by H C Turk
“Constable.”
“With my own unhindered eyes, I saw that this person as she was being led to this facility did eject from her own mouth a man’s member of procreation onto the street, and this I say in certainty.”
The magistrate turned to inquire more complexly of the prisoner.
“Either you bit away your husband’s male portion or cut it off with an implement, thereafter concealing the flesh within your mouth in order to hide your murderous act. Or have you a superior explanation of this professional man’s witnessing?”
“He witnessed no murder. He observed but a sickness caused by the true butchering; for after she cut the phallus away, Amanda Rathel forced me to swallow the thing as allowed by the opiate she had placed within my drink. This was the cause for my being near asleep when you arrived, for Lord Andrew Denton’s being oblivious even longer. Did you not examine the liqueur brought by Lady Amanda?”
“We did, and our man who sampled the material slept most lengthily, but this is proof only that Lady Amanda had you sleep. The purpose thereof, as she sensibly poses, was to end the family difficulties all your people were suffering.”
“And what does the victim recall of this assault?”
“Eric Denton has no recollection of the event before awakening to find himself smoldering. Have you no interest in him besides a potential alibi? Is this man not your husband whom you love?”
“Of all the people alive in this world, I love but two, and Eric is one. With God as my truth, Eric is one.”
“Who might that second person be?”
“She who saved my husband from death. And with her life, Lord God reveals Himself so great as to be beyond my comprehension, for how could He not accept such an angel immediately into Heaven?”
“Easier is your loving her now, for Elsie Rowell is but two doors removed.”
“What fool idea has taken you to bring the woman here, Naylor? Elsie is more than innocent; she is a saint.”
“She is a suspect, being that individual nearest the victim, along with yourself. Despite your allegations, Amanda Rathel at that time was witnessed asleep in her own household. Therefore, why should we not believe that you and Rowell were aligned in this assault?”
“Very well you should if you are a paradigm of asinine thinking. As for greater inanities, what might the Rathel’s opinion of this slaughter be? Where in her testimony are Miss Elsie and I situated?”
“She says nothing of Elsie Rowell that the servant does not. As for yourself, Lady Amanda can only surmise that you are mad. Your bizarre laughter in response to the slaughter in itself describes you as abnormal.”
“And no hint of demonology has Rathel found in assessing the crime?”
“None beyond the demon of human evil that Satan places in many. And since Lady Amanda is long the expert here, I have no quarrel with her wisdom. She was not found with a prick in her mouth.”
“Ah, but one is found in yours. Since my husband is full in his gentlemanship, likely he will forgive your obscene reference.”
“But this Eric Denton is no ‘him,’ for no longer has he gender. Can you imagine? Can you understand how important it is to be a man in this world, made by God beneath His vision, in His image, then suddenly not to be a man, but a…a neutered person?”
These were not questions, but visions, the magistrate—the man—looking toward me but seeing himself with a scab on his crotch like Eric’s.
“Do you understand how important it is to leave for your nation an heir, yet be incapable? Do you understand that a surgeon was required to bore a hole into this person so that he might pass his body’s water? Can you imagine being so…hopeless that the remainder of his life he will spew urine from a scar?”
“Yes, this I can imagine, for half of God’s persons pass water in this manner. They are called women. Perhaps you have some obscenities for your mother as you did my husband since she as well has no limb between her legs. But no human with Eric’s spiritual courage would accept for his life the curse from ignorant men of being hopeless. No man could have sufficient flesh between his legs to make himself superior to my husband.”
“And there is a bond as changeable as his sex. England and its Church provide laws for the dissolution of marriages. Certainly, no justification could be greater than that defined by Eric Denton’s injury. In your love for your husband, you might wonder of his further desire to be wed to you.”
“Is your equating love with legal bonding a perversion of your soul or a corruption from your profession? My concern for Eric is not his concern for me. Through God’s grace and Eric’s own considerable strength, I pray that his permanent damage soon becomes no more than an inconvenience; for that flesh gone shall not return, and I would have Eric replace it with acceptance.”
“How blithely you assert this hope, as though classical philosophy. But no woman can imagine the horror of being so torn asunder. Yet you, in your objective, acting mode, would have the former man simply accept.”
At once I began tearing at my clothing as though seeking a treasure in a rag sack. But I sought a terror, for I reached within to find hard flesh for Naylor, displaying that boyish bosom that seemed an eaten carcass.
“I am certain that Eric’s horror is worse than this,” I barked, providing Naylor and his silent man satanic visions, for according to their faces they saw this ultimate fiend. “More intrinsic to Eric was his manly portion, but I’ve some idea of his loss in that my breast was not unwomanly. Am I therefore half a woman for being without this?!” I shouted, and thrust my chest toward the sinners. And retreat they did a step from a fear no actor in an opera could duplicate.
With anger, I reclothed myself, covering Satan and thereby saving these whole men, these complete sinners, from religious terror. Since they had no capacity for speech, I continued for them.
“Against no human of either gender would I wish my own distress, but even as God has allowed me to accept my damage, I pray He provides Eric with the awareness that no removable portion of his person equals his life. I pray Eric might continue living with the wit and love he held before, even if my part therein is only to aid with absolute hope and constant prayer for his success.”
And they left. With no further word, the magistrate turned from my covered carcass and stepped to the cell door, followed by the constable. Then I was alone with my scars, and with Eric’s.
They left me in a manse. Expansive was this cell compared to that of Lucansbludge, with a larger window so distant from the door as to imply God’s substance of space. Past the thick door’s iron bars came quietude, not crying, no mention made of the killer witch and her one acceptable nipple. The greatest difference between these hard environs was the latest bed, which I rejected because its odor of men was other than my husband’s. I would sleep on the floor.
How fine this site would be for my remaining life. What a cave for hiding, a wilderness compared to grander London. But within these wilds, could I hide from my sin, not merely the sinners? Could I hide from Eric, that man I knew to be uniquely virtuous, no more ambitious than a witch? Here might I remain in my confusion, not knowing whether to pray God in thanks for Eric’s survival, or scream to Satan’s maker why, why, this most decent friend had been stricken, why I had been the vehicle for his needless harm, why the perverted Rathel had finally succeeded in evil, why overtly excellent Eric lay in torment and despair to make my state seem heavenly. But how could I thank God for Eric’s survival without implying that his state was acceptable?
All these feelings came to me again and again, as though different diseases to strike separate parts of the body—here the head incredibly aching, there the stomach vomiting into knots. With a basis of bereavement, I prayed with effort that my idea to the magistrate come true, that Eric would survive and accept his torment as I had mine. Of course, Eric’s loss was unquestionably worse; for I had no use for that breast, whereas Eric well loved his sex with me. From his mutilation, Eric had received nothing but senseless t
orture; whereas I yet felt the righteousness of having attempted to heal a friend. But might not his superior personality overcome his greater torment? Then I prayed again for him to become no worse, please, dear God, let Eric’s anguish come to me as an evil I deserved, since Satan lay within me, was part of me. And I thought of my husband needing to weep but being unable, for I had tutored him in my ways. I had ruined this type of relief for Eric, and pray God I did with utter thanks that I had no such ability, for I knew that if my weeping began it would never cease, no more than my regret.
Then came the next demon in my cycle: false imagination, impossible notions of making the present unreal by changing the past, thoughts of Eric before, of how fine he would currently be if only I had recognized Rathel’s evil intents and slapped her brew away or simply quit the room. Or if I had not slept with Eric but moved away from him before the Rathel’s potion took me, hiding in a closet or beneath the stairs or in the alley or the wilds or bloody goddamned Hell rather than remain beside Eric. Had I been less stupid and cowardly, I could have avoided Eric’s damage, his permanent torture—but, no, dear Lord, not permanent, not torment without end. No man-stick forever, so must it be, but not endless misery—let him have ease, for he had felt evil enough. Then, in my ludicrous state, I attempted to outwit God by thinking for Him, deciding that, yes, Eric had suffered enough and required no more. Therefore, the husband would accept in his heart and be healed in the spirit, though the combined recuperation would not have been needed had I only averted the Rathel’s plan, her success stemming from my foolishness, a weakness allowing her influence that culminated in Eric’s torment, torture, impossible loss.
On and on I deservedly suffered, but not enough, never enough to equal Eric. Pray God send me Eric’s torment, enough to kill me, thank You, if it would remove from Eric the terror he did not deserve. On and on, sick and sore in the body, then night, pray for sleep, pray for Eric, pray I might regain time and kill Rathel or myself or Satan rather than drink Rathel’s murder or sleep with the husband thereafter, pray God to recreate the era of my evil, return the opportunity to be bored and become so righteous as to suffer only boredom. On and on until the restless night ended, until sinners came I could not ignore, the man speaking immediately hated for interfering with my misery, for it was pious.
“You are ill?”
Sir Jacob had returned with significant company. Along with a guard, Naylor had brought a bishop, a man new to the diocese; for a demon had murdered his predecessor, murdered him in the same satanic manner as that used against my husband. Since this bishop knew me as present in both killing vicinities, had he some strong feeling for my guilt, for the devil accompanying me in the form of witches? This man of God might have had me in mind, but in his mouth was his master, for Bishop Dysart stood praying by the door as Naylor spoke with the prisoner.
“Woman, I ask whether you are ill. Can you hear?”
“Ill with evil,” I muttered, then noticed the magistrate looking down toward me with wonder; and I would not accept his curiosity. Painfully I sat upright with the proper carriage learned by all ladies for sitting on a prison floor. Situating myself as though on a brocade divan, I feigned normalcy, though I was not normal, and never could be.
“I have no illness, only poor sleeping.”
I knew he looked toward my chest, though I viewed him not, Naylor an oblique peripheral in my sight. The cloth to shape me I had not replaced, and Sir Jacob looked, attempting not to see. And he would not step near, not after my threat of applying my scar like a contagious fever.
“With no illness, you then will speak. I seek more words from you, and would have your cooperation.”
“I shall cooperate, but first you must tell me of Eric.”
“The former man you love? Your concern is such—”
“I will learn of Eric’s condition through the previous night, or naught will you receive from me but scabs,” I demanded. “I will hear of him regardless of my love, your authority, or the evil you seem to promote more than alleviate. You will tell me of Eric’s health, or receive no further words from me unless you cut them out.” Then I firmly stood, nearly touching Naylor while stepping past.
As though I had brandished a blade with my breast, the magistrate leaned backward with an abnormal breath. But quickly he settled, calm and official again as he continued his interrogation.
“The Denton person is of acceptable health, not yet with infection and offering no fear of demise to his physician. Of his spirits, I cannot speak, except that he seems uncertain of himself. This I well understand. Nothing further do I learn from him, for he asserts to have no recollection of his attack in that it came in sleep. And the victim cannot state who was present during the assault but you. Therefore, I will have more speaking from you, and it shall be pertinent.”
The reverend then spoke, “We shall pray first,” and stepped near the prisoner, though not near enough to touch. Lowering himself to both knees, he clasped his hands; but with his head all bowed, was he looking toward his God or away from my bodice?
Without thought, I moved to sit before him. I then bent my neck and well desired to pray, for though the sinning reverend and I were different people, our God was yet the same.
Naylor lowered himself to one knee as the bishop began; and though the reverend’s phrases were mostly rote, the man seemed to hold God as his love, not merely his profession. In my silent praying with this sinner, I emphasized the notions we shared, those of guidance and salvation, an increase of righteousness to replace the ambient evil, amen, the bishop surely feeling better, the jailor and his witch unchanged in their corruption.
As though having completed the nasty chore of groveling on his knees, Sir Jacob rose to begin his speaking anew.
“I say again, woman—”
“I say first, Lord Magistrate, that you might begin by ending, by revealing to me likely conclusions to this tale. That is to say, if I am adjudicated guilty of this crime, what be my legal punition?”
“Since no life was taken, neither would yours be,” Naylor stated, suavely accepting my interruption. “But doubtless you would never leave this prison.”
“Intense thought have I given this matter. Therefore, I think it best that you speak with me alone.”
“A great truth is best given with witness to eliminate misunderstandings.”
“How subtle you are, Lord Magistrate, to have said ‘great truth’ instead of ‘confession.’ Is the great truth, however, that you fear having parts removed by this thin woman your prisoner?”
“I fear no person, only God.”
“How fearless are you with Satan?”
“Satan is not to be feared, but, with God’s aid, despised.”
“Then dismiss these men and remain with me and God to discuss the devil. If you’ve the spirit for it.”
Long did the magistrate view my face, but not for a blink did I avert my eyes. In my visage, did the sinner find a challenge to his courage or his soul?
Turning to his holy associate as though ordering tea served, Naylor said, “Bishop Dysart, this guard will lead you away for a time. Pray God I do in thanks for your continued counsel with Jesus.”
“But, Lord Magistrate,” the guard replied from across the cell, looking to me as though I were a weapon, “this person has—”
“Leave, and have less concern with persons who would have your concern.”
As the two men left, Naylor faced the door, not me. He faced the door as though beyond lay an area to his preference, but no further evidence of fear did I sense in him. Nevertheless, it was not his courage but my words to turn him from that temporary wall.
“I ask, Sir Jacob, of your interest in witches. I ask of the value you would find in gaining a personal expertise in that race you find exceptionally wicked, and whom you believe responsible for a death in your family.”
Stinking of interest, the magistrate faced me better, becoming so weak as to seat himself on a low stool, though the lady yet stood
. In several manners, he was situated beneath my level.
“This is no subject on which I shall accept your lies, and I’ll not further respond prior to comprehending your intent.”
“I explain, then, in question. If you were the captor of a verified witch, would you allow her to live if she provided knowledge of witches beyond what the lying Rathel could ever imagine?”
“I would, undoubtedly, and consider the price well paid.”
“But you might lie. What sin exists in deceiving one sinister? Surely, Lord God would forgive such a paltry iniquity with barely a prayer. What would preclude your lying to a witch, and after gaining her knowledge, taking her head as well?”
“That type of dishonesty is one of criminals, and equal in malice to their deeds. My entire life supports integrity, and thereby have I attained a respected position in England’s greatest city as appointed by King William and verified by Queen Anne. Only one long seduced by dishonesty would consider evil acceptable, even when dealing with Satan. In fact, immoralities are not overcome with the treachery they promote, but with the very integrity they would damage.”
“In fact, your integrity I must infer, because you promote my capture. No lie of yours will have us exchange positions, and my best truth will not free me from your cave.”
“And what best truth do you have, woman, with all your talk of honesty? Where is that previous speaking of witches, a subject you well know to impassion me?”
“The subject was potential agreement between London’s magistrate and an expert in witches yet to be revealed. Now that your honesty is accepted, shall we compose a vow toward which you might dispense your powers, those to punish and to free?”
“The former more than the latter considering that we deal with witches and heinous assault. But continue with your potentials if they include topics to interest me concretely. Your fine speaking reveals a learnedness best applied toward the bishop, who is a man of ideas. I am more of God’s world wherein His idea of happy living is seldom applied except in wishful prayer. What thus of Satan and his assistants, these witches?”