Pavla asked, letting a stern note creep into her voice.

  “She had bilberries,” Magda said. When she got sullen – as she often did, and as she was now – her eyes all but disappeared behind pudgy cheeks. “She found a bilberry bush and won’t share.”