by H C Turk
During my previous thoughts of vacating London, I had considered cooperating with the Rathel. But foolish I would be to accept Rathel’s honesty in her vowing to deliver me to wilderness if only I followed her scheme. Her allegation of Man’s Isle no longer being fit for witches, however, seemed sensible. But were those wild lands she mentioned to be trusted more than she? No, the trust must come from myself. Therefore, I established two requirements for my new future: learning further lessons of geography, and seeking an understanding of personal transportation. The former would come from the specialist, Natwich, but the latter must be sought from my friend, Miss Elsie.
• • •
“Miss, that is no natural product of God despite the wooden portion, for are not those endings metal?” This was my abrupt response to Elsie as I noted certain objects requiring condemnation. Until then, the woman and I had been peacefully accomplishing our workaday tasks in the drawing room.
Looking up to the wall where I pointed with an intense gesture, the servant could not disagree.
“And I’m saying, lass, those are the crossed lances of the mistress’s grandfather, a military person in the Royal Guard. Unnatural they may be, in that stabbing at folk is no godly thing to be doing.”
“The same as polishing silver,” I declared as Elsie returned to that chore.
“And when is me thanks coming for not stoking the fire, eh, lass? You’ll be noting that even on this chilly morn, I’m having no flames going, and only because you’re setting up such a conniption, as though you’re preferring to freeze.”
“Thank you for your understanding, miss. But if your parent had been burned dead instead of run down, perhaps you’d prefer the cold yourself.”
We shared no speaking for moments thereafter, and brilliant I was to prepare Elsie for deeper camaraderie by mentioning her squashed father.
“Oh, and Miss Elsie,” I fearfully confronted her later in my dusting—with a rag. “Are these objects as horrible as they appear? A box I’ve found containing more combinations of metal and wood, these with one wooden curved end and a dense metal tube smelling of evil.”
“Aye, right again, clever lass, for those are dueling pistols by which affronted gents are confronting each other to settle their honor.”
“These are firearm objects, are they not?”
“They are.”
“Longer items of this nature I have seen, attached to killing males called hunters. How utterly satanic: made of metal and spewing metal balls along with fire in order to create death—how clever of Satan to settle all his worst ideas in so compact an object.”
“Ah, but not all firearms are terrible, lass. Me own father owned a musket, a prideful thing for a commoner, it being a gift from a landed gent of his employ. For hunting fowl it was, and a thing of wonder with its flaring end. So curse me dead father, if you will, for eating pigeons.”
“Of course not, miss. I curse you for skulking about when Papa was unawares and playing with his firearm, certainly shooting all the children who did not do your bidding.”
“And a shooter I was, lass, but only in the loading, for Father allowed me that part in the hunting. Yes, lass, with all your terrible glare and your too-wise humor lost, yes, hunting with him I did go. But his was not so modern as these,” she continued, setting aside her rag to approach the pistols and take one in hand. “His was needing tinder, which you place, here,” she demonstrated, “and was ever falling out if not held even so,” and she turned her wrist this way and that. “But this is a flintlock, and well holds its fire. So all you’re doing, then, is load a bit of powder here, then ramming in with the ball, have the flint secured thusly, then pull back this hammer, and upon holding straight and steady, press the trigger to let loose the most huge sound and smell and smoke.” Then she turned to me, reeking of achievement.
“But, miss, that was but a metallic click.”
“Aye, lass, you’re having to go through all the things I’m telling you for the gun to be firing.”
“Well, praise God that you went through not enough things to be loosing satanic smoke and smell in the drawing room. And you say that gentlemen confront one another with these things for the purpose of honor?”
“Aye, and they do, lass, though it’s no longer legal. They get riled upon each other after a quarrel and go to shooting to see who is correct.”
“Ah! what a splendid idea that sinners should shoot one another rather than animals. Why does Amanda not dispose of her honorable problems with the Dentons by dueling them? Praise God that men go at witches with only axes and flames. At least these horrors cannot be activated at a distance.”
We shared no speaking for moments thereafter, and brilliant I was to prepare Elsie for deeper camaraderie by mentioning fried and filleted witches.
“Oh, and thoughtful Miss Elsie,” I said with some apprehension later in my sweeping. “Have I mentioned that I must depart the City? A witch cannot live in London.”
“Ah, not thoughtful enough am I to be recalling such foolishness, child. My best thoughts lately are that whatever this word ‘witch’ is you’re using, it has no meaning to me. You’re neither animal nor evil, but a lass unsure with herself from youth and from being in a great, new city. Apart from stubbornness, lass, your problem is that you’re merely unaccustomed to fine society.”
“The society familiar to me is God’s realm of natural elements, exemplified by the area in which I was reared, a land I recall and will ever love.”
“Ah, but the problem you’re having, child, is in thinking that because you once lived like an animal means that you are an animal.”
“We are all animals, Elsie, in that creatures and humans have similar bodily functions and needs. The difference, perhaps, is no more than the human tendency to ramble on endlessly with words attempting to accept things previously understood.”
“What I am understanding, lass, is that a holiday in the countryside is fine for even gentry, but that’s not the same as seeking a life in the woods and grubbing for bugs.”
“I defy you to explain how a common grub is less palatable than the butchered and burned flesh of God’s complex creatures such as a pigs.”
“I’ll not be arguing with you, lass, since lately I’m munching no bugs, and therefore can’t be comparing pork with crawly things. What I’m saying is that because you lived wildly so long, you’re thinking that way is best. Well, child, I was from the most drab part of this city in me own childhood, and well I’m knowing that better a servant here than a queen there. And I’m saying that with more exposure to fine living, you’ll come to appreciate the comforts. So give it a chance, girl—give me a chance, for you must understand that my wishes for you are only the best. So be taking more time with this life and you’ll come to enjoy your new family, and one day desire a husband and family of your own.”
“As I have previously mentioned, Elsie, the Rathel person has special plans for my having family. Her intent is destruction, her desire being that I, as a witch, will somehow kill the Eric boy. The Rathel has vowed to thereafter release me into a natural land. Therefore, would it not be better to exit now, in advance of attempted murder?”
“Aye, child, I’m hearing this part of your story, and have broached it to the mistress. Reasonably she’s telling me that this is more of your delusion brought about by a harsh life away from decent society.”
“More of what delusion, you might explain. Since I have proven myself the witch ever professed, the remainder of my assertions should be considered equally true. Does my story not fit the Rathel’s emotional background and her desire for retribution against Edward Denton, which you certainly believe and have implied to me?”
“I’m believing it nonsense, girl, since you—the great prover—have told how you’re not able to kill folk. You and the mistress, then, are convincing me that the killing’s a delusion for everyone, wherever it began—with you or the mistress or Satan himself. So I’m saying that if you remain with us, lass, you and
the lady may both lose your delirium and settle down into the fine life we have here. You’re becoming accustomed to me, child, can you not then become accustomed to all of London?”
“I have not adjusted to all your aspects, not to your lustfully eating butchered creatures of God, gleefully polishing metal utensils from Satan, and intrinsically considering witches hateful. Your sincerity I truly appreciate, but not all of your concerns. Certainly not your regard for the Rathel, who allowed my mother to die, and if possible, would have the Denton child die equally.”
“Ah, child, I’m hearing all of this before, but now I fear you’re planning, not just talking. If you’ll be astounding me by running off again, you’ll be coming to no isle, but to your own personal grief when Mistress Amanda has the constables drag you home, for surely you’ll be lost before gaining Gravesbury Reach. No wild lands are in London, child. If you’re off on an adventure, then, recall that all of Man’s Isle was not enough to keep you, so you’ll not likely be hiding in Pangham Gardens.”
Elsie had spoken enough to prove herself dangerous. By her own words, I knew she had discussed Eric’s intended murder with Rathel. Praise God she had not mentioned the Thames and me. Nonetheless, the servant might emphasize loyalty toward her mistress rather than the lass, if only for the child’s own, deluded sake, and thereby ruin me from affection.
“Dear Elsie, please refrain from believing me so delirious as to throw myself into London’s maw. Instead of desperately leaving as I did before in a panic of sorrow, I shall remain in the safety of these surrounds. Perhaps in the future, I’ll fall into pleasant familiarity with your city. In the mean, I implore you not to discuss with Rathel our conversations, for certainly no one will benefit from her learning that I’ve expressed the idea of departure.”
“And I’ll not be telling this tale to the mistress, girl, for I’m only talking of you if it seems to be helpful. Seeing as how you’ve sense enough to remain where you’re well looked after, I’m being quiet.”
After our work was concluded, Elsie and I parted cordially, going about our different affairs as we proceeded to our separate places. The servant did not understand, however, that whereas her place was the household, mine was beyond any city.
• • •
“Alba, you shall accompany me to the opera this noon.”
Rare was the directive given me by Rathel, who preferred to deal with her “daughter” via the intermediary of Elsie. Apart from convincing involvement with my tutoring, the Rathel scarcely showed herself to me, having other affairs in the City besides personal murder.
“I believe I have heard this opera described,” I responded. “Is it not a type of dance wherein folks also sing?”
“No, Alba, that is ballet. Opera is the epitome of musical theater.”
I could not immediately respond, overcome with the greatest hatred. I recalled Mother speaking of theater, I recalled her amusing suggestion. Instead of feeling a poignant love for Mother, however, I felt intense hatred for Rathel, for the latter had ruined my future by destroying my past.
“I would attend,” I said, “and would know why you suggest this.”
“Your purpose in attending the opera is to be seen accompanying me and a most reputable friend during a cultural activity. Thereby your status in English society increases.”
“And when I am the utter lady, this Eric shall fall prey to my abject socialness, I surmise.”
“The issue of your being socially acceptable is one I have previously made clear. Besides, opera is an experience you might enjoy. Elsie will see that you’re prepared,” Rathel concluded. “Noon.” And she departed.
To my misfortune, Elsie was thrilled to truss me in her (her) layered finery. Only sinners have a propensity for wrapping: themselves, gifts, their food with choppings of harmless spices, the meal then placed on silver platters concealed beneath inverted bowls to be ceremoniously unveiled and ravished. There I stood, gleefully garnished by Elsie in my soft and crinkly cloth, to be consumed by London’s elite.
I appeared the young lady except for my scowl and woeful posture, the latter a return to my days in the wilds where limbs need be dodged. The former, however, was a new product of English society. Rathel corrected these failings via her henchwoman, Elsie, who became a bruising social fiend as she wordlessly stretched my torso, cruelly pressing the curve from my spine until my carriage achieved the desired attitude. And, yes, the strung oyster droppings I would accept around my neck, but away with the silver brooch or it’s back to the Thames.
Though informed by Rathel that we would not be attending the opera alone, I had no interest in the additional participant, busy preparing myself for the upcoming torment by garnishing my emotional innards with dread. Therefore, I was stupefied to find Lord Andrew Denton in the foyer.
He attempted to bite me. No, of course not: experienced I was in the ways of hand kissing, as demonstrated previously by this gentleman’s son. Neither liquor nor tobacco I sensed from his person, and since from the first he had seemed a decent sinner, I allowed him to grasp my hand and wave his lips near my knuckles. Praise God no slobbering and sucking ensued as was the wont of romantic sinners seen by the witch. Such lingual fondling seemed another type of meat eating, but with Andrew we had courtesy, not romance.
He mentioned the cold of my hand, but did not offer to warm me. Then we entered a carriage, Andrew and Amanda chatting along. And though the male had no odor of intended damage, in fact he was a weapon.
I understood the consequences. Was Lord Andrew more innocent of social ways than I, or was reconciliation his deeper motive? But the truest answer was my new comprehension of sinners. Despite forced and pretentious circumstances, were not the sinners’ sought and lost loves similar to the love within my own family? But I did not think of Mother, did not grieve for her, only feared that one day I might grieve equally for the sinners who desired me for their familial purposes while believing my family the enemy.
• • •
The opera began as though church: amalgamated sinners sitting in rows within an ornate building. Here the surrounds were more luxurious than God’s, like a giant drawing room in a fine manor house, the audience overdressed with periwigs on their pates and brocade on their butts. More sensibly, many wore vizard masks so they would not be recognized attending so horrid an affair or would not be able to view it. Their pitiful patter made my speaking seem compact, all their tiny talk adding up to a broad but vapid sound, a chatty fog surrounding me.
What a fool I was to be impressed by that sound considering the overture. The orchestra created a thick, tactile din with their glossy devices, a noise both hellish and ludicrous. The members sucking on their metal tubes and grinding at plank boxes with limbs were so earnest as to be comical.
Then the curtains opened, the stage further resembling church in being a huge dais, here disguised as an outdoor scene populated by several costumed preachers, their noisome activity completely dissimilar to the singing of birds.
Immediately I understood that I had been duped, if not by Rathel, then by the sinners’ very culture. In this “musical theater,” the music aspect bludgeoned the spoken word component into a desperate cry for mercy. During this performance, I would not hear beautiful phrases enunciated with grace. I would hear no speaking reminiscent of my Mother’s. I would only hear the screeching of sinners.
The Rathel had mentioned how special this performance was since the language was English instead of one of the sinners’ foreign tongues. Yes, it seemed their “singing” was a method for enunciating common words uncommonly. Determined to achieve some measure of satisfaction, if only as a memorial to my mother, I ignored my disappointment and attempted to find either enlightenment or enjoyment in this performance. Moreover, I endeavored to waylay the insanity that approached with the screeching. With effort, I grasped the singers’ phrases, believing that strained attention might aid me in retaining my sanity, for passive acceptance of the “singing” was driving me mad. But disti
nguishing the words provided me scant relief, for their content was absurd, and absurdly familiar; for were not the problems here like Rathel’s? The suicides, murders, accidental maimings, incidental deaths, dedicated gender affairs, along with thievery and cheating and other deceits came and went so rapidly I could determine neither cause nor result. The audience, however, was more appreciative, responding with bursts of applause here, moans and whistles there, as though they comprehended the loud histrionics. The only understanding I gained was that Rathel would burn me before I became so cultural as to attend the opera again.
The presentation ended only to begin again. This pausing, I found convenient for declaring my condition to the Rathel.
“I am ill, Lady Amanda, and must leave or else pass out.”
Finding no evidence of bodily illness in me, Rathel replied that I should avoid embarrassing a person in her position. An endless time later, the singers roaring again, I felt so clogged in my head that I had to turn to the well-pleased Rathel to call loudly that I was truly ill and must depart or be puking! But the crescendo ended with my penultimate word, the entire house hearing some witch cry out of her vomit. Satisfied was the Rathel to see me settle in my seat and in embarrassment. I was embarrassed from having joined the performers.
The opera continued and I believed none of it. My sense was that the music, the words, and the audience response were all falsified despite their consistencies, and somehow akin to lying. Not until the opera ended did I discover the truth. Not until the final, frightening applause of the people around me had ceased did I find genuine emotion, a true scene more moving than all the sinners’ screeching.
Audience members shuffled and chatted in the vast foyer, discussing the satisfying activity they had witnessed. Thoroughly theatrical, Lord Andrew was so experienced with this ending play that he discovered his son.