by H C Turk
“Woman, you delay as though—”
“I delay as though I were about to drown myself, magistrate,” I retorted. “Believe ye my immersion for long minutes is not a chore but an illness that will kill if not soon cured. Remove a fish there from its atmosphere and place the beast upon this pavement. As you study the creature’s throes, understand that it does not flop about carelessly, but is drowning in air.”
“Woman, it was your assertion that you can survive in water,” the magistrate declared, “yet now you say you are stepping toward a drowning death? Be ye a witch or not?”
Then I sharply turned, stepping firmly away from Naylor and his water.
“No, I am no sort of witch. I am a fool to value justice toward Rathel above my own torment. Rather than feel myself drowning for a moment, I will feel myself dry in your prison for a life.”
“I shall drown no more in your words, woman, in your madness and maddening contradictions,” Naylor loudly retorted, and signaled with a harsh gesture for the military men to approach me.
“Immerse this woman until she proves herself either witch or human,” he demanded. And his men, his sinners, stepped with haste to take me.
How legal were these males to receive me by my groin and bosom? What of that hand grasping the flattened scar on my chest to release the hold after a moment’s tactile study, as though the fingers had found a great heat? Those other hands continued, lifting me with such combined force and speed that my resistance was to no avail. Then I was in the pool, wettened and submerged.
As soon as I was within the pool from violence and held immersed with force, all my breathing’s aspects ceased, locking like some solid box containing a sinner’s jewels. The box of my body held only fear, however, exuded as violence; for I struck at these men holding me, struck and kicked as I twisted from one to move better into the grasp of two others, all my moves made slower by that thick atmosphere; while somewhere beyond, true fishes of gold moved effortlessly away with surprise. Thrusting with my entire person, I dove below the sinners, managing to free myself. And I was able to continue, for the guards’ efforts to retain me were as full of effort as my own, and all of us were drowning.
Once at the pool’s far side, I reentered air, gasping as I pulled myself upward with hands on the stone ledge, looking up to see another constable prepared to grasp me, three guards in the pool now gaining my position. Then, with no visage of a lady, I sought the magistrate, inhaling a final gasp to allow my speaking.
“Please!” I begged him, looking to his eyes with my word. “Please, lord, you will wait.” Then all the infinite constables had me again, the three immersed making their own gasping sounds, wet breaths of water’s choking and anger from being deposed by a woman, a prisoner, a witch.
“Guards, hold away!” Naylor instructed loudly. “Move from her, then, and allow her breathing.”
The magistrate seemed angered at his associates, looking down harshly to shake his head. Then a pacing he began as though a forceful version of the guards’ movements as they stepped from the prisoner, displeased themselves by the magistrate’s command or by my power of fear, my fearful power that controlled them all.
Eventually Naylor looked toward me only to pronounce, “Woman, you are a witch.” Then he continued pacing.
Was Naylor’s next gesture—his hand moving sharply upward as he looked to his men—one of consternation or defeat?
“Out with her, then, and again to Montclaire for her to live dry every day further she might breathe.” But the prisoner disagreed.
“No,” I told him, looking only toward the magistrate. “Allow me calm breathing for a time, then you shall have your proof.”
Sir Jacob then ceased his stalking, looking toward me rigidly to call with force, “Woman, not again will I have your—”
“Words,” I concluded, looking up to this sinner, then again between my hands, which held the pool’s edge as though I would fall without this support, though upon the bottom I stood. “Endless words. Recent words were from distress, and none to follow my proof will be required. But I tell you, sir, my older words must be recalled. Recall and be ashamed for being made the fool by Rathel. Then, sir, quantify your pride that finds Rathel a peer, for what sort of man will you be?”
After staring at me a sinners’ moment, Sir Jacob with a sneer gesticulated for his men to exit the water. And despite the sex therein to be held in their hands, they were not displeased to leave.
Soon my breathing was mild, as intended, for deep inhalations would disrupt that insulating layer of water immediately against me made warm by my body, my own cool body having more heat than this freezing corpus that held me like the hands of sinners meant to chill me with their law. Having set myself in preparation, I moved away from the air and prayed God for my survival. And madly it seemed that my prayer was to survive not my drowning, but my hatred of things damp.
I had intended a straightforward process with this proving, my desire to be on with the distress so that it might sooner end. But as I sank to the pool’s bottom and accepted water into my throat, I found myself drowning. All hope left with my last breath’s ending, for the water rushing within me was a damp fiber to clog and kill, containing life for fishes, but none for me.
Astonished to find myself committing suicide, my only thought was to enter the air again. Yet I feared moving lest that held water be replaced by worse, by an airless mass sucked dead by fishes. So I waited in fear for some air to seep within me, waited but a moment, a dying human’s moment, and enough, for no breathing I found. Potential was no longer sufficient, for I required true substance to support my life, but not enough tangible air was forthcoming for me to remain for what purpose? Then I knew. Having no thoughts of the magistrate astonished, of Rathel enjailed, of Elsie released, I flexed to press upward with my legs and thought of Eric, Eric staring down to his body and receiving greater torment than when first confronted by my scab. Therefore, I remained below because in this wet world, I could not cause Eric further harm. And if my confirmation failed, I would then be in a world even more perfectly devoid of his presence, for pious, precious Eric would never be found in Hell.
No thinking had I for the longest era likely extending from one moment to another, but no counting by me, only the task of seeping in air, the duty of avoiding Eric. My demeanor soon approached a different panic, one of failure through neglect; for how long would I need to remain submerged to prove myself sinister? If apart from air too long, would I not drown despite an established authenticity?
With fish breathing again set well within me, I replaced my upset thinking with contemplation of time as though distance, this tactic of duration successfully applied before in drowning eras. History then arrived in my thinking, for there was our cabin on Man’s Isle, and I turned toward the dense growth of difficult walking that nonetheless provided the most concise route to those several shallow hills upon whose northern slopes grew a mossy grass too soft for any plant, it seemed, and impossibly green. Completely through the thicket, below those vines to snarl the pesky hair Mother insisted remain kempt, east around the great dry gulch to trip a witch, up the ridge across the narrow field to the hills of mossy grass, gather a huge armful and return, track and retrace every pace, what a chore with this burden, one worsening with each step, the burden of my breathing, not this grass, continue with the work, the aggravation, until home was in sight, through the thicket with some loss of my load, between those spindly trees toward the cabin; and there was Mother, drop the load before her to finish a convincing distance of drowning, one final step directly upward and into the natural air.
Surely, a saint or demon left that pool according to the sinners’ visage. The leader remained Naylor, for his view, being most studious, was also the most revelatory; but of what type of creature, type of human? One to be touched by none of these males, not a word given nor received, only dry apparel not donned till the lady again was in her prison. Yet in the coach and during that long journey, no dam
pness did I feel.
Chapter 36
Cannibal
Fish heads I snipped away with the toothed baby in my belly as I sat on my soot-cell bed, the mattress made mine because I was forced to lie with it, the previous-prisoner stink my responsibility as I ate peers with my bowels, Sir Jacob Satan entering with a new prisoner each day: a bishop prisoner presuming Heaven, a driver prisoner conveyed to Hell, a constable prisoner seeking legality along the trail but finding a golden dog eating prick heads while moving well in its medium of play, fins wagging as its smiling gills barked, and a husband prisoner presuming to provide sufficient love to fertilize the wife’s wildness and promote a love returned, but no.
The castigation all these crimes deserved was proof, and the only proof was demonstration. Refusing again to eat meat, I was therefore made to repeat. So there I sat looking up through Satan’s space at the inquisitor through an atmosphere made hazy by its disrupted upper surface, all that swimming smoke making sight difficult in that I was burning and would continue until I proved myself guilty. And yes for the bishop fish as I snipped his pink metal head off and screamed enough to break my lungs. Yes for my guilt in again baby-biting away the driver’s mane with my crotch mouth that was sweet meat to some as I bit my own soul simultaneously, therefore screaming enough to break my spirit. And yes with regret for dropping the semi-constable from between my legs without a baby maker as a pain bounced upward and inside me that was misery to make me wish my mother had never lived so that I had never. And yes for the husband with his selfish aggravation removed, not again to bother the wife with his distant education of the Continental cunt. Now his boredom and mine would be equal, his scar and mine would be equal, as I made the husband not a witch nor the wife a sinner but both of them a different race, and wept enough to break my heart.
• • •
Waking from that life was no disappointment, not even to find myself social fungus in Montclaire cave. Upon leaving that dream, I moved to the window only to stand in the volume of entering light, to be part of God’s geometry; for I was more alive than ever before in that cell, since now my life was revealed, my true life of a witch. Despite the current cooling weather, I was warm within, for I was completely dry. So alive was I—and so social—that I used the brush provided by my mother Amanda, for I was her only daughter and a most successful sort of vengeance; for when had all the Dentons ever felt such horror? Abuse my scalp I did to relieve my coif of tangles from sleeping on a wet head. Praise God my lungs were dry, unlike in my dreams—and what of Naylor’s dreams? Did he see wet witches pinching limbs off English victims like a child denuding a bug of inconsequential parts? Or was he more concerned with my waking hair? Here was Naylor’s attention, Sir Jacob entering to stare at the black mass that in his eyes could have been gold, such was its value, not the gold of decorative fishes, but of precious emotions, bejeweled ideas.
Before the door’s loud opening and Naylor’s footfalls, I knew his approach, knew from his particular sinning smell. And with my back toward him as the sunlight surrounded me, I sensed his gaze, not at the witch but the woman, her white skin and black gold. Not willing to be a feminine demonstration to this sinner, I ceased my brushing as though ending an annoying chore, moving away from that cubical light toward the dark where sinners belong.
“I would speak with you of yesterday,” the magistrate began, his voice unaffected by his eyes and mind, by the sight of that woman, thoughts of that witch.
“We shall, if first you tell me of Eric.”
“Woman, we shall continue with our business, not the pretense of—”
“‘Missus’ is the term, magistrate. As before, you will tell me of my husband’s condition without questions of my fidelity or curious demeanor. God will concern Himself with my true emotion toward Eric without the aid of English law. Supply me, please, with the factual status of my husband, for which I thank you in advance.”
“At your pleasure, Mrs. Denton. I say your husband is as before, alert though unmoving in bed, injured but healing.”
“Why, magistrate, have you such reluctance to tell me of my husband? Have you some bizarre notion from your British law or deceased Jesus that precludes a simple depicting? Or are you especially fond of my pleading with words?”
“Missus, never have you pleaded with words, only with an emotion yesterday when you begged for me to leave you undrowned, and then no sound was needed. And there you were correct in your desire to live, for being alive, now you have further opportunity to prove yourself a witch.”
Not likely had Naylor ever been more struck by my revelations than I by his comment. Perhaps I seemed the social sinner in my response, staring at Naylor with ignorance of his customs, his mentality or madness. So taken was I by his words that I had none myself, allowing the magistrate to converse for us both.
“Before your immersion of the previous day, I presented skepticism as to being shown not occult proof but mere entertainment. Having passed from that time wherein I was affected by the immediacy of your demonstration through a night and day wherein I could contemplate, I must say I find myself most impressed, but less than satisfied.”
“You say, then, that some entertaining trickster of your knowledge could duplicate my accomplishment?”
“I say that the possibility of such a duplication is more believable than your being a witch.”
“Then provide me with a numerical understanding, magistrate, as to the quantity of women you have executed as witches with less confirmation given of their race than I have displayed.”
“The proof I have ever had with witches is an evil event and a wicked person nearby. But Denton could have been harmed by human means. And you I adjudge human, for neither yourself nor any expert has verified your being a witch.”
“You know of no expert but Rathel?”
“None is required but Lady Amanda, who describes you not as demonic, but brilliant.”
“And where within my malice lies genius?”
“Amanda avers you well hate her, and knowing yourself settled within Montclaire for life, you convinced me toward a vow to avoid your execution, your purpose to have your enemy incarcerated also. And clear sense has the lady’s explanation, for you have nothing to lose by being the witch, only she. Were her daughter adjudged satanic, Amanda would lose her freedom by being an accomplice to a demon’s life in London.”
“You must agree that God and England would suffer if the lady be as guilty as I allege yet goes unpunished.”
“I agree with your fantasy, but it remains a lie. As for now, you remain within this cell a mutilator, not a witch.”
“But if Rathel assesses me as human, and my proving was inadequate to you, do we not all concede that I am no witch, merely a fool to have mentioned myself and witches? What could be your goal in pursuing the subject? In fact, do you not smell less of integrity and more of lust? Confess your desire not to prove the witch but to have the wench. Why else your insistence upon my no longer being a mere woman?”
“Because I know that neither in your flesh nor mind are you ‘merely’ a woman. Despite Lady Amanda’s expertise, I believe you do possess some occult powers that you concealed by carefully presenting a proof you knew I would disbelieve. By your failure, you would convince me of your innocence so that further allegations by any party of your being sinister I would reject.”
“How contemplative you are, sir, to make such a net of simple notions. If truly a witch, why should I fail the proof, since you have vowed on your soul not to slaughter me for being occult? Either you have gained a new career in which you are decrepit, or I have no punition to fear for being the witch. What purpose would I have in concealing myself?”
“Your purpose is a form of salvation, for you would avoid suffering. Witch or not, that water breathing of yours was torment. When you stepped near the pool and recalled the immersion’s pain, you dismissed your personal interests in proving yourself occult. And though your swimming was in fact near drowning, that f
urther proof available would be even worse. During a pained moment when your speaking was all honest, you allowed me a revelation I yet believe. Reasonable you are to avoid suffering, but how much reason or easy living should a witch be allowed? As for my career, its purpose has not changed: I well serve England and God by learning all of witches a mortal can. To further disprove your envious gibes at my integrity, I shall again allow you to convince me occultly. Therefore, kindly demonstrate your abilities that are magical.”
“I know less of magic than you do of witches. I can swim better than perform magic, yet the former did not impress you. Therefore, you might select failure as a further topic, accepting me as the same human as you, God forgive me.”
“In fact, I accept as the next topic your remaining area of expertise. Therefore, I offer to provide you with a criminal due certain execution whom you shall demonically reduce with sex as you did your husband.”
A sinners’ moment held me in which I inhaled a breath of startled disbelief.
“Only a worshiper of Satan could be heinous enough to seek torture for a person doomed. The only evil more thorough would be subjecting a woman prisoner to tortuous rape by a criminal so fiendish as to be worthy of death. Therefore, whether I am the woman or witch, you are the evil creature to mutilate either the man or me, and likely not even God in His infinite understanding will be able to fathom a method for forgiving you. Of course, you would not ask dear God, for with such ideas, only Satan could be your deity.”
“How pious you are for one admittedly a killer of men via sex. This latter I believe, and know you avoid the devilish coupling because it brings you pain. This was your admission, and a true one from your black heart. But being a person pious in truth, not merely in words, I shall allow you to avoid the tortuous deed. By your own behest, you may select another method for confirming yourself the witch. If you do not, I shall, and the subject will be legal death, a man with no future living.”