by H C Turk
Without the first display of flesh, I had revealed much to these men, though the magistrate had a lessened capacity to see. Settled in his official position, he tolerated my torment; for unlike the priest, Waingrow accepted me as observation, not revelation.
“True are your words, priest,” Waingrow agreed, “but this Satan which you know in spirit I know better in flesh. Firm he is in retaining a body once acquired. Hide well he does, often imitating the piety and fine speech of God’s ministers. He now could be speaking with this very girl’s mouth. Despite her words, we know she cut herself, as certain as Jesus.”
“But certainly Satan was the cause,” my clerical benefactor submitted.
“Without question he was,” Waingrow returned without agreeing. “Our only uncertainty, then, is this demon’s position: yet within her or absconded? Retreat is difficult for the devil. History tells that killing the body is oft required. The demon in Chloe Burns convinced us to kill her as a ruse, for this girl was available to receive him. The question for the court is how receptive she was. A further query is whether this devil yet remains with her, desired or not. These things shall the trial determine, for therein God and Jesus and English law will weigh against one devil.”
I was then stricken with enlightenment, but remained uncertain whether its source be God or Satan, for which entity would inspire me toward salvation by having me invoke the worst demon in my life?
“And holy you are, sir, for pitting God against me, as though you were His master instead of He thine,” I declared to the magistrate. “But God knows I accept Him as my maker and glorify in His superiority. Jesus shall reside with me during the trial, but since most of England’s populace you might very well possess, I would request one of them in particular to stand with me at the bar.”
“And what person would this be, Miranda Burns, in that all your family is dead, all but the great-uncle whom no one in Lucansbludge knows, including yourself?”
“I refer to a resident of London. This woman had adopted me beyond my choosing, and knows of demons more than you might imagine. In that secular experts are accepted by the courts even regarding the devil, I would have Amanda Rathel verify me.”
“Your life thus changes again,” the magistrate contended, “for here is another example of your family, and perhaps another lie.”
Referring to me as a liar so filled me with fury that I harshly reached despite the pain to rip loose my gown and dressing to reveal my bosom, not the half considered shapely by sinners, but the reddish gash revolting to humans.
“This is the truth, killer of women!” I cried, then covered myself, Waingrow snorting in disgust, the priest falling to his knees, looking to the floor while praying with hands clasped against his eyes.
As though a miracle, the priest immediately stood, but his strength was a war, for this man preferred collapse. I felt new regard for this sinner, for though his godliness was modest, when facing horrors he demanded courage.
“Ah,” he began, sighing or moaning, looking away from me and high. “Ah, magistrate, I believe this Lady Amanda is that person described, one known to be an enemy of demons.”
Waingrow looked closely to the priest, not expecting so pious a source to support my lies. The magistrate, however, was not one to disagree with God.
“This Rathel is then a person to learn of,” Waingrow stated, “and well seek if she be aware of Miranda Burns. A blessing this search will be, and a blessing it is to be away from one so maddening.” Waingrow then abandoned me with no salutation due a lady, no curse due the devil. Only the priest had words, crossing himself then waving that same hand toward my head, praying for my peace and all our holiness. He spoke quickly, for the other human had departed, and the priest would not be alone with me; for devil or lady, I was yet a witch.
• • •
“Ah! beat me your bleeding best, you fiend—I’ll yet be killing you!”
Outside my cell, a criminal resistive to incarceration assaulted his captors, who responded with kicks and clubs. Thereafter, I smelled new blood. After being locked away, the criminal remained loud, calling out oaths and convincing screams. About him—and me, for I was of this populace—came murderous cries that the respondents, too, would be killing the bastard jailors with any opportunity. Other males shouted to this pack to be quieting their farting mouths lest the current speakers get out and teach them about interrupting a true man’s peace. Soon the sinners’ speech became less intellectual and more virile, for ladies were the subject of their discourse.
“Quiet these blackguards, jailor! Drag the lout out and kick his bloody mouth silent!”
“Aye, Lord Jailor arse faces! Then bring out the witch to fix her difficulty. Bring her out where we see what remains of the slim bitch!”
“Aye! Bring the demon out, Sir Jailor! I can help her comely devil.”
“Oh, Lord Magistrate, the queen’s bastard! Yes to let the witch out, for I can smell her problem and it be sweet cunt for me to lap like holy water!”
So great was the following, collective response of mad laughter and unimaginative phrases as to mask the sound of clomping boots. The guards arrived to pull forth several occupants, replacing the sounds of their sex nonsense with that first criminal’s noise: moans of pain to occupy even a sexual man more than silly fantasies about one young woman partially in the vicinity.
Those mad calls for me and the jailors’ tactile response set me to reduced breathing, for I did not care to be sensed, hiding in my personal cave lest I attract the exterior creatures. Though I appreciated the relative silence ensuing, the justice delivered remained undetermined; for whereas thoughts of my being ravished made me further ill, did I wish these sinners beaten only for their foolish speaking? Had the constable who captured me been one to thrash his fellows? Would the criminals’ rents inspire his sympathy as had my attempts to heal Marybelle? Likely not, since this violent settling of prisoners was normal for guards, whereas a witch’s way with her body was demonic. Or had the emotive constable’s grief been caused by my screaming? Surely, mine had been a more impressive sound than the whimpering in this prison. A bit of blood could not have caused his distress, since the product was common here. Must be, I thought, the loosened body parts, for even men can be mutilated and therefore commiserate with cut ladies.
Not unique was this day in finding me the center of men’s fantasies, though felons were not alone in subjecting me to their imaginations. Outside my door, day by day, a known voice whispered prayers, for the priest oft returned to speak of me with God. Though this minister smelled only of regard for the prisoner within, I would change his subject. My great desire was to convince him of the need of a superior person, hoping that he might pray for Marybelle.
In this manner, my days proceeded. Twice each week a jailor came for my chamber pot’s contents, though I knew by the screaming how unfairly I was treated, the other criminals crying out at the dog bitch jailor for taking their pissy shit but once a bleeding month. Daily the guard would leave a plate of rancid gruel, but we criminals were all equal in received cuisine. Seldom was either container used by me, for little eating engenders little transfer of food pot to pot through the intermediary of intestines. Occasionally water was added to my individual bucket, the green, soft slime therein appealing in its natural aspects, though drawing commentary from without as to the dog bitch jailor’s giving me water so often while the other prisoners were allowed to near die of thirst. Later the priest might come to pray in my vicinity, though never near enough for me to bleed upon. Oft his presence was first made known by precursors of prayer not so well spoken, coming from the secular state of criminality. All the prisoners had good words for the priest, for the same as I, they were desirous of his special communications. Though I heard him pray over none incarcerated but the witch, I knew his blessings went to all the criminals, knew by their hoarse thanks, which made them seem nearly semi-human. This praying, I discerned, was not defensive for the minister, but due to his gracious, godly nature. But wh
at sort of humor had me wondering of the priest’s ultimate reward for these blessings? Since prayer was his employment, when found to be blessing a creature born soulless, would he not be construed as having failed his job, and thus be dunned for his time with God instead of rewarded?
Though I retained my silence, I was potentially as noisome as any criminal. Each day, I would find the flesh of my chest not damaged but destroyed, any movement of my side or arm delivering new agony. My sounds were moans and unavoidable, though I reduced them to prevent the prisoners’ joyous response upon hearing me. Since I could reduce my groans but not eliminate my pain, I ejected the excess agony with my face, producing grimaces so intense they hurt me additionally. But even these responses I avoided that day a woman came, a nurse who placed fresh salve upon my chewed chest, new fabric on my raw ribs and slit hand. After wondering of my rapid healing, the woman departed; for perhaps she did in fact apply her nursing to a demon, Satan himself the true healer, a smile for the girl regardless for her being so pitiful a lass, out the door and seen by only one sinning prisoner commenting on his desire to roll his balls up her baby gouge, no caregiver returning thereafter.
I imagined my future. In a massive room before barristers and the citizens of Lucansbludge, I would speak as I had in my cell, with equal anger due to my foolishness, my inability to be sensibly temperate. Accused I would be of housing a demon, and yea, he would be construed yet within me, since he had never been seen to depart. Most vivid in this imagining was the sound of the best crowd ever drawn by me, a mass of godly sinners crying out at my story exactly as these criminals had cried out at my slimness. The final noise would be of air seeping into my veins as my blood rushed out, following my rolling head. And with no witch sister left to repair me, I would not achieve the current condition of dear Marybelle so remarkably healed as though reborn in her box. Except for a separation, that between body and head, between Marybelle and life.
Dreams I had, of course, for what better opportunity than sleep for Satan to taunt me? On the sea bottom I sat, criminals collecting at the top of the anchor chain. To make my hiding complete, I inhaled not a breath, or was this lack of respiration due to drowning? And there was the shore mere paces away and with it salvation, but not a step could I take; because the priest was finally praying for Marybelle’s soul, and I would not disrupt his spiritual repair with my own difficulties, own death.
In this manner, my dreams proceeded. Came the day in which my side no longer anchored me static with pain. I thus could stand with but a wince. Pleased with my healing, I examined the wound not viewed since the first day of my awakening. Removing the dressing, I saw that the reddish patch was now a drying, rough crust. More importantly, I also viewed destruction. As though only now comprehending, I saw that all my dishonest words to the magistrate had been accurate. Then I was struck with a new grimace as fierce as any from agony, for I found mutilation, and I was sickened. Ill enough to vomit, I only fell to the bed and covered the wound with its dressing and above that my own clothing, being utterly certain not to touch my injury, my mutilation. Then the fabric of my gown I plucked up to falsely produce my former shape as though I could replace it, plucked up the fabric to fill that void of flesh with air. My discovery was that the mutilation, though by my own hand, was the sinners’ responsibility. The sinners had assaulted me again, nearly killing me, though they were killing me regardless in pieces. And I knew that the sinners had also violated Marybelle. But I had killed her. Even as the sinners had been the implement, I had been the cause. Yet so unjust was this sinning world that Marybelle was dead while I had escaped with but a wound. So at my bodice I plucked and plucked till my arm was so sore I could no longer move it, but when my hand dropped, it fell not against my chest, for all of me would have to die before I allowed that contact.
• • •
I occupied my days by remaining mute, my current pain in moving producing lessened moans. My further occupation was wasting time as I had in London, not living as I had in the wilds, an era whose boredom now seemed heavenly in its enthrall. More than the upcoming trial, my greatest concern was the potential of criminal violation, for that door which had seemed like a tree now impressed me as glass. Behind it I hid, waiting for another bout of riotous speaking to be manifested as sex-smelled sinners thrusting into my cell, each coming away with a piece of the wench, each violation felt exactly as had the last, and therefore I would not die from the quartering, but the pain.
The trial beleaguered me only in dreams. The king’s justice was Daniel Cameron, his periwig my breast dropped onto his head when last he had been between my legs. Cameron accused me of inspiring godly thoughts from priests, though as a witch I was due devilish considerations. No denial had I, finally controlling my glib tongue better than the priest his praying, the man unseen outside my courtroom. And this was best, because his nature was my mother’s, and I did not wish to see her in him, so long had she been dead that all of her would resemble my chest. Representing London was Magistrate Naylor, who had never been allowed a fair turn at my soot, practicing his verdict by blowing glass, his adjudication being that clearly this witch deserved a burning. As Elsie pulled tight my corset ties so that I would be burned as a lady without my torso pressing out everywhere, though less was recently available for protruding, the Rathel entered my cell to tell me there must be no trial, for not even she could have me survive.
“Alba? Alba, do you hear?”
“Of course, I hear my own flipping dream,” I mumbled to the demon in my head interrupting my nightmare. Then I awoke to feel a great hatred for those dreams whose ends turned real, for they could not be escaped by waking. Especially evil was the ending here as personified by Amanda Rathel.
What a crowd I had collected, for in my cell stood the magistrate and priest and mistress, leaving scant space for even a slim witch with half a bosom, scant space for God. And since God could not be present, there was his substitute, the second most powerful entity in the world, Amanda Rathel, who spoke to me as Waingrow observed. Then my hatred for the nightmare vanished, for as I awoke came a new dream in which I would be able to participate by my own choice, for I smelled this Rathel lady entering a…composition.
“Alba, dear Alba, I am here to help you, child. The evil demon who took you now is gone, and therefore her spell over you is vanquished. Do you recall me, dear, and our lovely life in London? Do you recall the witch who stole you from our home?”
Damned straight, wench.
With all the speed my stiff pain could procure, I threw myself to the woman and well wrapped the one arm leading to a true breast around her, embracing a sinner I usually considered equal to vomit, but better with her in London killing Eric than burned to charcoal in Lucansbludge. And whine I did as a replacement for weeping, feigning a tender return, though Rathel’s odor beneath her false scents was scarcely better than a sinner’s prick. But I did not hate her so much that I would fail to feign loving her in this contest rather than accept a denouement as hot as blown glass, though blacker.
“Remember?” I replied with my sweetest voice. “Of course, I remember the finest home in England and the love there, Mistress Amanda.”
“And well have I missed you, precious child,” my, er, mother averred, “and have come to return you to our home and love you well again.”
Oh, how moving was her voice. And how loving was my disposition as I pulled away from the stench wench to look longingly into her eyes, holding her shoulder with my bloody hand as I spoke again.
“But, Mother, I cannot go with you because these men wish to kill me more than you wish to love me.”
“No, child, these decent men wish to rid their community of demons, not of a fine English miss.”
“But they killed my aunt.”
“Alba, dear, you have no aunt.”
“Of course, mistress, my Aunt Chloe from Man’s Isle. She came to London to take me into the wilds and live away from society.”
“But, Alba, your aunt was
a demon.”
“Please, mistress, as much as I love you, Aunt Chloe was family.”
“No, Alba, no bodily resemblance had you to this creature and no blood shared. As I tried to make you understand, this witch took you from your true mother when you were but a babe. And when, through me, you escaped her heathen control, she stole you in London, murdered a man here, then attempted to kill you when she herself was ended. Again she stole your mind, Alba, and I have come to return it with the aid of these excellent men. And this I may do, for through God’s grace, the witch and her master were unable to gain your soul, which is yet within you and holy. Do you understand, dear Alba? Do you now comprehend what occurred with Satan and the witch?”
“Certain of these things I do not understand, my lady. God and Jesus ever within me I accept better than breathing, but witches and demons…no. No, I comprehend none of that. My true belief differs, and this I must state despite the magistrate before me, the truth of all I know and saw: that his men alone have damaged me, for I viewed no one but constables. I believe these men have killed me, mistress.”
Rathel then stood to confront the male audience with all of her expertise.
“She cannot understand,” she told the magistrate, then turned to the priest. “Father, could you understand the act? To find the devil in your own hand cutting away your own body? Could even you, a most godly priest, find reason and acceptance in the devil’s mutilating yourself by your own hand but not your will?”
“To myself?” the priest replied as though he had been accused of witchcraft. “No, no, this not even a minister of God could readily accept. Only by the greatest grace of Jesus and equal effort in praying could I accept such a horror. With this same force of my spirit have I prayed continually to God for understanding and for this girl to regain her soul, yet I remain astonished.”
What senses this lady had to judge Waingrow a nonbeliever in the religion of his prisoner. As before, the priest’s smell was all concern for things to be proper and set holy again; and, yes, his concern was for me. Though he spoke no word, Waingrow had a mien I could read, the magistrate a more dangerous male than before. He was the official of my dreams, a glassblower hot for my soot, the forger of witches. Rathel had sensed this as well, and spoke to Waingrow only in rejection.