Black Body
Page 66
We came to an intersection of corridors, our party turning north, that side of landforms where mosses grow best. What formation of earth was this mountain for its caves to house social ladies of the Rathel’s stature? One promoting natural senses, it seemed, for through the fog of man fume I discerned a whiff of a woman known in all my lives wherein death had settled. In this stone home to house the sinister, she and I would live together, separated by a maze of mountain walls, connected by crime.
“You would meet with this woman? She is yet your legal mother, is she not?”
This was Naylor’s query as we stopped before a door much like my own, for were not the respective tenants peers?
“Of no living creature could she be mother, for the Rathel is barren of life regardless of her womb,” I replied as though she and I were not peers here as well, for my crotch supplied only killing. “I’ll not meet her, for our business is ended by God.”
“Then you would look past this iron to see that justice through your own auspices has been achieved?”
“I take no pride in so placing her. My imaginative preference is for Rathel to be as pious as Elsie or Eric, but that desire is so fantastical as to be opera. And I need not view her, for I can smell her moving.” And, yes, I could readily sense every turn the woman made, for Rathel was hot, stalking as though searching for some creature on the floor to eat, something new to kill.
“You will not speak, then?” Naylor asked.
“I have no words for her,” I said. And though this statement was honest, I yet had a sound; for despite a true pity I felt not for Rathel’s position but for her acts, I nonetheless found a new bout of mad humor most recently seen in my dreams. As I paused before the Rathel’s household, a sick smile and demonic laugh came that drew the attention of the legal men surrounding me; for no expert in occultism was required to recognize the sound as a cackle, its source therefore a witch.
• • •
“Witches can write with an ability equal to their smelling?”
“This one can,” I replied to Naylor’s query.
“What further surprises have you for me?”
“An abundance, no doubt, to be divulged herein,” I responded, and nodded toward that stack of paper the magistrate had supplied, fine writing surfaces worthy of so unique a lady. My additional tools of composition fit me in a different manner. The desk brought by Naylor’s men was simple, common, yet as artificial as London, the chair comfortable though composed of slain trees. The quills, perhaps, were most appropriate, for though ostensibly natural, were they not plucked away in either death or mutilation, and for all their beauty, was each not tipped with metal? Small blades for cutting like my cunt, removing the artificial postures that had adorned and obscured my life. But what had I to currently, continually hide, when no truth would remove me from my home? This cave was mine forever, this living a type to last, one in which I had no better effort than to apply black prints to clean paper, like the marks of those I had burned left upon my own skin, stains on my sensibilities. Dead these words were compared to my past acts. Like the Rathel, I was barren of life, having destroyed my family not through vengeance nor failure, but a misapplication of love.
Chapter 38
No Bridgeable Distance
As though being punished for her desperation, Elsie arrived at the Rathel townhouse to find her original mistress removed, and in a mad way the servant was relieved. Nevertheless, was she not also mutilated to discover that her home was no more? The remaining servants rambled on in a fluster as to how Mistress Amanda’s estate would be taken by English law and dispersed. Though not yet mandated to leave, the servants expected this legal instruction. Surely, Miss Elsie could remain as long as any, for all here were greater friends than ever before. Not past the next morning, however, did the former prisoner remain before seeking not new employ, but another home. Though comfortable, this house could not hold her because its occupants, though admired, were not family. Home, mistress, and life: all of Elsie’s were wrong. That first woman had not been Elsie’s mistress for a life, but how could Alba be? And she recalled the sound of her name called and called again from the prison, as though the entire wall were Alba, her Miss Alba, but removed by such a distance that even a building’s loud voice was soft to hear. Soft to the ears, but damaging. And the sound came to Elsie again, a noise enough to stop her heart; for how in any life, any world, could she be part of a family not including Alba?
With no family of blood in London, Elsie would not find her affairs looked after by any sanction except the state, and that meant a home for the poor. That meant another prison. So Elsie found the truth of desperation in her life, departing the next morning for a walk never taken before, one to tire her little but frighten her immensely. Elsie sought the last member of her family, journeying to the house of Mr. and Mrs. Edward Denton.
The chamberlain answering the door was not alone, but had a companion to make Elsie weep, for there was Randolph to well greet his friend. What could the Dentons’ servant think of this common woman who fell to her knees and wept over the family dog?
“Ah, I beseech you, Mr. Chamberlain, to tell me that Master Eric is better in his healing each day, in that we’re praying for it, one and all.”
“The young gent is, indeed, better each day,” the chamberlain informed her.
Elsie asked if Eric might receive a guest, but learned he would not, being still confined to bed. Kindly, then, asked the woman, inquire of Master Eric if he might have a message for Miss Elsie.
He might. As the door closed calmly in her face, Elsie found this wooden panel not a temporary hole, but a barrier between herself and Randolph, perhaps one permanent. Soon, however, the chamberlain returned with two notes. The first began with a phrase that nearly stopped her heart, retrieving despicable history: “I am dead without your courage that night.” Elsie then read that she must leave. She would not enter to be confronted by Eric’s parents, who hated everything about Amanda and Alba including their shared servant. Therefore, Elsie should proceed to Lord Andrew’s house, giving the grandfather the second note wherein Eric requested Grand to temporarily house this servant who was indeed part of Eric’s family. And what did the chamberlain think of this woman’s weeping anew? Terrible news she must have received, for after her reading, the woman departed with a thank-you barely audible above her sobbing. Then Elsie turned to walk away only to whirl and dive for the doorway, embracing the dog with a farewell not meant to be final.
Lord Andrew would have received Elsie better if only he recalled her. Speaking with her at the door, Andrew had to read his grandson’s note before recollection was sparked within him, and sorrowful he felt for his lapse of recognition. But with old thought released, Grand received this woman into his home, there to live until further requests from her master, and that was only Eric.
No guest would Elsie be, though Andrew had no orders for his own servants as to her hierarchical position. An elder lot the same as their master, these folk would allow the woman to fit as she pleased, but Elsie was only pleased to be sweeping and scrubbing and peeling vegetables, the latter especially reminiscent of her previous home, that one most true and most false. But this home required little maintenance in that neither witches nor vengeance were housed therein. Thus, the newcomer was told to refrain from performing all the household’s work herself, lest the current servants feel so useless as to leave for Miss Elsie’s previous residence. But, no, they would not likely seek that abode, she told them, and within days found a position at Lord Andrew’s to please all those present. And wait she did for further instructions from her superior, not that lost lady, but the reduced man.
These instructions came soon enough even for a woman unable to wait as well as a witch. Active in the household though no longer a storm, Elsie one day answered the door to find a young gent able to walk only poorly; for as soon as he found command of his legs, Eric quit his parents’ home, for he could not live with people who hated his wife.
Accepting Grand’s warm welcome, Eric thought little of his parents’ pain at being rejected. Businesslike in his leaving, Eric had alleged that he would find more comfort at Grand’s, for in his original home was too much consideration given the cause of his injury as though others had been more damaged than he. Perhaps they had, but none were parents. Gone was that felicitous relationship between parent and child, a common yet profound state whose deterioration had begun with the future wife’s entering London and Eric’s life. Here the parents were to blame; for they, unlike Elsie, had believed in Rathel’s potential, her hatred a religion whose iconology had convinced them. Yet for all their courage in defying ignorant Eric, Hanna and Edward had lost their place with him now held by passive Elsie. Separated by conviction, the parents hated Alba too fully to be accepted by their prejudicial son. But with all the love and defiance from friend and family, no one had saved Eric from his own lust and love, from his wife’s inadequacies, the limbo lady neither sinner nor witch, Eric no longer the son he had been nor the man God had made him.
Not until Eric began healing his life, not his body, was a missing person mentioned: the unladylike Rathel. Queried by Eric as to Rathel’s situation, Elsie described that for his very injury the woman was now incarcerated, her responsibility the oldest and most basic in this opera, exactly as maintained by Alba from her first days in London. Exactly as described by most honest Alba to a faithless servant who had not been friend enough to believe the lass her superior in both intellect and courage. No opinion had Eric of the wife’s alleged superiority, only mentioning Elsie’s aspects, that this friend and servant was wholly without blame. Only the witch herself was not morally situated within this conversation, for it ended with Rathel. Therefore, my place was lost, my name not soon mentioned again, and then not by the husband.
Eric’s greatest dread was not his upcoming life without manhood nor heir, but the daily necessity of urinating. Despite good healing wherein his most profound agonies had subsided, an acute pain accompanied urine as it exited his body, that bodily tube immensely tender and painfully stretched whenever Eric made to void his fluid waste. Even contemplating the need to urinate initiated such dread that Eric stopped drinking for many days, until his physician informed him how he might succumb to simple dehydration; and could that be worse than more of this empty living? After all, not only was he a neutered non-man, like livestock, he was also loveless in life, having lost his parents and wife. Only the dog remained, and the servant.
The progress of Eric’s healing was noted not only by a hired physician, but also by London’s prime magistrate, who occasionally visited Eric at Lord Andrew’s residence. When presuming the victim healed enough to accept strong subjects, Naylor brazenly, frightfully mentioned the wife: not her damage, but her identity.
“Mr. Denton, those rumored accounts as to your wife’s being associated with witch persons I know to be true,” Naylor stated.
At once he knew. In a strike of enlightenment, Eric came aware that his wife was known to be the witch, and would therefore receive the typical, permanent punishment due her kind. Retaining a calm strength with difficulty, Eric responded to Naylor.
“Is this foolish belief the cause for her remaining imprisoned?”
“Sir, let us not feign a coy attitude we know to be false. By her own verity, your wife is proven the witch and accepted as such by English law. Regardless, she shall not be executed for her identity, and her punition of life’s imprisonment for having ruined you shall not change.”
Stunned was Eric as he instantly accepted the fact of my latest demonstration, yet relieved he was to learn of my survival, these confused emotions so strong as to weaken him. Nevertheless, his speaking remained firm.
“Wherein your purpose, Sir Jacob, in tormenting me with this subject? In fact, the identity of my wife is verified as a person pious with God, who remains morally incorrupt despite your commentary of witches.”
With new intensity, Naylor declared, “By the grace of God, Denton, your wife was not the witch without your knowledge. Yet through all my inquiries, you never condemned her first aspect, and now virtually forgive her assault.”
“I do not forgive the damage, sir, I do not. But I will not have my wife blamed when she is not at fault, not in her heart nor her intent.”
“Thus, my own intent: to learn why you apply lenience toward a woman who nearly killed you. I would know the man who has lived as husband with this witch, and who, having been cut away until no longer a bodily man, yet has no condemnation for her. What sort of person are you, Denton, to have such remarkable qualities?”
“The true question sought is misstated, Sir Jacob, but nonetheless I comprehend. In fact, you would not inquire of my special qualities, but those of my unapproachable wife. That unique character, I cannot be expected to describe, not so soon after suffering from the evil to inhabit her. And suffer I do, sir, to a degree I believe unimaginable to those without equal experience. But when I come to suffer less, perhaps I might gain some understanding of Alba for us all. Perhaps not. But I suggest you prepare for a consequential waiting; for as long as I know of this woman, in some ways I shall suffer from her. After this has ended, let us be pleased to speak again.”
• • •
Eric learned from Naylor that only Rathel, not the wife, would receive a public trial. Though no request was made for his testimony, Eric had thoughts of another person who might bear witness against the evil expert. Eric had thoughts of the wife’s attendance, and therefore imagined being amongst the audience. Observing the witch was an irresistible idea to him, yet how in God’s world could he ever bear to see her again?
With the conflictual anxiety of needing to see an impossible sight, Eric attended the affair to find disappointment. This was no trial, but a sentencing. No testimony would be given by any person, only documents presented by Naylor’s clerk. No personal testimony meant no person the witch to appear where she could be seen by all of London. Here exactly was Naylor’s intent, for a significant audience awaited the demon. Amanda Rathel was present, and was made to stand before the well-wigged justices like a row of social gods seated in a wooden heaven. With no word asked from her, Rathel was sentenced to a stay of two hundred months for her sought cooperation with demonic forces promoting the death of one Percival Bitford and the grievous injury of Eric Denton.
What a murmur went through the audience of common folk and gentry packed together within a room too small for unequal classes. Such is the power of witches, the exact force sought by this congregation, the greatest crowd ever drawn by the particular sister, and this without her presence, though not without her name. As the crowd began its complex sound unduplicable by natural entities, the available wench replied. Led away by flanking guards, the Rathel heard murmurs of “…witch…” never spoken by English official, and turn she did to confiscate the crowd as she had my life, calling toward them in outrage.
“Yes, the witch! Where is the witch and her deserved death when I am imprisoned enough to kill me?!”
Then the screaming began, followed by enough of a rush to imply a riot. Early to exit was unrecognized Eric, the audience not seeking the husband before he was gone. Also promoting their safety via flight were the barristers. Behind doors they hid themselves before the crowd arrived at the lockwork to shout past the constables for justice, for the witch, these two notions combined meaning the latter’s head in their hands.
Though well heated in their pious emotions,
the audience was not so volatile as to crush through legal doorways and have at the hiding men. Therefore, the constables allowed them to mull about and cry epithets until becoming bored enough to vacate the legal chambers; and what poor beggars would clear the disarrayed benches and broken chairs? Who would clear from these citizens’ hearts an idea never to bore them, that of hated witches and an evil individual yet to be given her proper, deadly due?
Since all of London was the source of this crowd, great was the rabble becoming distressed at a fine lady’s being punished; whereas the witch was bloody well lounging on a throne for all they knew. Through the streets they paraded their concern, some with songs of justice portraying the Rathel’s release and the witch’s permanent mutilation. Outside the prison they caroused, but the wrong side, for the witch was in a rear cell, yet her detractors marched on the wider boulevard before Montclaire. Scarcely did I notice them, being occupied with writing, my composition’s heroine yet on Man’s Isle, perhaps, affixed in a theater piece lusted over by Naylor daily.
How remarkable to be unaffected by a crowd to kill me when these same persons brought Eric a regard that harmed. Poor Miss Elsie was answering the door that day a throng appeared to burst past her and infiltrate the household, searching every chamber until finding Eric. With God in their mouths, they pressed Eric to his knees enough to wrench his back as all went down for Jesus’ sake, commencing a prayer. Then up with him as though a sack of beans, and the inquisition began, harsh, hot breaths so near Eric that their smell was left on him. Questioning Eric’s salvation, the voices sought his continual prayer to purge the witch’s evil. Then a separate sect formed to shout an unorthodox view: since the man had taken sex with the woman witch, had not she left something within him instead of taking a piece? Mad humor this was as though a witch had been tutoring the sinners; but were they not squabbling over the same victim, under the auspices of the single, presumed Jesus?