by H C Turk
“According to Rathel, you did. In honest fact, the mistress decreed that the one to suffer from such future journeys would be my accomplice, and she named that person as Miss Elsie. The threat was that Magistrate Naylor would be convinced of your aiding my thievery. Therefore, you would be the person to suffer in prison, while I continued with the Rathel’s plans for Master Eric.”
“Alba, I can’t be accepting what you say, girl—I’m having to disbelieve.”
“Since being in London, miss, I have grown too familiar with deception, mostly from being its victim. I doubt, however, that you can recall an instance in which I attacked you with a brazen lie.”
“No, I’m thinking you haven’t, truthful child. So I’m hoping completely that you’re changing your ways, and then you’ll never be so anguished as to become unkind toward those who love you. This be the mistress’s curse, child, and we must pray God to relieve her. We must be praying for her, lass, we must pray.” And Elsie quit the room.
Again I had failed. Instead of understanding Rathel’s evil, Elsie considered her distressed, thereby generating an empathy to pain only herself, her thinking being less clear than her emotions. And pray God I did for the anguished person, but this was my friend, not my captor.
• • •
In this manner, my days proceeded, and never did I apologize to Elsie for a personal dullness any human could construe as moping. Too long in bed I remained each morning, rising only at the hour of expected visitors, one of whom never arrived. The tutor I would see only to practice my scripting, having learned too much of local geography. Husking tubers held scant interest for me, and no initiative had I for feisty conversation with Elsie. No other source of wit was available, Natwich hardly a peer, hardly humorous, and Eric was no longer a visitor to my household.
This male was no witch, but he was most like me. Whereas Elsie was a friend, Eric in certain ways—God forgive me—was an equal. As well as being more actively intelligent than Elsie, the male had revealed to me parts of God never known before. But why had I never considered the possibility that our most evident difference might be emphasizing our compatibility? In that sinners formed their greatest bonds of friendship between sexually opposite spouses, might not the same be true for a pair of humans half sinner, half witch?
Potentials of this idea I sensed most acutely that morning I waited for visitors, and smelled one. Upon my roof spot I stood, my intended observation a view of space, not the locale of London polluted by sinners, but the air above this land, the uninterrupted atmosphere. I then sensed part of London without intent, for a person approached whose scent was familiar. But I took no pride in my increased nasal sensitivity, for I felt that I could sense sinners like witches because I was becoming more and more the sinner. Then came fear, of death and vengeance; for of all the sinners I knew, the only one I recognized by scent was Eric.
I moved downstairs as Rathel answered the door. I did not look to him. I had no need, remaining in the great room, though not in sight of the household’s guest. I could hear the boy, however, and smell his body changing. No sub-navel stink was this, but a terror without to be faced from within. I could hear him, smell him; and though removed, yes, I could feel him.
“Good morning, Lady Amanda, and I would see you briefly if you’ve the time. No more than a moment have I, but no more is required to offer you what I must.”
“Of course, Master Eric,” the mistress replied. “What time I have is yours. Will you please enter and be seated before a warming fire for our speaking?”
“Thank you, but no, in that I must be gone virtually as soon as I’ve arrived. Forgive my curtness, Lady Amanda, but if I might speak with you in your doorway a moment, my business will become evident.
“Speak, then, Eric, and be assured that you alone have my attention.”
Odd was his voice, odd as his odor, Eric boy and man simultaneously now, wishing to be adult in his decisiveness, but cursed with youthful anxiety.
“Lady Amanda, I have come—in that I am of an acceptable age—I have come, that is…. I come to offer myself in betrothal to your daughter, and so vow as proven by this paper which bears my signature. I must first ask if my offer is acceptable, but no more time have I, because even as you learn of my wishes for your daughter, you know my father’s opposition and that of his wife. But my life one day will be my own, and my only desire is to fulfill it with your Alba, who is surely God’s greatest lady. I am not uncultured, Lady Amanda, and you must understand that although my parents currently keep me as though a prisoner, when established in my career, I will have a position to support your daughter as is her due. And though we speak of years, not months, no time known will separate me from my emotion for Miss Alba.”
The Rathel responded as though finally able to rid her household of a most revolting and aged offspring.
“With joy and God’s graces I accept your betrothal, Eric, and welcome your vow toward my daughter above all others imaginable!”
“Praise God for your acceptance, Lady Amanda, which I required for life’s relief. Further apprehension I have from my parents, but please understand that whereas their obstruction is one to overcome with time, my emotions for Alba shall overwhelm me as long as I remain the same person.”
He then departed. I heard his running footsteps. But was this a man pursued by a fiend, or a boy chased by his father? Was he running from a bogey in the night, or fleeing the witch in his heart?
I did not care to smell the Rathel’s pleasure. But she passed me nonetheless, for I was unhidden paces beside her. The lady displayed no flaunting, though she had no activity like Eric’s running to relieve her of excess energy. She had but a paper, a folded page sealed with wax as though to purchase a servant or other object.
She would not have spoken to me, since all of Eric’s words I had obviously heard, but I halted her passage with my voice.
“Am I to treasure this achievement? Being God’s greatest lady, perhaps I should retain my modesty and merely curtsy at your document, the wishes of a young lady in the area of her own marriage having less influence than passive pen and paper.”
“You are not satisfied to be on with yourself, on with God’s way with you? To be on with my plans that will end with your deliverance to a homeland as desirable to you as you are to Eric?”
“Should ladies be so inquisitive as to batter their loved ones with queries?” I responded. “Regardless, allow my own wonderment; specifically, might I be curious as to the flaw of your intellect that presumes this paper able to engender the connubial death you crave?”
“You are wise to understand the value of this paper, Alba, for it only describes, not decides, Eric’s passion. He believes it important as proof of his emotion, as though to make his lust legitimate, a compact he might wield against his father. But no proof is required here. Documents are for matters of finance, not for bonds of passion. Take you then this paper, Alba, as proof of my own. Take the thing and treasure it as you will, or burn it from your own desire. And be wise enough to understand that to end Eric’s vow, you must destroy not this paper but his heart.”
• • •
“Oh, Miss Alba, and tremendous excited you must be in receiving a life’s offer of betrothal from one such as Eric!”
“But of course, Miss Elsie, do I not reek of enthusiasm?”
Away went the servant’s rapture with that response, a more subdued woman replying.
“Your heart is one I’ll never be reading, girl, so perhaps it’s best I’m not asking what is in there.”
“What of the contents of your own interior, Elsie? Since doubtless you were present at the enthusiastic occasion within some hidden niche, did you not wonder of the boy’s failure to mention me except absurdly? That is to say, for years he might store his lust like pickled herrings, but no mention made he of intervening visits, of my own opinion of the proposed betrothal, no question as to whether I yet resided in the house or was functionally alive.”
“Now,
Miss Alba, I’m reading a bit of you heart here, and am telling you not to be concerned with the truth of his love. These are only the ways things are being done in better society.”
“Now, Miss Elsie, if truly you’ve an ability to read my heart, you find the same dull thumping as before. As for love, you might recall I’ve made no mention of Eric’s love, only his whereabouts. Neither was this lusty term used by the impassioned one himself.”
“Aye, but you’re worrying yourself too greatly, lass, about mere companionship. His parents are needing some convincing, I’m told, but the boy’s love is true. And this will be proven by your ‘whereabouts’ with the lad for all your lives, as proven by the paper of avowal.”
“With all your interest in compositions, miss, next you’ll be attending the ruddy opera,” I grumbled.
“Ah, lass, and you should not be speaking so of the young man’s heartfelt promise,” disappointed Elsie intoned.
“Allow me, then, to revise the composition of my previous speaking. As symbolic of my own heartful appreciation for your supporting this betrothal, I would present you with the very document in measure of my gratitude. There, lying upon the secretary: take the paper, miss, and treasure it as would I.”
The sinner nearly swooned, needing to place a hand before her face to keep her heart in, I assumed. As though crippled, Elsie walked to the aforementioned furniture, reaching for the document as though it were holy. But she could not touch it, certainly due to all the glory steaming from the ink.
“It’s not a scab from the Stigmata, miss, but a mere earthly paper,” I told her. “Continue, then, and take the thing.”
She did, lifting the flat pledge as though it were Jesus’ toenail clipped for her alone.
“But…but, Miss Alba, it’s not been opened—the seal remains intact. You’re not reading it, child.” This last was not the accusation it may have seemed.
“But, of course not, miss. To have ravaged the wholeness of the penned pledge would in some way taint the vow itself, believe ye not?”
That thought became her own conviction, Elsie holding the paper as though the world’s only untouched blossom. And though I would have told her that I hoped she loved the pledge on the paper as much as I loved the pledge in Eric’s heart, this was too much mocking, for it was mocking her and Eric and me. Having regained some morality in this sinners’ wicked world, I sent her away with the same love she had brought.
“Take the paper, miss, and with it my wish that you might cherish it as much as Eric must cherish me, or at least with the same affection that I hold for you.”
• • •
In this manner, my days proceeded, more comfortably barren of Eric in that Rathel had changed him from companion to future spouse. But was not this ruination of friendship sought by English parents? Friends must become family for society to continue. But I sought no family and had lost my friend. I had also lost my activity, for I no longer considered quitting the Rathel’s world now jointly owned with Eric. Seemingly, I was waiting, a term perhaps too active for a phase of hibernation. And grateful I was for blandness, because stagnated heads produce no racing thoughts. Thus, I had no discomforting contemplations of my attempting to leave London, but not attempting enough. Nevertheless, my waiting precluded Elsie’s meeting the magistrate, and Eric’s meeting Satan or God, depending upon his soul.
A bit of sweeping I yet enjoyed, though lavender petals were not available in English winter, tea slipping from my hand to anoint the carpet a refreshing pursuit. As though convinced by Elsie to have pity on those emotionally impoverished due to tormented pasts of ungained spouses, I held no hatred for Rathel and her increasing success. Lord God one day would have Rathel forever in His immediate presence, and since I should live much longer than any English lady, could I not wait for God’s greater plans with Rathel to overcome her mundane plans for me?
I again attended church, though in no grand cathedral, but a small parish building. My attitude here was of adventure, for being out with the Rathel was the nearest I dare come to traveling alone. And I wondered what I feared most from further unaccompanied travels. Was it only the Rathel’s believable promise of having blameless Elsie enjailed? Was it the likelihood of further cretins’ hands on my apparel, additional insertions of their fingers within my body to cause not mere offense, but damage and lengthy suffering? Perhaps my decisive fear was not of suffering further but of succeeding less, as predicted by that hocking scene with Rathel wherein I was proven powerless, the lady revealing herself in control, control of my life. But above all was my fear of allowing Satan instead of God to own my life, and Rathel was the devil’s agent. Amanda was my mistress.
In this manner, the Rathel had my life proceed. A fortnight was the era here, my senses so insipid that I failed to appreciate winter’s cleansing, cathartic snow that hid so much of sinning London. Occasionally my sluggard thinking settled on Eric, his having made no mention to return. Thereafter came despondency, for had not our walking Randolph been my finest time in London? Not again would we attempt such activity, for Eric had changed. And if he returned, what would the witch do with a boy grown into a man as though that single near-killing had aged him?
In this manner, my nights proceeded. Long they were, beginning early, for witches are accomplished at sleeping, having few cathedrals to build, few vengeful plots to design for years. And they ended late, the witch no longer so concerned with visitors; for if the Eric man showed himself, would not he be dealing with Rathel? If I needed to kill him on the stoop in my version of Gosdale’s stabbing to thereby leave London, could not the servants arouse me for the task?
No servant was the sinner to awaken me deep into a night cold enough to have me close my window. And I would not have opened it for that sound against glass, for I knew a man had come to kill me. At once I understood the significance of my having vacated the streets, for beyond my walls were males set to affront, then maim and murder me. But what salvation had I gained in being sealed inside, for had not a man worse than Imbriati come to break the glass of my container and kill the poorly preserved girl?
Not likely, since the man at my seal was a pet owner.
On its corner axis, I pivoted the pane of glass that would knock him to his death below, the fool having climbed my wall like a cliff. Not so old had he become, for his smile held the mischief of youth. Dim moonlight did not deceive me here, for I also heard a ration of youthful pleasure.
“Excuse me, miss, I’ve been working nights sweeping chimneys and wonder if you’ve seen one about that might hire me.”
“Impoverished humor for a boy about to fall to his death,” I advised.
“Beg pardon, chimneyless lady, but my grip remains secure.”
“Less secure, unsooted sir, if I find a chimney with which to smash you in repayment for your attacking my sill.”
Eric laughed—and thereafter terrified me, for with that sound he slipped, as though having lost his hold due to meager comedy. He slipped and I instantly reached to grasp his shoulders with both hands, leaning heavily on the window sill as a brace. But I saw the fallacy with my initial touch, for Eric smiled, not grasping the building for his life, revealing himself as well set and having more poor humor. He also revealed some surprise in my action, startled that I would fling myself through the window to save him.
As though ever calm, I retreated to tell him, “Sir, I will gain no fevered chills from your bizarre activities. Enter, then, or leave so that I might close the breeze.”
“I leave then,” he stated quietly, then laughed with the same light tone. “Only a person of your fine thinking could imagine the long journey on foot I’ve shortened by traipsing through snow-filled alleys past people of a type to frighten the devil. And the climb up this wall had to be accomplished properly the first attempt. But off I am this instant, since I fear my father has spies outside my door to peer within during the night and count those persons in my bed. The sum zero found would be a poor number for me. But I come, Miss A
lba, because of elephants.”
“Elephants, you say? What became of chimneys?”
“The trainer, miss,” he said quietly with no humor, only a type of fear. “With the trainer, what I….” And without further sound, devoid of humor, he looked down, and departed.
I leaned through the window, for I would watch him exit. No dream was he, but a night visitor desired; and I viewed him lengthily to study that emotion, to comprehend exactly what I wished of Eric. I did not wish him to leave. Whether boy or man, Eric would not be changed by maturity: age would not rescind his personality that once developed should be admired. With age came more substantial emotion, and feeling only refined his character, but this I had learned without watching him depart. Along the ledge, then to a brickwork corner providing holds for his extremities, down to a window’s cornice, then the ground, a path as supportive as the street, the witch observing each move not to discern his safety, but to share the best moments achieved in an era.
• • •
I remained enough of a witch to escape discomfort though winter’s wind blew through my window left open so that Eric, upon his return, might enter without waking the household with his glass tapping. An alternate form of announcement was cause to leave the window loose, for proven beforehand was Eric’s scent being familiar enough to inform me of his approach, perhaps even during a light sleep. But this was not the smell to jerk me from sleep deep enough for convincing dreams, though none as real as family.
Mother walked the ocean floor, safe because the sinners above floated in coach boats with emptied harnesses, the pulling seahorses having fled to their true home, finally able to leave after an era of drawing sinners to faires only to have trainers grind their gender organs into sausage, proper treatment for creatures so bizarre as to have abandoned family and promoted evil without Satan’s sexual intervention.
Mother walked the ocean floor. I attempted to reach her, but failed because I was half sinner, and thus floated above. Despite drawing near with great effort, I could never touch her, for the seawater was too thick for me to smell Mother but a single reach away. Then the current changed like smoke above London, carrying my mother’s scent to the ocean’s surface, but I could only perceive her by swimming. I finally located her by writing wax documents sealed with ink and following the boy who delivered my pledge of salvation. To gain Mother below, I only had to sink, but I had drowned too often and was too much the sinner to remain below long enough to retrieve Mother even from water that had proven me the witch. As I threw myself to the ocean floor only to float to the surface, I smelled her again, then dove below only to awaken.