Black Body

by H C Turk

  Stepping backward like a cat, I returned to my best shelter—the Rathel’s home—but found each door locked, including the basement entry. Since I had not been seen by Rathel or her driver, I did not care to identify myself as one of her failed assailants. So up the wall I climbed like my former spider to discover my window latched. Then I recalled my own doing, for I had feared that one of the criminals might surmise the residents here and come looking. Unfortunately, the curious criminal was I.

  To the Giraffe’s niche I would retire, slipping to sleep until morning when I would stealthily move inside the house as though never gone. A single step I took toward the neighbor’s hedge before smiling and running like a horse to Rathel’s front door.

  “It is I, Alba!” I hollered while violently rapping the knocker.

  “What? Who? Why…?” came replies from numerous voices within before one of the anguished women understood my screaming to be genuine, opening the door a crack to first view, then fully receive the daughter.

  I was the one to slam and bolt the door as Elsie, Rathel, and Delilah asked of the meaning. But I had no answers for them, only condemnation.

  “Out I run to see of the loud activity, espying two criminal men, when here is a third running directly toward me. Tremendously I flee from his knife, yet when I am returned and desperate to enter my home, you have locked me out! Am I a part of that band of thieves that I must live on the streets?!” I yelped, then stalked angrily to my chamber, firm in my demand not to cackle until upon my bed, slamming the door behind, my face in the pillow as I laughed enough to tire me; but before sleeping, thankful prayers to Lord God, which He deserved, despite coming from a sinner.

  Chapter 20

  Sinners With Bare Backs

  How simple my dreams became. No ship’s chain to entangle me, no bridge, no saltwater, drowning, no attempted escape. No failure, only pain, and all from smelling a witch burn. In this era, I was smelling Lucinda die, dreaming of the agony I had felt upon sensing her odor. Perhaps the misery remaining from Rathel’s securing me in her home was inspirational, drawing similarities from a more permanent damage. Often I slept well through the evening, but when I slept poorly, I slept not at all, sensing a sister ablaze.

  No further tutoring was I given, though my thoughts of geography continued. Rathel and I scarcely spoke to each other, and were never together alone. Though occasionally accompanying Elsie to market, I would not attend either opera or church, the Rathel wise enough to make no pious demands of me. Besides, she had the lasting excuse amongst her peers of my slow healing from the terrible accident, my shame in being publicly seen with a disfigured face.

  Elsie had no further justification for Rathel’s evil acts’ being caused by a heart hurt long before. Never in my healing did Elsie speak of the mistress in fine terms. Neutral she was but no better, and therein equal to me, for I had no further liberal reviling of Rathel. Student Elsie had been tutored by her own observation to understand the truth of Rathel’s heart. But we shared no hatred, for neither was capable of altering her servitude to the sinning mistress.

  I looked less often through my window, no studious stares for witches and boys unheard of since their departing an era of education ago. Such a thing as letters existed but had never been promised. And if sent, might not Rathel intercept them as part of her business of which I was an instrument, a dupe? Perhaps I missed Eric’s company, and I would never neglect the godly revelation provided by this male who seemed less foreign a beast than other sinners: less than Rathel and that zoo lapping at me in Penstone. But being with me would mean Eric’s death, I was certain, and I was saving my wares for other men.

  Fleeing London became the center of my existence. Unlike my early days in the City, I now had great confidence, having learned all of British business. I waited only for my strength to return, in that I required energy to fuck my way out of London.

  In this manner, my plan proceeded. One morning, feeling nearly strong enough to begin my seduction of the city, I gazed through my window at passing sinners. One woman was walking herself like a dog, so it seemed, for stiffly past she stepped in her decent dress, later returning. Then came a coach for Rathel, our mistress entering and gone. A moment later, as though predictive, I turned from the window to see Elsie enter my chamber. Surprised she was that a lady from church sought to visit me though aware that Rathel was absent. A woman unknown, but who was Elsie to argue with a fellow parishioner on God’s business? After my accident, some religious guests had come in the way of normal, soulful visitation of one ill, but orders from the Rathel were to disallow such intrusion, using the pretext of the girl’s yet being too delicate about English society to be swimming in it hideous. The latest visitor, however, had been adamant: not in seeing me, but in having the servant deliver her name. So up comes Elsie prepared to go down as soon as I give the order, as surely I would have except for that word, the name “Marybelle” having me run downstairs like an animal.

  A woman dressed as though a merchant’s wife, and veiled, but no witch I knew, not with my improving nose sensing no sister’s odor. A woman so timid as to remain outside, though requested to enter the foyer. Not timid was I, however, for out I went to close the door behind and lift that veil myself. And, yes, below the cloth was an ugly thing, and at this distance, having the faint but true smell of a sister.

  “A rare salve applied on the skin when beneath the bright sun for the day,” she described. “I learned that some dogs have been trained to smell us. I would rather not be caught by an animal who should be friendly.”

  This witch I did not embrace. Perhaps no living person I should have loved more, but Marybelle should not have been living. She should not have been dressed as I nor walking so well, no cane required, her clumsy boot of Man’s Isle replaced by a normal shoe. But this sister, no less wise than before, was aware of my thinking.

  “More of a witch you are now with your changed head. But even this bent face shows me your thoughts. What you would hear can come later. But now we go, and share stories later.”

  “Go?” I asked. “Our destiny being?”

  “A decent land with no streets, one made by God for His simple folk. A long journey we have, and must begin now.”

  “Now?”

  “The servant of Rathel has heard my name. Rathel will recall it from Man’s Isle.”

  “Elsie will tell no one if I ask her to refrain.”

  “So thick you are with this sinner to trust her with my life?”

  “In fact, so godly a person is she that I can trust her with both our lives. Regardless, why the jeopardy of using your true name?”

  “Thereby I gained you now. Having done so, we must now depart. God would have us leave to be natural. Where would you be, Alba, with London and this servant?”

  “I would be in a decent land with no streets, one made by God for His simple folk who yet include me, despite the complexities of my current life.”

  “Then abandon your complex living and return to God.”

  “You speak as though your meaning is immediacy.”

  “When should we go if not now? Are you not prepared in your heart to regain our original life?”

  “But I have to…first,” I said, unable to enunciate the center of my feelings. Though my only need was to depart, this need was only for myself, and therefore selfish, akin to lust. In this city, I lived not alone, but with friends. And how could I depart with a nightmare? How could I leave with someone whose death yet pained me waking and asleep?”

  “You hesitate.”

  “Often have I departed this house in order to exit London, though never successfully. Never have I made such attempts, however, without preparation, and therefore the notion is strange.”

  “You would kiss the sinner good-bye, perhaps, or bring your best gown? If you’ve money or jewels, bring all you can, but elsewise bring yourself.”

  “A veil at least I need to draw no attention through London.”

  “Agreed, yet you hes
itate to run for this and be gone.”

  With the immediacy Marybelle sought, I announced, “You are dead,” and understood that all along I had been staring at her, staring at a person often seen in my dreams. “You are dead, Marybelle. You died as—”

  “I survived,” she stated curtly. “I continue to live as God intends, so do not argue with my life unless you would argue with Him. And to His land we should now journey.”

  So I ran away. I turned and hastened upstairs, past Delilah and to my chamber, taking veil and bonnet and cloak, also a bag. Yes, from a massive chest I took a bag, one for holidays in the countryside, and placed within a fine gown, my most comfortable shoes, but no mementoes. The Rathel had jewels, and since I would no longer be living in her London, I need not fear being discovered, arrested, enjailed. But I had no jewels, and was too much the sinner in having killed to become a greater felon. Downstairs I ran, past staring Delilah, below to the foyer and Elsie.

  Hesitation is not the term for my response, for Elsie looked at the apparel in my hand, saw the bag, and knew my goal. So I ran to her, dropping my items, and embraced the woman as I had no one since Lucinda. I embraced Elsie with no explanation of my intents, only of our lives.

  “Never mention that this person gave her name,” I whispered while looking into the sinner’s eyes, my friend’s eyes. “And never forget I love you.” And I kissed her face, kissed her well and loved her better, then ran away before she could reply, through the doorway and to Marybelle.

  We began walking at once. Marybelle, stepping stiffly with long, certain strides, first moved to a brick post supporting the fence of Rathel’s neighbor where criminals of failed killing had previously hidden. From this niche, she gained her own luggage, more of a handled sack for potatoes than my embroidery and brocade finery. Then she wordlessly continued, and I followed. I followed, but expected that door behind to open, expected Elsie to look or call out, but she did not. Wise Miss Elsie knew what was best for her Alba. So did Marybelle, for she had summoned a brown carriage, instructing the driver to take us to an unfamiliar address. Then she provided the coachman with coin. And away.

  “You have funds?” I asked her.

  “From stealing the sinners’ belongings and selling it. Long have I prepared this leaving with you, but felt it best not to burden you with knowledge of me, lest you or I become like Lucinda.”

  “You know this person?”

  “Not enough. This one was too thickly in London to save. God grant her the rest she could not gain alive. Was it with she you made like preparations?”

  “Yes, but the Rathel and my sex had me fail.”

  “You have been killing sinners with this sex?”

  “Only one, and only thereafter did I understand it was I who had killed him. God forgive me, but I did not know.”

  “Concern yourself not with God’s forgiving you for your ignorance. He is the greatest Lord, not a superior person, and understands us better than we. When you begin killing from desire, then beg for God to understand, though He shall not.”

  “I wonder, however, why I was not told of this characteristic by my betters on Man’s Isle.”

  “Perhaps because those witches were disrupted before the time of your learning. Perhaps because we failed you by not teaching you sooner. So know ye the remainder of your sex, Alba, that if you’ll be having it with men, use any way but your child passage. Your purpose with any sexing remains with you and God, but the sinner will survive your hand and anus.”

  Managing not to say, “And mouth,” I instead returned to an important subject.

  “We travel where with your coin?”

  “Wales is our goal as an end, though we begin by leaving London.”

  “Not to Man’s Isle?”

  “That place is become too small for both witches and sinners. The sinners have little interest in Wales near the mountains, which is not near us, but not across a sea. I crossed the Irish Sea twice, once fully on a sinners’ boat, and before that part way, but walking. But that is done and now we are away from the tale.”

  Despite the veil obscuring her visage, from this witch I could sense the memory of an illness whose influence remained; and healed enough was my nose to smell her pain.

  “Wales was the locale of my arrangements with a Mr. Wroth, of which Rathel became aware,” I informed Marybelle. “The town’s name I cannot pronounce, likely not recognize, but the Rathel would. The village is that in Wales nearest London, due west. If we journey to the same place, are we not to fear being followed?”

  “I spoke with this same Wroth. I learned of the same village, but more, that it is built on the edge of a path through the mountains, and thus traveled by sinners. We go farther south.”

  “But where do we go that we are not gained? Being aware of Mortwaite as a rare provider of extended land conveyance, Rathel via the magistrate will have any recent departure followed by horses bearing only men. We would thus be gained despite an advance exit of hours.”

  “We would, but shall not, in that I have not hired Mortwaite,” Marybelle replied. “I knew better upon learning of a person with your face and an aunt, of wild land sought, of your promising Lucinda a way to the wilds. But our travel to Wales is only the end. We begin by going to Bournchester. That is another of the sinners’ great villages. But people often travel to and from these cities. The Rathel lady and all of England’s magistrates cannot seek every route in England for us.”

  “What business is arranged for us in this second city?”

  “None yet, for I’ve not been there. But our travel is simple: we continue toward Wales, but not where we might be expected. True, someone seeing us leave Rathel’s home could follow, but I sense none. So inform me if any should be expected. Has your favorite servant run to the constables and directed them behind us?”

  “She has not and shall not. None from Rathel’s household would so actively attack except the Rathel, and she was not present in her home. As per your planning.”

  “Help correct me if I lead us wrongly, Alba, for we are together and will suffer together. Though our way to Wales is longer than Mortwaite’s, it yet is safer. As long as we are in the cities, we are lost amongst the sinners.”

  “No better thinking have I, Marybelle, and would praise God for my wisdom if I could contemplate so completely. Since I remain average, I will praise Him for a superior idea, that glorious notion of your survival. No fact could fulfill me more than your remaining on this world instead of being lost as were too many sisters.”

  “Praise Him for all life, Alba, for even sinners deserve the breath He gave them. And none deserves a life more than you. Thank God for the idea that is Alba.”

  How appropriately unemotional was all this praising of life, for Marybelle’s life remained unbelievable to me. But praise God I did for the opportunity to accept her living, and thereby reject her previous visitations in distressing dreams of guilt.

  The elder witch then leaned forward to call out to the driver.

  “I would thank you, sir, to move us quickly, in that we must be arrived or lose our business.”

  “Very well, madam,” he replied, and hied his horses along with a snap of those animal-hide straps against their backs, a common form of communication distressful only to oversensitive witches.

  “Praise Jesus for your cooperation,” Marybelle called to the coachman, her invocation a bit of comedy to lead us through London.

  Odd this carriage was to leave us with another. After a lengthy ride through those dense, connected villages that constitute London, we arrived at a vehicular agency dissimilar to Wroth’s, these small stables neat as chalets, the one coach seen greater than Mortwaite’s rolling sheds. Nearby this vehicle we halted to exit. Requiring four horses for pulling, the massive box was tall with a folding step for entry, its roof purposeful and flat, supportive of luggage.

  Before the driver could aid us with our bags, Marybelle took her sack and bid me follow, moving quickly to a tall man standing near t
he great coach. Though he looked to Marybelle, she was unrecognized, likely due to her veil. Therefore, the witch introduced herself—and her companion.

  “Here I am, sir, Madam Smythe and her charge of whom I told you. Prepared we are, sir, to depart for Bournchester.”

  Then the sinner scolded her.

  “Schedule, schedule, schedule,” he intoned as though singing, looking down to Marybelle from his giraffe-like height. “A business of moving folk runs not on wheels but on schedules, Madam Smythe, and most relieved I am with your sight, in that our schedule you nearly made us lose.”

  “The graveyard is filled with folk who nearly lived another day,” Marybelle replied. “Might we board now and thereby keep our schedule schedule?”

  No further words had this sinner for the witch. His following speech was for a man on the coach’s outer seat to stand down and take these ladies’ parcels, up with them onto the roof and secured, then covered with a coarse fabric. The tall man completed his schedule by proving himself worthy of the name Giraffe when applied to male sinners. Opening the door for his final passengers, he aided Marybelle with a hand on her wrist, assisting the companion with fingers beneath her left buttock, a firm grasp and a hearty push into the coach, close the door, step backward to call up to his driver to be off, wave good-bye.

  I drew no handling from the passengers. Two were women and the third an old man, the latter evidently living only for his shallow breathing, his mouth opening and closing as though biting pieces from the atmosphere. The English ladies, as though in support of their reputation for aimless chatting, began conversing with each other and the unknown witches as to destination and relatives ahead and temporarily left behind, a church project to have all of London pray for the eradication of ants, and so on. I was least social in this cab by achieving silence. In answer to a smiling sinner’s inquiry as to my opinions of the hellish nature of insects, I described my current difficulty in thinking due to a recent illness that I displayed by lifting my veil. Thereafter, no conversation came to my family.