by H C Turk
“Your surmising that the devil resides within this girl is sensible only in the past, Magistrate Waingrow. Her very survival proves Satan to have been expelled. This I explained to you before seeing the girl, and have no fear of repeating in her presence, for Alba has God to give her strength. And this is the force which allowed her survival though attacked by Satan: God, His love and her fear of Him. After you executed Satan’s witch, this frail one of innocence was blamed most wrongly; for never has the devil achieved his way with her, not on Man’s Isle nor in Lucansbludge. When Satan failed to win her via his witch, he leapt from that dead body to attempt his best to finish Alba. And through God alone giving her strength did she survive the perversion with only a wound.”
Only a wound? I thought. Where had I heard that before? But I refrained from ripping off my dress to display the demon meal that had been my nipple.
Having dismissed the magistrate’s opinion, Rathel returned to the priest’s preferable nature.
“As expected from so pious a minister, you’ve a spiritual ability to feel the truth when God and Satan have conflict. Therefore, I am certain that through your godly understanding and my documented expertise the truth of this girl’s spirit will be revealed.”
“Pray Jesus it be so, Lady Amanda,” the priest replied. With no further look to me by any person, all the crowd departed, Rathel and the minister chatting like sisters, the magistrate remaining quiet and cold. Then I was alone again.
I waited, not for the future, but for the continuation of that same day. Upright on my bed I awaited some part of that trio to return, for finally I had gained anxiety while awake. Rathel had been a name mentioned countless days before, but upon becoming real again, she brought me the interest in living that was salvation, and with it potential failure. Surely, an authority would return to inform me of schedule: the magistrate to prepare me for trial and death, the Rathel for additional lies, the priest for my soul to be cleansed. Perhaps scrolls would be delivered with horn blares and oral pronouncements from England’s new queen, but all that came was rancid slop and more crotch craving from criminals. When finally night arrived but no official acts, I became well peeved at having to wait further before beginning that lengthy, public affair that could well be my end.
The next morning came the jailor, bringing dread. He had not come for my pot, but for me. Follow along, was all he said. Though I complied, that dread was a weight inside weakening both my legs and my spirit. I did not know what intense actions I would have to formulate to save myself, but I felt lost already. I wondered if the magistrate had deigned to circumvent official English law and have his own way with the witch. Would I be taken behind the prison for a head chopping neater than my breast’s? And yes, there was Waingrow before me, but no axe, and he was not alone. I was led to his office wherein a crowd had gathered around the dung of my dropped head before it hit ground. The minister and magistrate and Rathel and two unknown sinning males. Then all of this talking commenced. Here was officialdom, and there the scroll, one of the excess males reading from it (without fanfare). The name Alba Rathel was pronounced, and I was asked to agree to this, which I did. Then came opera. The composition of the reading clerk portrayed my living on Man’s Isle, being stolen by witches—body and mind but never spirit—the Rathel’s taking me to London, my living there as well regarded by parish priest and Sir Jacob Naylor, prime magistrate of London herself. Then stolen by the witch, Chloe, of Man’s Isle (body and mind, but not soul), forced to live in the wilds in hopes that an animal state would make her (me) susceptible to Satan. Escaped to Lucansbludge, though yet controlled by the witch in the mind, but not quite the body, and never the soul. Witch Chloe then came to retrieve her, but was captured by Magistrate Waingrow after the female demon had murdered his man for discovering her malice. Then death to the witch, whereafter Miss Alba Rathel—yet taken in the mind, mostly in the body, but never the soul—was attacked by Satan and mutilated whereby she might die. But the devil failed, achieving none of her soul and but a portion of her body, exiting thereafter when confronted by Waingrow’s constables, the girl imprisoned for trial, her unravaged soul awaiting while the mind and body healed through vigilant prayer of the priest and watchful incarceration (no cuisine mentioned) of the magistrate, Alba Rathel thereby made whole again with God and England: yea or nay?
Everyone in the room looked toward me. Static as tree trunks they were and staring. The reading clerk lowered his scroll so that he might see the prisoner over it, see the witch who wanted to say, “My sister’s name is Marybelle,” but only pronounced, “Yea,” and went silent.
The other stranger who had yet to speak then said by God’s graces and the laws of England and Queen Anne the prisoner would be released under the auspices of Lady Amanda Rathel, and good morning all.
No one looked at me thereafter. This last man turned to Waingrow and began chatting amicably about a dart tournament his son had entered and won. Though I made no comment as to having avoided another impossible contest, the surprised magistrate bemoaned having missed the final tourney with his family—had the schedule been altered? During this discourse, the reading male approached Rathel with papers to sign, and comply she did. The clerk then stepped to the unknown talker, who was too involved with his own challenge of chatting to allow such interruption, the reader having to await the conversation’s end in which Waingrow smelled of darts, his interest in a common subject allowed by his odorous relief in being rid of exceptional me. The priest’s mark, once gained, was doubtless so wobbly as to be illegible; for when the yea came out of me, so had the devil this holy man truly believed present, and nearly faint he did from having Satan lifted from both our lives.
After receiving a paper, the Rathel as though late for church ushered me away. Only then did I understand that the trial had come and gone. But I was dissatisfied with the outcome. Therefore, I halted, the Rathel nearly tumbling over me, so sudden was I in turning to the magistrate to ask, “Might I have my bags?” And the mistress jerked me through the doorway, all the way to London.
Book IV: Marriage
Chapter 28
I Might Request Your Liver
More deluxe than my fleeing was my return to London, the expensive Rathel obtaining rich accommodations: a succession of enclosed coaches with no companions, fine hostelry rooms without barred doors. No extensive speaking had we, the Rathel too occupied with her smirking, so pleased was she to have regained her vengeful instrument. As though yet in the wilds and bored, I undertook the self-contest of comparing modes of transport: what interval in this coach drawn by horses equaled what distance through the wilderness with a casket dragged by a single witch? This thought trial occupied me enough to avoid the subject of Marybelle. Because I was so cowardly as to consider her possibly healing, I had no need to contemplate my sister’s demise, that she was gone, though I knew it true, Marybelle as departed as half my bosom. Neither did thoughts of Eric’s profundity ease me in my selfishness; for even if Marybelle’s love for God and family lay on the land like a haze, this state was no person as before, with breath and body like mine, exactly like mine.
No remorse had I for saving myself by allowing Rathel to blaspheme Marybelle. Any other witch would laugh at the foolish notion of guilt. What are words to aid yourself when the sinners use blades against us? All true, but Rathel was no witch to be cursing one, and I lacked the decency of even Marybelle’s worst traits to be speaking evil of her.
The first evening, residing in a rented room, Rathel described how I might insert a rag into my bodice to preclude drawing attention to my…unevenness. Sensible was this idea to me, for my tendency to attract sinners had been too great before. But callous I was to take a towel and drop my dress so that Rathel could see my scar, my mutilation not from Satan, but from love. Look she did before quitting the room; and though retaining her composure, every deep part of her went weak, for Rathel was a woman also.
London I smelled from a distance. This was no simplistic Lucansblu
dge. First came the Thames. In previous days, I had seen this body, but now we approached familiar wards. Along the river we traveled toward Hershford Bridge, and I knew the route, knew we need not cross that terror. Thankful I was, for the river and that bridge were all my lives and deaths together, too much for one witch to experience collectively. There was the water of my dreams, of Marybelle’s ocean survival, of Elsie’s proof, the river that had led to me to Lucansbludge and my sister’s death. This bridge was the sinners’ control over all these disparate aspects, connecting and conniving the world’s parts. And in the depths of this impression I drowned, my feelings so intense that I wished to be a sinner only so that I could weep.
• • •
I nearly killed the woman upon seeing her. No ambivalence had I regarding Elsie, for witch or sinner, she was well loved. I recalled my last seeing her, the lost nature of her visage. But now I found only joy, and this we shared. As we ran together outside the Rathel’s home to embrace, we both laughed and one of us wept, and well I understood Elsie’s place in my world. Therein, Elsie was not a friend, but my greatest friend. Never would she replace Marybelle, but before that sister’s return, Elsie had been of tremendous value in my life, and hereafter would be appreciated properly.
As Elsie pulled away, she held my face to examine me from chin to brow and state, “Ah, girl, and I’m looking at you now to see you more beautiful than ever, what with God’s healing you perfect.”
No knowledge had I of such complete repair, but I answered the woman by saying, “Not perfect, miss.” The wag of her head and mellowing of her smile revealed that Elsie did not glean my greater meaning. My bandaged hand meant little in that I held her with it firmly, but what of other pieces? Of course: Rathel had found no opportunity to inform Elsie of my theater. And pained I was to presume Elsie’s state once learning of her lass, her imperfect lass.
Rathel had us enter, and how pleasant she was, though yet smirking in her brain. The remaining countless servants were present to greet me warmly, and I they, all those two sinners I had scant regard for, and vice versa. But Delilah had been sweet in the kitchen a time, and were they not all capable of being Elsie? Not quite, but even the priest who would have killed me had been in some ways a fine person, so why not they? Was being a sinner so great an impediment to also being human?
Determining that the travelers would partake of some refreshment, the servants departed for the kitchen. Rathel, however, took Elsie aside for private speaking whose content I could sense as though a sleeping composition. Rathel would have her servant remain calm so as not to upset Miss Alba, poor, bloody Miss Alba. But not so quiet could such a friend be that her muffled weeping was not heard a half house removed, for the Rathel had been so cruel as to convey the truth. And though Rathel took no pleasure in the description, was she providing kindness, or being efficient in another business enterprise?
Often the remainder of that day I saw Elsie, who with difficulty retained her tears and her knowledge, not allowing her eyes to fall below my face. Around my bedchamber I moved, learning again of fine furniture’s precision, the smooth surfaces and joinery approaching nature in excellence and far beyond the abilities of village coffin makers, contrary to my previous delusion. Again I found the chamber’s smells striking: the wood’s glossy varnishes, the pillows and bed of fowl down—and me, for an odor remained of my former presence. Not a bit of grime nor a single spider was seen, but the room remained mine; for even as Rathel and Elsie, it had been waiting for my return, its loyalty due to momentum as though God’s gravity pulling things ever together. Beneath the bed was no dust, but a clear lack of oil and wax, and this was Elsie’s doing. But not even this extreme tidiness that had been foreign to my previous lives could inspire me toward discomfort at the pretension of sinners. God forgive me, I was home.
• • •
With difficulty, I retained my cackles upon receiving onions and foreign fruit from Elsie. Tea was a surprise, however, for I had not recalled the product’s being so natural. Less natural was the ending day, for then I made ready for sleep, and that would include disrobing.
Elsie was stressed in offering me aid, in remaining nearby with nudity implied. I considered telling her no, that she need not see. But, of course, one day she would; for whether my servant or my friend, her position would not allow her to avoid the sight forever. And how long to stretch this dead occasion as though a loving era to linger over when in fact all my dead parts had fallen away? The remainder was yet alive.
“Your suffering more than I is not remotely just,” I told Elsie, “and for me the injury remains but a…wound.”
No extravagant unveiling was required. My only extra apparel was that round rag I mentioned as it fell onto my hand: Oh, the Rathel demonstrated how I might shape myself to appear normal in public, and here is the cloth.
And there was the flesh, the former flesh, now scarred as though a diseased tree, the bark having fallen away. There was the scab as though my chest were a pale floor upon whose surface appeared a great cockroach that was stepped upon, its sticky residue never quite drying.
“You see, miss?” I offered as I continued to disrobe, not dwelling on my battlefield. “The appearance is of no consequence, though the area and much of my side remains tender.” And I did not conceal the pain of moving my arm to undress. Having looked upon my lost bosom with both fear and revulsion, Elsie moved to aid me.
“Don’t be stressing yourself now, lass, in that you’ve yet a bit of healing to be done.” And she lowered my arm, taking great care with that cut hand as though in fact it were my cut chest. Off with the dress, on with the sleeping gown, the great horror revealed and nearly complete. Complete in revelation, but not in deed nor words.
“But no matter how you’re feeling, lass, tomorrow we begin on that hair, which is such a riot that I’m hearing it.”
“Yes, miss,” I smiled, and made to turn away, toward that plush bed and a sleep I was anticipating. But Elsie grasped me as I turned, holding my face with both hands to kiss my jaw so firmly that I could feel her teeth. Then quickly she left my presence for the evening.
• • •
London’s milieu was concentrated, as though the air were stuffed into a sack too small. God’s greatest cave surely was this city, one of fumes that scarcely could be segregated: tobacco smoke, roasted animal flesh, fumes from industries producing soaps and shellacs, and the thinner, more pervasive odors of bodies, all these smells applied to the streets as though to conceal neutral brick and the rare but unconscionably natural soil.
Lucansbludge would not have made a boil on London’s butt. An area the size of that town, if cut away from London, would be missed less than my lost teat. Business existed in Lucansbludge, but no opera. Criminals came with any accumulation of sinners, but nowhere in Lucansbludge was an equivalent to Penstone Place, nor a building to match St. Nicholas Cathedral, nor shops like those providing me with attire to shame the women of that poor burg. And though never to become fully accustomed to London, I better accepted the conflict between fascinated appreciation and revulsion of its artificiality. But perhaps I was mistaken in believing that all Londoners approved of their entire city. Perhaps some sinners had uncertainties akin to mine. Why should other people be so different from me, for were we not all citizens?
I fit again into English society with minor effort, my ease in oozing through London like the everpresent fog stemming from my need to recuperate from former lives. But soon came a new life, one never experienced but promised long, for it was vengeance.
After satisfying herself with my hair’s progress, Elsie proceeded to the next extremity. With those calluses, the hands on the end of my arms belonged to no lady, but a blacksmith. And praise Jesus Elsie did that shoes were ever worn in London, for how else to hide feet more like hooves than part of any person, lady or not? And your posture is lost, girl, though at least you’ve good color, despite….
Any activity in my bedchamber brought reminiscing of times
passed in that space. I could not open my window without recollections entering, thoughts of Lucinda’s smell, Eric’s visits, the first sight of the garden, my departures and the disasters begun by breaking that invisible plane. But I was not so fearful of the past as to hide from mere remembrance, not when night fog and buzzing, nocturnal bugs were out for the sensing. Since those machinations to draw me out of doors had been settled, if only by disaster, exposure to the night brought me no fear.
Sleep I did, and dream. In my prison cave in Lucansbludge, I sat still so as not to draw the criminals outside heard screaming prayers to Jesus’ crotch. But imperfect was my hiding, for although I was slim as a scroll from sexual starvation—not having eaten a man with my baby gouge in days—my huge bosom pressed outward as though to trip sinners. Though the opaque cave door blocked any view, being no thicker than I, it passed odor like paper, like me, my sex odor transmitted from one damp breast to silence the criminals who approached with no further prayers screamed lest they warn their victim. Ever nearer they clambered, unable to smell me because too much of my stench had been cut away. Thus, they would find me by sight, that dark paper door an untrue impediment, the prisoners so longing to see that their eyes became as large as my chest’s gesture.
I awoke only to exhale a snarl, needing to express my displeasure of that odorous dream. But when next I harshly rolled over to fling myself into sleep again, the turning caused a pain that snatched me like a bite. Most gently thereafter I reclined on that side, catching a glimpse of eyes above my window sill as I settled.