by H C Turk
All these thoughts passed through me in the moment of my settling before Waingrow. Another moment passed before he spoke of the trial I had come to expect.
“Miss Miranda Burns, with regret I do apprise that your aunt is dead, killed by the devil within her.”
I paused for his words to be ingested, for his speaking was so odd that I could not comprehend. Therefore, I began the predicted conversation myself.
“You said when, sir, that my aunt’s trial is scheduled?”
“Miss Miranda Burns, please hear me when I speak that your aunt is dead, as seen fit by God to defeat the devil within her.”
In all honesty and confusion and shock, I shouted, “Previously you said that the devil killed her from within, and now it is God from without?! I understand not what you say, sir. When is the promised trial?”
The clergyman present then offered his piety.
“She heard you not, Lord Magistrate, in that grief makes these things unbelievable. I will pray with the girl and have her understand.”
Quickly the minister moved to bow and take my hand, holding it firmly with his hot palms.
“Miss Burns, look to me and see that your aunt was so filled with a demon that God told her to beg for her own execution, in that no other method could remove Satan. Such a fury she began in bloodying herself and assaulting me and the magistrate with her very teeth that her conflict could only have been between God and Satan, and thank Jesus the former won.”
Then deeper he bowed, commencing to pray for me to understand and for God to aid my soul, but no longer did he hold my hand. One of his sinning arms had moved around my shoulders to squeeze me in emphasis , the other paw rising from mine to surround my breast, emphasizing only that stench rising from his bottom.
To help him pray in his selected manner, I slipped my hand to the source of the holy priest’s evil fragrance, squeezing the single finger there as he had my hand. And, lo, as though an arm it became, with its size and firmness; and was I not practicing for my planned resurrection by giving life to his body with but a touch?
I then pulled away from the minister to call out sharply, “Amen!”
The protrusion in the priest’s apparel was as evident as his crucifix, viewed by the magistrate with clenched jaw. I considered feigning a collapse, but knew both sinners would be fucking me. But was the arousal here due to the white witch’s sex, or the murder of the common example?
Holding out both hands as though needing to fend the men off, I displayed with my visage that my speaking must be heard.
“You have killed my aunt?” I demanded of the magistrate.
The minister had placed both folded hands against his sexual gesture as though to pray for the evil horn, his face revelatory, for it seemed he had discovered Satan. Since he could say nothing, Waingrow spoke again.
“The laws of God and England—” he began, and I ended him.
“You blame my God and my country for killing my aunt? You murdered my aunt without allowing me to tell her of my love?”
“Before your Aunt Chloe Burns pleaded with us to release her soul, she—” was Waingrow’s next attempted explanation, another lie I interrupted with the force of love.
“Before you killed her, she said what, Lord Magistrate? For murdering her, did she praise you, or only Jesus and English law? Was my name mentioned, or only those of your affiliates, Queen Anne and the demon you discovered? Did this minister aid my aunt pray, and had he his hand on her bleeding cunt as he did mine?!” I screamed, and pointed to the pious penis. “So evident is Satan in his limb, will you not cut it off as you did my aunt’s?!”
The priest then quit the room, holding his mouth instead of his groin, so ill of spirit was he. Holy revelation I gained with this operatic scene, aware that Satan’s cave can be the crotch.
“Have you burned my aunt yet, Lord Murderer, or are you not finished butchering her body?” I demanded.
The magistrate was no longer so composed, having failed in his contrivance to inform a citizen of murderous laws. When again he made to speak, I overcame him with my words; but when had Waingrow’s voice last been the sound of authority in our conversation?
“If you were truly a man of God and Jesus in this enterprise, at least you would allow me my aunt’s…person.”
How pleased the magistrate became to receive relief from me instead of passion. As though an oil lamp wicked up, his face grew bright; for the sinner was allowed to prove his decency, speaking quickly so I would have no opportunity to strike him down again with my voice.
“Your aunt’s last request we accorded her, Miss Burns, on behalf of her final godliness. That her body be buried near her father’s home we promised, and this vow I pass to you with Jesus as my proof. Within a coffin she lies now, to be carried by citizens at your bidding and buried with a minister before her grave at the site of your choice.”
“Your minister would be guiding her soul to Hell with his immoral pointing,” I retorted. “My great-uncle and myself with our hands and hearts will bury our beloved Chloe, and for your death box and the conveyance I shall pay you coin. Being Christians loved by God as we love Him, we shall pray her poor soul to Heaven ourselves, aided only by Jesus.”
“No price need be paid,” the magistrate responded with more kindness than before, “in that we accept responsibilities beyond mere laws.”
“Beyond mere life, so it seems,” I harshly returned. “But I thank you true for requiring no payment, for all our funds were in my aunt’s bag, which is not in my possession.”
“Yet it is, miss, yes,” Waingrow quickly replied, stepping away to a tall chest, removing Marybelle’s bag, which he provided me as though proving himself the proper English official. “As well, I say, you shall find the contents undisturbed.”
“God bless you, sir, for your aid, but neither you nor a decent minister will relieve me of the grief within me that I pray God I might survive. And since my heart will not begin to heal until my aunt is buried and her soul released to Jesus, I would accept her…person…soon, please. Truly, the more I consider this dying, the more agony I feel.”
“Within moments, Miss Miranda, your aunt’s remains shall be brought before this office in a wagon. Then you might go at your own speed, your own manner, and….”
Waingrow found himself alone at his sentence’s end, for I grasped Marybelle’s bag and walked away. Stepping outside, I waited on the walkway, the magistrate sending a constable to accompany me, but he remained apart. When a wagon came with the box, I was surprised at the fine construction of this pauper’s coffin. Smooth but unpolished with oil or wax, with the craftsmanship of the Rathel’s furniture, but made to contain no linen, no life. Should its color therefore have been red, or black?
Waingrow had sent his man to order the driver and his assistant, their instructions to convey me and the casket wherever I desired. After the constable placed my bags within the wagon, he offered his hand that I might sit with the two sinners ahead; but I stepped around to climb into the rear unaided, settling beside the casket.
“I sit with my love, sir,” I told the male quietly; and with a salute from him as though I were an officer, I was taken with my love away.
• • •
The village sinners stared at me as though I were royalty. Since no smoke was rising from the box, why did I achieve their attention? Only due to my odd position beside death? No grieving did I display, no spastic weaving of hands before my weeping eyes. No interest had I in feigning grief, for interval was my only challenge, this contest akin to that of the previous night in which I had survived duration. Fearful of the subject, I avoided thoughts of Marybelle’s plan, fearful because my solitary actions would be required, and I remained ignorant. But could a vapid state provide adequate love for Marybelle, and what quantity could be proper for her condition? Was she alive or dead, retrievable or returning? Poor was my heart that my best hope was to find Marybelle in only two pieces.
Past the farm we moved and those si
nners who had allowed my ruin by cooperating with my lustful journey to their town. Far from the trail, the family stood before their home as though official folk. Looking to me, the girl raised her hand in a gesture filled with a pity sad enough to smell. Then she bowed her head, covering her face with both hands. Not touched by either parent, the girl looked up to see me blow her a kiss. This was no aid, for her shoulders and all her body shook with weeping; but, yes, aid it was, for the mother drew her daughter near.
Past the place of sheep we moved, but not a human was seen, only a yapping dog happy to help other creatures of a similar kind, not displaying the distress I would require to aid mine.
As though a dream, I suffered a reliving, but this as inverted as I. Again I sat in a wagon dragged by horses to the edge of the sinners’ land with Marybelle and our baggage. As kind as our previous driver, these males asked of the casket after placing it in the grass, or was this mere curiosity? As far as possible we had traveled before confronting land too coarse for a wagon. My great-uncle comes, I lied, and they asked his source. A cabin yon, I replied, and waved my arm. How is the box carried? they asked. By a sled for dragging, I said, and if they had further queries to ask Jesus for inspiration; and the sinners knew to leave.
I waited for them to leave my sight. Next I looked toward the coffin, for the first instance with deliberation. With no forethought, I achieved unspoken words, and was this scream in my head not a prayer? When can I love her last? When can I grieve in my heart to myself, and not with a lying mouth to sinners? Then, as though granted revelation by God Himself, I knew that I would have to earn my grief by disposing of my guilt.
I was staring at this box, another wooden cave Marybelle slept in, like that home of her own conception. After staring at her bag, I grasped it as though food required for my survival, understanding how easy examining this would be compared to the other container. I opened it greedily, needing an action to begin, for the sooner started the sooner complete. Within were Marybelle’s garments and shoes, and one of those wax-wrapped items, narrow and dense. Of course, Marybelle’s knife. Another wrapped parcel held coins, but no further secrets were in the bag, no magic. None besides the knife, for with its sight I understood the future, and that was the casket. I would have to open the box, but nailed tightly it was, as though a crate containing porcelain items shipped from the Continent. Whatever shattering had occurred therein I had to see, for repair thereof was my expected expertise. I imagined opening the thing even as sinners rode by to ask in Jesus’ name of my actions. I imagined opening the coffin even if alone in the world, and found I was not prepared to think further. Of the crate, perhaps, but not of its contents, not of opening the thing to see and smell….
I would have to move the coffin deeper into the wilds. Alternately, I could remove Marybelle’s…person…and carry her and our two bags, leaving the casket to be found empty by sinners. With my next viewing of the box, I discerned its asymmetrical shape. The narrow end was fit for feet placed together, the other broader for shoulders. I approached the former, presuming it lighter. Grasping the lumber’s edges, I found the casket so weighty that after lifting it but inches I dropped the thing to wonder how ever a single witch could move it.
No cart nor sled had I, and would be building none with this knife. I would have to drag the thing. Looking about, I determined my best path. Trees and rocks there I could avoid, and through that brush I might force my way. But what of this gouge wider than a casket? That upland rise I could not traverse, not with Marybelle in her box.
Lifting the coffin, I pulled firmly, but had to drop the weight after only two paces. After further attempts, I learned that long, reverse thrusts wherein I grimaced and nearly ran were most effective; so into the bushes I moved and through, drop the casket, deep, deep breaths not of effort but pain, around this tree and to a narrow ditch in a final spurt before dropping the box, and me.
I sat on the casket where I had placed the bags, which far behind had fallen off. Standing to retrieve the luggage, I found my legs as heavy as the coffin and as limp as water. Only to the far end of the casket did I step before collapsing to bend double, breaths moving through me as though sea currents in a nightmare. But I no longer sat on the narrow end. I imagined the box below, imagined sitting on Marybelle’s face, on her head, which no longer….
My body was the next burden I dragged, to the paired bags, which I could scarcely move. So I hid them in the brush, for I could not convey all of these containers at once. Then I returned to the coffin. Lifting the narrow end, I attempted to pull, but this was impossible; so I dropped the box, nearly smashing my feet. Since holding up the coffin was no longer possible, I jerked it along with low, wrenching moves. In this manner, I proceeded over rocks to trip me and vines to entangle my feet, jerking along until I collapsed onto my back, so exhausted as to be astounded by the thought that ever again I could lift my arms. Too uncomfortable to be still, I rolled my head every way as though to find an angle whereby air might more easily enter, for my lungs themselves seemed damaged. I lay racked with pain as though I had just killed another man; but, no, not so great was my distress. Why, then, did I receive the impression that pain of a comparable nature would come?
I opened my eyes, rising on one elbow to look around for a new path. To the incline past the thickets down the slope. There I walked with a slowness never matched in my recollection. Yes, at the bottom I would find easier passage. Then proceed north, deliberating my further course upon reaching that bend. Return to the box to continue dragging.
This lifting had become the same as a blow, as though I were hitting myself with timbers instead of moving them. For a moment, I nearly smiled, so ludicrous were the sounds I produced, like animal croaks or muted curses spoken in no language known. I nearly laughed from the absurdity of so punishing myself; and again I found a connectivity between humor and madness I could not comprehend, not while experiencing it.
To the slope I struggled with the coffin, hoping to recall the location of the baggage. How far had I gone? What distance had I dragged my impossible burden, what interval or era? At the incline, I decided to push the box with a controlled sliding, God’s natural force of downward attraction to aid me. But after the lift and pull was a required drop, and I sat the box heavily upon my feet, immediately struggling to lift the casket before I was crushed. But not flat enough on the slope’s edge was the coffin for such rough handling. Once lifted from my feet and dropped, the crate came down on a corner, then fell unbalanced to one side, angling to slip down the slope uncontrolled. Grab for it and hold I did until the box was lost, tumbling loudly twice; and with the second, had I not heard a thumping from within?
The casket settled gently. Sliding down with care, I found the box inverted. Then I had to right it. Though a difficult task without the constraints of cautious handling, even greater was my stress from rolling the coffin so gently that nothing inside would be jostled; yet as the box rolled, came another thud, and this I felt inside.
At once I began dragging the casket so as not to ponder that sound, so that the pain in my body would overwhelm the pain in my spirit. To the bend of the terrain I moved with the box, falling motionless only twice, gaining my latest goal well in the afternoon to find beyond a ledge, one much lower than my height, but as possible to climb with the coffin as a tree.
I wished to go farther. I wished to move the casket that entire day, and the next, and next; because when finally I ceased, I would have to open it. Then I would find Marybelle within. And I knew that I could not continue forever, could not allow Marybelle to go long without repair; for eventually would she not truly be dead, permanently dead, and become spoiled the same as any old meat?
Reasonably, I had come to my end. Not significantly farther from the sinners could I travel before ruining myself, and how could I aid Marybelle if so damaged I could not move?
I had to open the box at that instant, no longer at some indefinite end. I had to open the box immediately, but could not;
for so securely nailed was the lid that no human hands could pry it up. Only thick splinters split by nails could I remove with my fingers. In a grand feeling of mad relief, I came aware that I had left the knife with Marybelle’s bag, and would have to return for this prying implement. But my return was a holiday, a mad emotion in which I delayed the true end of my journey. Satisfying was the excellent distance I had traveled, and I encountered no difficulty in finding the hidden bags. But returning with them was a chore, though I valued the pain, the torment of my arms hiding the horror of my journey’s conclusion; for there was the box, and since I had the knife, I could open the lid, and must.
Dusk approached. With further delay, I would find myself in darkness. What thoughts were these to consider night beneficial for its blindness, rendering me unable to see dead, half-dead Marybelle, see her parts? But wherein the disadvantage when I had no idea how to proceed with her…person? But I required no idea, for eventually I found feeling.
With a lethargy of the mind fit my drained, exhausted body, I began removing the coffin’s lid. Holding the knife was unpleasant, for in this natural land, its metal smell seemed perverse—yet how fitting was this trait considering the usage. And why did I feel a distress like drowning when I began to pick at the casket’s lid, feel as though I were stabbing myself?
My lethargy decreased in proportion to my failure, for the lid had been fitted so well that even finding a beginning was difficult. At the end split by nails, I managed to insert the knife, but my initial prying was fruitless because I split more wood away without forming any gap between lid and box. This useless poking then became intimidating, for would I be knifing the thing until Marybelle rotted and the sinners found me robbing graves? Replacing anxiety with activity, I began pounding on the hilt, first with my palm, then with a rock. I pried by leaning on the knife with all the force I could apply. And when space enough I had formed for my fingers to be inserted, I understood this end of the casket to be the wider; so I moved to the opposite and successfully pried until breaking the knife.