Black Body

by H C Turk

  “I do,” was all I needed to say, for Eric had not ended his speaking.

  “What your feelings thereof might be, I know not, shan’t ask, and in a way I find irrelevant. For in fact, I am dispassionately convinced that after years when I return to London, I will come to you.”

  He then moved through the window and down, not having looked toward me again.

  “I’ll be wedding no other,” I sighed, and nearly laughed. Then that faint smile to have come over me was lost, my ironical feeling exchanged for melancholy. And I was confused because I knew not whether this dejection came from my failure to remain emotionally apart from sinners, or merely because I would be without Eric.

  • • •

  Around me bubbled fumes effervescent in the air, animal fat and blood turned to acidic vapor that etched my sensibilities. I continued with my chore, sitting on a simple stool on the coarse kitchen floor, the falling, green corn husks unnatural to this fumy atmosphere. With my back to the stove across the room, I wondered if Delilah used excessive heat in her cooking as punishment for my being in her kitchen, the girl who puked at excellent pork when these servants were pleased to get bones for soup. Though interested only in planning Lucinda’s exit of London, the husking an exercise to relax me, I found myself again in a conflict with English society. Instead of contemplating my true family of witches, unavoidably I was attempting to measure these sinners.

  Then came the shouting.

  “Ah! You’re burning the beef, ignorant woman!”

  I turned to see Theodosia and Delilah congregate before the unattended stove. One woman with a thick cloth removed the large skillet from the heat, setting it aside as the other peered closely at its contents with eyes stinging worse than mine.

  “It is most black on the bottom and that which is not is surely overcooked,” Theodosia reported. “And you know how much the mistress detests unrare meat.”

  “Perhaps we can dice it into some concoction and thus save the stuff,” Delilah submitted, her cohort responding with derision.

  “Best worry, woman, about saving your own hide and not this blackened beast’s which already you’ve ruint.”

  Delilah’s reply was a glimpse more of guilt than glaring. Then up from the wet ashes she looked and to the kitchen door, for there stood the final servant, one recently polishing metal and therefore without my accompaniment.

  “Aye, and you’ll not be worrying about the upcoming meal, in that the mistress is not attending. Off she is with constables to be aiding the magistrate.”

  “Gone the night she is?” Delilah asked. “Out of London? We’ve not seen that in a time.”

  “And you’re not seeing it again this day,” Elsie replied. “Likely she’s returning before evening, was her goal, time enough to be preparing a proper meal for our weary mistress.”

  “Ah, the relief God grants well-meaning folk,” Delilah sighed, and moved to dump the burnt mess outside where dogs eating house to house might find it.

  Elsie departed, and I followed her involving news. Noticing my rapid standing, the remaining sinners wondered of my rush.

  “And you are complete, Miss Alba, with your chore?” Delilah asked as I gathered the stripped corn.

  “Done, miss, and on to another.”

  “You need not be doing these things, Miss Alba,” Theodosia added as I scooped the bright green remains into the mulching box. “The mistress might not relish her young lady peeling vegetables.”

  My disturbing the organic mass brought forth fresh odors of old food, old plant remains, a smell enough for me to notice above the reduced fat steaming the room.

  “I trust I am not improper in aiding the preparation of food that I also eat,” I stated with a smile, wiping my hands on an apron as I stood paces from these servants, a proper space for women other than Elsie.

  We were not a lot to be speaking, these servants and the odd child intruding in their realm. Currently, however, the women were not so cold, as though they were accustomed to me as certain other sinners had become.

  “You’re a helpful lass, though, and thank you, miss,” Delilah added.

  Another smile and no further speaking as I left. Solely concerning me was that Rathel might again be the determiner of a witch’s life. As though I might learn something from Rathel’s last position, I ran to the entrance foyer, but sensed nothing. I therefore waited, an enterprise not always satisfying even to people as long-lived as mine.

  • • •

  Not within sight of Elsie was I when she heard a coach halt before the household to divest itself of our mistress. After Rathel entered and spoke briefly with Elsie about weariness, the sinners separated, the witch stepping out from behind a curtain to grasp the lady’s hand and smell it.

  Startled Rathel attempted to snatch her fingers away, but long enough and near enough I held her to gain the smell I sought.

  “Clove is not strong enough a scent to conceal a fragrance so personally known, lady sinner,” I declared.

  “Alba, if you have lost your mind, I shall confine you to a home for the mad,” Rathel retorted while retrieving her hand.

  “Not with an ignorant sinner of your huge village do you speak, Rathel. Wise enough I am to have surmised your task with the magistrate to be identifying witches. And on you proof is found, for the odor is lodged deep in the crevice beneath your nails, neither to be soon washed away nor hidden with additional scents. Not hidden from me.”

  “Partake of brevity in your wisdom, Alba, and describe the ultimate goal of your speaking.”

  “You have been with witch Lucinda—I know this.”

  “How is it you know a witch never near your home island?” Rathel replied after an unsubtle pause.

  “I know her from your home, former missus. Inadvertently she found me here while seeking you and your typically sick business.”

  “The home of a woman not known to her, else my examining her would not have been required. Does your wisdom not tell you this?”

  “But you are known by her friends: those instruments used to kill your own spouse, and thereby gain—fail to gain—Edward Denton.”

  “You confront me with these stories as though to achieve some advantage,” Rathel retorted. “I suggest, however, that you not display your wisdom to Edward. Even now he considers you demonically tainted, and to the pyre of Magistrate Naylor you would go.”

  “Yes, mistress, with you as companion. How believable shall I be in alleging that you have me here to kill as in the past you so wickedly used witches? Might you tell Naylor that my identity be unknown to you? That display of insanity would gain you no home for the mad, but a prison for foolish criminals. How readily shall you convince rational officials in light of my evil that Franklin died without your aid and effort? But I’ve no desire to inform taxman nor king of my identity merely to have you burned beside me. My silence I would retain if only you continue to humor your daughter.”

  “And what would this comedy cost me, Alba?”

  “Dismissal, mistress. Have the witch Lucinda dismissed from incarceration and from London.”

  “Is this a studied goal on your part, or one frivolous?” Rathel queried.

  “A most studious goal I have been attempting to implement. Before Lucinda was encaptured, I had initiated her departure.”

  “Therefore, you killed the Bitford man for her passage.”

  “Satan ended this sinner through my unwilling, unknowing body. Perhaps the devil used you in a similar manner to kill your husband. At least I sought gain for a person other than myself. To purchase Lucinda’s conveyance, I intended more thievery of your excess goods.”

  “Your generosity is moving, Alba, but will not likely convince a magistrate who shall only see the witch in you, not the sister. As for your business, I understand now the aunt of yours I was yesterday.”

  After a pause mandated by Rathel’s nonsense, I replied, “You ascribe madness to me then speak insanely?”

  “Upon learning of this Bitford�
��s death, I also learned of his employ, and believed you on the verge of a foolish attempt to withdraw from London. At the agency of his hire, I inquired of a young lady with your face and fine speaking. Being told that you sought conveyance for a senile aunt, I took great offense, insisting that I in fact was that person and you a hateful niece attempting to rid me from your home. Thus, I canceled your papers with a generous gratuity to Mr. Wroth. More importantly, I concluded a business that if left unconsummated at the time of an employee’s death might lead a thoughtful superior to have you sought. None shall seek me, since I used no true name, and my face was unseen. I suggest that when next you endeavor to kill a man with your sex, wear a veil to hide your distinctive face. But feel no need to thank me for saving your life again.”

  “I die the witch with a cunt virginal or murderous, so I need not thank you for your self-salvation. You would have me executed at once were it not for my continued success with Eric.”

  “Your ultimate success, however, is required for your return to the wilds.”

  “How wise you are to not promise my continued living, only a conveyance to the wilderness.”

  “Both of these I will have for you if you wed the Denton lad.”

  “Easy is your business when the boy’s true betrothal is written on his heart. I so consume his thinking that at night he climbs the wall for me—do you doubt it?”

  “I do not, Alba, but take not this boy between your legs without a wedding, lest you ruin our chances for surviving his end.”

  “How could that be, mistress? I understand how you might secrete me out of London after Eric’s death, but you remain, do you not? If available to justice, how shall you survive a murder that clearly you intended?”

  “Because clearly you intended it, Alba. Besides myself, only witches are aware of the white one. I shall have even the king believe that you were the one seeking vengeance, vengeance against me for allowing your sisters on Man’s Isle to die. You thus concealed yourself in the guise of a human girl until able to destroy me by killing your marriage, thereby ruining any mother’s most beloved hour.”

  “Convinced I am, mistress, and in my guise as king’s counsel, I adjudge you well-connived by the witch and innocent of murder. But you shall require no such adjudication from the genuine law unless a new death transpires. So let us ensure Lucinda’s survival. For me to continue with Eric as I am, you must have Lucinda released and removed from London, even if she first requires a flogging from authorities. A witch can survive the whip, but not a fire.”

  “But here exists difficulty,” Rathel returned. “Without your concern, I have no interest in this witch. My objectivity was revealed to the magistrate in my identifying Lucinda then leaving her for the law. How am I now to tell Naylor that I care for the witch when earlier I did not? Should I mention Mr. Bitford’s death?”

  “Along with Franklin’s, of course. Ply me not with your foolishness, sinner. If you arranged for Eric to die by me and your husband through other witches, no doubt you’ve the ability to have one woman released, the reason by your own invention. But I suggest you not tarry, for I will tolerate no pretext that too late you were or too inconsistent toward Lucinda. So let the deaths fall where you will them, not where they must, for you are the center around whom your people perish. And remember as you journey, mistress, that I’ve developed my own resources for influencing London. Know ye, wench, that a sinner need no prick to die by the will of witches.”

  There our speaking ended, the Rathel looking toward me firmly as though to read my will. And she walked away before I, walked away to have Elsie fetch her cloak and gloves, for out again she need leave on significant business.

  With the lady gone, Elsie found me near the foyer to ask of the Rathel’s departure.

  “Forgive me, child, but I’m hearing this harsh whispering between you and the mistress, and praise Jesus I’m hearing not enough to know what was said. But as I’m worrying of your arguing and the mistress being out again, can you be telling me how much I should fret?”

  “The discussion, miss, was more negotiation than distress. As for Rathel’s business, the mistress is to the magistrate’s again with no difficulties expected, and none, I pray, forthcoming.”

  Expressing her relief, a fond demeanor with these servants, Elsie withdrew to the kitchen, one of their favorite sites. I soon smelled cooking, my first thought being that Elsie had opened the door to release a whiff of Delilah’s burning meat. But the odor was not beef, and was not from our kitchen. On Satan’s pyre, a witch was frying.

  I ran to the foyer, opening the door to be certain of my smelling, at first convinced I was as mad as the Rathel had mentioned, so distraught that my worst dreams now came awake. But I found no mistake and no nightmare, only a full breath of London’s air containing the black fibers of a burnt sister.

  As though eating the dark flesh instead of smelling it, I retched and bent as though broken, my stomach’s contents so exploding from me that I was thrown to the floor by the force of my contractions, not those of my stomach, but my heart, for my spirit was vomiting. I felt another loved one dying by torture, felt my morality destroyed from having allowed another sister to die by not being witch enough to save her.

  Bloodless and filled with blood, I rose to move into the drawing room for an item of household protection, removing a metal heirloom to apply to that person most ruinous to the home, sitting within smell of the door, waiting for the Rathel to kill her.

  Why she was so long in returning I did not know, but soon I came aware that Rathel had no initiative with Lucinda. Though she had identified the witch, this activity was old with her and familiar to me. She had no opportunity to save Lucinda as per my demand, for the sister was set to Hell’s fire before Rathel could arrive. I had been correct when retching, understanding that I was to blame: for being too active, too passive, too improper as a savior, a sister. I asked myself if Lucinda were less worthy of death than Percival; and, yes, the answer in God’s name was yes. Regardless, I had killed them both. Having murdered enough for that era of my life, I replaced the lance and retired to my chamber, closing the window passage to night London because the incoming odor could be nightmarish. And though a stench that seemed my own burned body lay in the air, the fumes were inconsequential compared to the sister’s remains soiling my blood.

  I imagined Eric climbing the wall. At the window, I would kick his face, the boy falling to his death, an accident to English law, the Rathel satisfied and I on my way to Man’s Isle. Eric’s death would be accepted in this land as normalcy, for was he not innocent and unworthy? Was he not harmless and thus to be infinitely harmed? I imagined Eric coming and dying, for was he not next in queue for my killing? First Percival from unknown, unavoidable evil, then Lucinda from incompetence and lack of courage. Therefore, why not Eric from clear intent? Was this progression not reasonable?

  I imagined Eric but had no dreams of him, lying on my bed without sleep, my only thoughts of dinner gone bad, of a negligent cook having caused the harmless burning of a meal, nothing lost, nothing worse than this mistake. I attempted to justify the soot in my brain until a drunken wench came stumbling into my chamber.

  Rathel had been imbibing liquor, a taste of hers I thought she had recently tempered. Sinners drank as a social enterprise and to hide their cares with the dull foolhardiness that alcohol provides. But what was this sinner’s state that she had to share it with me?

  After staring in the dark until able to see me on the bed, the Rathel revealed herself.

  “You smelled the witch gone before I arrived, and somehow—I know—you sent me to become a fool before Sir Jacob.”

  “Satan made you the fool, wench. I sent you to save my sister. I prayed to a god you have never loved to save my sister through you.”

  As though not having heard me, Rathel continued speaking, directing her composition—an opera—toward her audience.

  “I told Naylor I should speak with this witch to learn more of demonic activi
ty in London. I then heard of her dying, but Naylor mentioned more on that subject of recent evil. The Bitford man dead at your body. Then an older tale about a pale girl under water for much too long a duration, and how an average gentleman was drawn to touch her. This man had a story for his minister first, then was sent to the magistrate. Sir Jacob asserted that so much demonic now lay in London that people fear for their children. Sharing a drink with him and the wife to get the taste of the Thames out of me, I learned more. I learned that one family sharing a school with the Naylors had sent their boy to Europe this very day. And since the youth’s name was Eric and you’ve been speaking with him at night as per your boasting, did you not encourage him to leave? Was it not your best initiative, moreso than pawning my possessions to abandon me for the wilderness? Perhaps in your journeys of conniving you’ve noticed that other pale girl about, she in Penstone Place nearly ravished before being driven off by a coachman. Her appearance not unlike my goddamnable new daughter. Sir Jacob would have mentioned this earlier had I not been so insistent on being with my new family that I had no time to work with him. As though it were my idea not to know all the plotting you’ve done against me. But this was understandable to the generous Naylor. Understandable that I preferred my lovely lass to those possessed with demons, as though anyone could be taken by a demon worse than you.”

  “Your mouth is perverse from liquor, unnatural creature,” I retorted, but again the Rathel seemed not to hear.

  “But many pale girls live in this city. When all are discovered to be the same and all mine, she’ll be enjailed before finishing with Denton—exactly as you planned, is it not, witch?”

  “Yes, you idiot blackguard,” I laughed. “All of your odd speaking is true. As though God Himself, I’ve been manipulating this city to irritate you. So foolish are ye, drunken wench, that you’d believe I would burn myself to thwart your plans.”

  “You’ve made a mistake in deceiving me, witch, in stabbing me from behind with your deception.”

  “Bleeding right, you ferocious whore, I’ve made a mistake in stabbing your back!” I shrieked, and leapt from the bed to run past Rathel and downstairs, having achieved a most objective intent, as though a formula to correct my living, and it would be the Rathel’s death. Into the drawing room to gain the lance and slaughter heinous Rathel, Satan take her soul if he could find room for her infinite evil in his Hell. But energized with drunken anger, Rathel was with me like Lucinda’s final smell. As I stepped onto the chair and reached for the lance, Rathel attacked me from behind, having taken another object in her life I purportedly had wielded against her.