Black Body
Page 33
Chapter 18
Killing Me Piece By Piece
“So, are you feeling better now, girl, in that you’re walking to the window, or so bad you’re about to be hurling yourself out?”
“I am feeling less ill, miss, for which I must thank you. And I have no intent of moving through this window.”
“Then you’ll be returning to your bed, lass, in that you’ve nothing better to do this day than rest.”
“Perhaps I do not, Miss Elsie. Perhaps not.”
She had brought me water, a servant’s daily task used by this miss as a mechanism for entry, as though her true purpose were not to examine the patient. After satisfied Elsie filled my urn and departed, I considered my response to her, contemplating my needed activities of the day. Seeking Lucinda would be useless, for the witch would not have remained into day’s light. Reasonably, she would return this evening even though I had not been present as promised. After all, I had informed her of my own subjugation by a sinner. Assuming her return, I could proceed to acquire funds for Percival. Was not his paper valid? These documents from promising men collecting around me like flies on the chamber pot—should I value this latest as I did the first? And if its worth be nil, should I then expose that mutual act of bodies to Mr. Worth or to Naylor? But if only married folk in England should be partaking of such rubbing, was I not a tart and subject to punition? If sufficiently illegal, I would be imprisoned by the magistrate regardless of the driver’s felony. Here, perhaps, was the factor to allow Percival such ease in threatening himself with Naylor. Therefore, I should first determine the validity of Percival’s document. If it be valueless, then to the Rathel’s again, steal much wealth, attempt to sell it without being discovered by the mistress or rejected by the broker, then again to Mortwaite to pay Wroth’s established price. Typical business for my sinning London life.
As I stood at the window in my reverie of uncertain contemplation, Delilah came to fulfill her daily chore of emptying the household chamber pots. With mine came a warning.
“I was most unpleasantly ill in there last night for which I do apologize,” I told her.
“Can’t be worse than what is normal in them things,” she muttered. “I’ve learned by now to look little and breathe less when I deal with the pots, with folks sick or well.”
She took the ceramic crock to a bucket in the corridor covered with one cloth and situated upon another to catch the slopping. Dumping the former into the latter, Delilah seemed well able to prevent her sensing the materials in that no retching ensued. After rinsing it with clean water, the servant returned my pot, on to the next.
My reverie ended with the decision that, yes, I had more important things to do that day than rest in bed. Again I must pursue severe activities, and I wondered if every aspect of achieving a new home for my sister would begin as easily as Wroth and end as impossibly as Percival.
Elsie returned after I dressed, mentioning that she was off to the market for foodstuffs; and I would not be attending even if I so desired, not with my weakness and the cold outside, but was anything special to be brought me? No, nothing special desired with the yet-improper stomach.
I looked through the window as Elsie walked across the street with her basket. Yes, I did want to accompany her, to partake of an enjoyable, unimportant journey without danger. No journeys for me that day would be less than profound if recent history be a measure. But Miss Elsie’s excursion became no less provocative than my last. Scant minutes later, I heard her moaning outside, and saw the servant with her basket being dragged home by constables as she called out for her Mistress Amanda.
Downstairs I ran as Theodosia and Rathel opened the door. Out of sight I remained, having an adequate view and excellent hearing. On the stoop stood a pair of average constables and an exceptionally frightened woman appearing so small and useless between them as though a creature destined for slaughter and well aware of her fate. At once the speaking ensued, the visiting authorities first.
“A good day is wished to you, ma’am, and is it that you are the Lady Amanda Rathel?”
She was, and why did they have her servant in their hands?
“Instructed out we were at sunrise to gather all women likely demonic, in that witches may be in our city, in that yesterday was a man most crassly murdered as only one with the devil could do.”
With true affront, the mistress declared, “This woman is a servant of mine and entrusted with the entire household. Moreover, not a moment the previous day did she leave this building, and for her I vouch absolute godliness. If you lack acceptance here, then contact Sir Jacob Naylor himself, for he and I are colleagues.”
“Lady Amanda, your name is known to us as well, and well regarded. We ask not of you, but of this woman, that she is of your house as she asserts. Learning now that this be true, we return her, and suggest you retain the servant inside until more comes of the problem mentioned.”
“And what is this crime of which you speak?” Rathel inquired.
“A man was killed in a demonic manner not to be described to a lady,” was the official response.
Rathel then pulled her servant away as though a toy misused by a greedy friend, patting Elsie’s back and telling the poor miss to return to her room and rest. Theodosia accompanied Elsie from the foyer. Unkindly I concealed myself from Elsie’s sight, for though I would not refuse her my sympathy, this demonic situation must first be heard by the demon.
Again Rathel confronted the constables, speaking with less passion, now more professionally.
“Through Magistrate Naylor, you might know that my life is one of confronting witches. Therefore, you shall convey to me details appropriate for my expertise.”
After sharing a look, the constables acquiesced.
“A man Percival Bitford was killed most sexually, in that his male member was torn off his body and too much of his blood lost for him to live further.”
“Perhaps this man had enemies,” Amanda returned. “Humans are also channels for Satan’s evil.”
“Sir Jacob is thinking witches.”
Rathel looked to the constables, but had no denial. When she spoke again, her words were final.
“The magistrate knows my home. I know about witches and servants. I wish you a good day,” she concluded, and closed the door, turning to walk away.
She sought Miss Elsie to soothe her, telling the servant not to broach this story to Alba, for the girl’s weak condition would not bear the distress. Elsie, of course, would tell no one, ever, of nearly being arrested for wickedness, tell no other servant and never Miss Alba, dear Miss Alba.
Rathel did not come to me. Was she so expert as to know I would have no comprehension of my own witch’s act? Of course, she would not mention the event to me, lest I be influenced to avoid performing the same activity with Eric, exactly as Rathel had intended and asserted in verity from the first. But men were all sinners, no more, and killing them would send their souls to God. Besides, if the specified person were ended, would I not thereafter be conveyed to a home where no sinners existed to kill? What care had I for these folk with more of Satan’s evil than any witch?
I had never seen Elsie so frightened. Had she been present with her evil lass, her utterly, absolutely evil charge, perhaps she would have noted our new similarity; for my own fear was unparalleled, even greater than when Mother was taken to her burning, or when I awaited death in Jonsway. Those horrors had come from without, but this latest was so inherent to me that it seemed I was responsible for all those previous deaths, not merely Percival’s. So foul was my core that surely it permeated my past, an evil implemented in the forgotten real, and obscurely revealed in dreams.
Elsie would have discerned no great difference with her sight, though surely that hot blood burning my head made the white witch somewhat pink, rare meat she was, unique in her corruption. Standing by the window, I thought of Elsie’s words, of my being so ill I might leap. And I had the thought, but knew that Satan or Rathel would cat
ch me. Then I thought of Percival and was relieved that no more dealings could I have with him or his company. I thought of my pain and of his, and knew I had felt both during the event, the dying, and now felt them again: not in my crotch, but in my heart and my head and my spirit, and this was Satan’s glory. I felt pain and impossibility, for I could not have killed that man. I could not have killed any person, not with my body—the idea was absurd. But the intensity of that pain now seemed fit for death, and how dead the driver seemed in retrospect. How deadly the Rathel was to know this all along and use my trait as a weapon, use me as a weapon: a person more vile than even Satan could imagine. A person so wicked as to have killed a man by plucking away his most prideful part and letting him bleed for it. And I felt it. I felt myself locked onto that male and felt our pain and felt his piece pulled loose and that piece was my brain. I felt Percival’s blood oozing away and it was my blood, for I felt my heart being pulled from my body. I felt the pain of my killing, and as well as God Himself I knew I deserved it, deserved the agony again and felt it so fully that thereafter nothing in my life existed but that horror returned. But I did not suffer enough, for I continued living; whereas that poor, average sinner had not. I felt abject moral misery so completely that I was nothing but that concept, an idea of evil so pure that only a devil could bear it. But I was only a girl, one hating herself enough to die, but Satan only let me faint.
• • •
That day, I remained ill, but from no distressed stomach. Each moment awake or partially aware I prayed God for understanding, believing deeply that within His wisdom some reason existed for the incredible evil in me, a divine plan that let me love both Him and humans, yet kill the latter. But I received peace only upon accepting Lord God instead of seeking from Him the aid of explanation. Only then did I approach divinity, understanding that a design only God could devise He alone could comprehend; and this was satisfaction enough. Then, exhausted by religion, I managed to sleep through the uncomfortable afternoon. When I awoke, I found myself no less evil, but no less a part of God’s enduring plans.
Evening had arrived. I arose to stand by that desperate window, aware that outside lay my future that soon I would need to follow again. Beginning my preparation, I applied effort to tidy my apparel as though the killer were a lady; for in this world of God above and Satan everywhere, a lady she best be. I even brushed my hair, then quit my chamber to show God I yet accepted myself as part of His world, not Satan’s. Unfortunately, Satan seemed to be part of me, for my bottom was evil, the musculature there so sore as to affect my walking, for I limped as though elderly. Was this, then, the cause of old sinners’ walking poorly: a life of sex coupling? Sex killing?
Though the evening was not late, Rathel and her servants had retired, all but Elsie, who met me downstairs in her dressing robe as though waiting. Unimpassioned but pleasant was our meeting, wherein we mutually determined that each of our conditions had improved; and, yes, perhaps we were hungry. Entering the kitchen, Elsie was thoughtful enough to eat only an apple instead of rendering me ill with meat. For Elsie’s benefit, pomegranate instead of onion was my meal.
As Elsie and I departed the kitchen, the servant proceeded to her room. As though an insect in the evening, I was drawn to the light of her doorway. Following the miss, I stood outside as she entered. Never had I been within nor viewed this chamber. Elsie moved to her bed and sat. I had never seen her settled upon a surface all her own, and she was mildly prideful in having a place, any place, though this room was the size of my armoire, with a tiny bed and tiny chair, and two shelves and all of Elsie’s things: her crafts and comb and Bible, a clean and neat apron the next day she would be rubbing with her fingertips. One oil lamp whose light filled the small space, and I saw myself there. Upon a round table lay a crocheted doily with a pamphlet of Jesus, a dried flower from our garden, and a ball of black hair tied with a ribbon. Elsie’s hair was brown.
I looked toward my friend. Instantly I would have exchanged chambers with her, for clearly we were misplaced. Elsie would have loved the grand expanse of my bedchamber, and I would have been more comfortable in a modest space. I looked only at Elsie, and cursed her properly.
“Sleep perfectly, miss, and rest as you deserve.”
She was embarrassed. I departed, the servant and I wishing each other a good evening. Only Elsie’s, however, would soon end. Midnight for the witch was a literal center.
By the window that connected me to the sinners’ world, I awaited a sister’s smell, but none came. Perhaps the witch was present a wind away, her odor masked by a breeze. Believing that Eric would not be so foolish as to come on a day whose bright hours had seen officers collecting sinister women outside my door, I had concern only for my sister whom I prayed to appear one additional night, bringing me new opportunity. I then departed through that plane incapable of separating me from the wickedness without, for did not the devil have a daughter within?
Down the wall with no slippage. Across the street through a minor snow and to the site where my sister again would be found, please. The same aged sinner of my previous journey was so gracious as to have returned, a consistency I prayed for in Lucinda. Again he scurried away, frightened that I might be danger. How wise was this man. The person of my true concern, however, was not present. For hours, I walked the street, building to building, hoping to gain Lucinda’s odor, but no person was sensed, sinner or sister. Near dawn, after I had stopped myself from falling as though waking from a flying dream, I returned to the Rathel’s. Despite my exhaustion, I ascended the wall unharmed, all the while wondering how to find Lucinda again, crawling into my chamber to find a sinner asleep on my floor.
As I stepped past him to the door, Eric was startled from his sleep as though on the street half-conscious looking for his kin. He sat upright to watch me lock the door to exclude Elsie if she were to awaken before the sun to look in on me. What a joy the Rathel would receive from finding Eric here. But what a disaster for Elsie’s heart.
“You’ve been gone on your business again, is my guess,” Eric quietly stated, standing as I turned from the door.
“Out on your pleasure, I see,” I replied, and sat on a chair, bending to remove my shoes, having a true need to sleep and beginning my preparation despite the present guest. Before the first dead cow skin was loosened, however, I came aware of the tart move I was making, even God’s greatest lady no more than a common wench to tempt a man by revealing her lower extremities. At once I ceased, but surely Eric had seen an ankle. As I sedately dropped my hem to the floor, did I not smell from my visitor an odor usually present when men were about to die by me?
Eric turned from the semi-lady, stepping away, distracted or attempting to appear so.
“Have you succeeded in aiding your friend exit our city?” he asked.
“My friend and I have not met again,” I replied. “In that she is disheveled and unhandsome, I fear the constables have taken her for a witch, arresting her as they did our Miss Elsie.”
Surprised, Eric quickly turned to me despite the potential of stockings revealed.
“Surely, the latter is not yet detained.”
“Surely not, in that Rathel was a fury to take her servant from the men, officials or not.”
“But if your friend is detained, can you not as Lady Amanda’s daughter vouch for her bona fides?”
“Without the complexities of deep exegesis, let me inform you, sir, that entities in this world exist more convincing to constables than I.”
After staring toward me a moment, Eric stepped to the window, looking out as I had earlier and seeing the same, viewing nothing but his thoughts.
“Might I provide some aid to help with your friend’s departure?”
“This offer you’ve presented before, sir, but no use is yet to be found in your involvement.”
“And if such use were ascertained, might I be considered?”
“You might if such idea attacks me, for you are not without resources.”
“I leave, then, miss. In fact, I have come for the purpose of describing my departure, for not only your sill but London sees me leave.”
“Interpret your riddle, sir, in that quitting London has become a horror for me.”
“The purpose, ostensibly, is to convey me to education, when in fact the object is to remove me from you.”
“Who so takes thee, master?”
“My father and the wife, who’ve made payment for exclusive education in Italy. This was expected and gratefully appreciated before, but no longer. Not when it comes a year early. But I am told that so fine is my educational progress that greater learning I’ll readily accept. The true goal, however, is not to increase my intellection, but to decrease my exposure to you. The parents, though unaware of these meetings, yet read my heart as though Jesus my soul.”
I believed his speaking, though it seemed unreal, a dream. Eric was being forced to leave London while I remained a prisoner? Shaking my head as though to clear the clogging injustice, I asked of his travel as might Mr. Wroth.
“You depart for the Continent? How far removed, and for what duration?”
“A brief journey over water, then days on land, the stay to last for years. Truly, my parents hope for me to find and wed a peer newly met in Europe, but I am heretofore betrothed. You might know of this.”