by H C Turk
“Eric, your business I would only satisfy if your request contains a vow to Jesus that I do not support Satan’s evil, which would infect all our lives.”
Eric then kneeled, clasping his hands on Eastmon’s desk, speaking to the man and his Deity.
“My prayers are equal to your thoughts, for with God’s help, I seek to retrieve my life from the evil infesting me through my wife. Understand my joy to be far away from she who has made me a lesser man. Understand the embarrassment I would flee, that from harming my father and his. Then pray with me, sir, that I reject evil from my life by leaving it behind.”
Eastmon moved to his knees with reluctance, since his religion was too sophisticated for such passionate displays. Joining Eric, he heard pleas for evil’s release and thanks to Jesus for the strength to reject Satan’s temptation and torment. Then the men rose to deal with finance, not metaphysics, Eric reserving future passage for his family, needing only to purchase one member’s freedom, and the price would be pain.
• • •
“Strong forces of God’s nature are set by God, not humans. Magic is most natural and has its own schedule.”
“You say we cannot have Alba’s release coincide with the ship’s departure? That date I cannot modify, since the voyages are rare and set well in advance. To leave one’s country requires much preparation, and must occur at the best season for sailing so vast a distance.”
“You would hear what I say if you’d keep your interruptions. My feeling is that we deal not only with nature, but with your sinning society. As well, such a journey is itself a season, and to return would be disastrous for she who escaped. I sense of this voyage the strength of a new life begun, an old one ended, of release from the devil and a fleeing toward God. Yes,” she concluded, “I sense that this boat’s disappearing from our homeland will fit well with our made disaster.”
“Now that we have a schedule, Marybelle, what is to be done for procedure? Is this magic to be some extended process, or a brief striking of forces? What materials deemed magical will we use?”
“You say magic yet speak of building, sinner,” she retorted. “We need draw no plans and cut no timber, for our magic be a type of prayer. You sinners build things even to worship your Maker, but the truest church is Earth, and there we apply ourselves. The doing of our goal we shall know as it is being done if our preparing be correct, and this we do not with tools, but our hearts. This magic we must worry on, and never bother to seek itself, only its success. And failure we must fear, for that means Alba lost to Satan. The love we must feel for her these weeks shall be painful, and we must think of saving her with ideas as crooked as my neck, for nothing comes unless we love and pray utterly and hate Satan enough to drive him from our lives with our lives. This be our planning, and never wait. Never wait with calm for the time when Alba shall leave, for she will only leave if we take her, steal her, force her away from Satan by using the devil’s very force against him, tempered by God’s greater strength and guided by our panicked love.”
• • •
Seriously construing Marybelle’s speaking, Eric waited for magic with anxiety. He began drinking much of everything, tea and cider and wine, for thereby his urinating came often, the action always painful, reminiscent of that act to nearly kill him, either Alba’s dismemberment or Alba’s love. This discomfort increased his desired stress by eliminating any optimism during relaxing moments prior to sleep when he might sense future relief, in that soon the waiting and worry would be over. Since optimism was detrimental to anxious magic, Eric with practice made himself so miserable at night that he suffered ugly dreams, visions of human limbs dropping like tears, fiery incantations led by Marybelle, whose head swiveled around and round, her chin nicking her shoulder with each rotation. His dreams worsening with every day, Eric suffered screeching chants by Marybelle, whose face was a scab like my chest and Eric’s groin, her words knives that cut away each extremity, reducing Eric to a limbless torso clambering like a stout snake beneath the guards’ feet and into their prison only to find the wife fucked to death by Naylor months before, rotted now to nothing but a scar on a naked cot, retrievable from death only by her own magic, but she was dead, so could save no one.
Marybelle did not return, having scheduled no visitation. No great loss was her absence, Marybelle frightening to Elsie and Eric, the dog ever hiding in the pantry when the witch was smelled, having none of the furious, toothy response first given the wife. And here was Eric angered, since Randolph in compare should have attempted sheer murder against hideous Marybelle. But, no, the asinine beast had reserved his boastful anger for the lovely witch, the one so witty and passionate that sexless Eric recalled her sex, recalled his face between the wife’s legs lapping her gloriously, these thoughts bringing to Eric the feel of a sexual erection. But, no, that was impossible, for scars do not drool semen, only pus. Upon understanding that he could have no more unnatural intercourse with the wife’s fundament, Eric would fall to fitful sleep as he was due in this era of strain, his dreams ending at his crotch where my utterly desirable mouth open and moist would spit upon him since nothing was there but a sickening scab. And after Marybelle’s magic, what of Eric would remain to revolt me?
• • •
“Yes, miss, the woman is the same to have taken Alba to the wilds, and pray God she takes her again. Correct again, fearful Elsie, the woman is a witch as is Alba, but here only to help us. No, not through plague nor brimstone will she foment this release. No, I cannot say of chants and charms, only evil, that Miss Marybelle hates Satan and worships God, as do we all.”
He informed the servant that she accompanied them at her choosing, being part of the family and important; but if she desired to remain, he and Alba would both understand and yet love her. But Elsie had nothing to remain for, had no one to keep her but her current family, which was Alba’s. And pray God she did to give her strength to follow the young couple to a new land. Bless you then, said Eric, in that your passage has been booked. Then a sentimental weeping Elsie commenced, which ended with Eric’s comment that Marybelle as well attended.
Elsie’s era of distress increased with the awareness that she would abandon her country, never to return, for she would be accomplice to a crime. She would leave not that shack of her childhood, but her fine home of London, of England, that truest part of God’s world, leave for the wilderness exactly as Alba had ever desired, as she had sought and gained with this very witch now come again, the hideous creature come to steal them all—and was Eric correct? Was this woman truly as God-fearing as Elsie? How fearful of God could a witch be? But Alba was a witch—yes, dear Jesus—Alba was a witch as always maintained, though she had never promoted evil beyond pinching her own husband’s prick off with her cunt.
Of course, Elsie knew that Satan had created that most heinous deed, not Alba, Elsie convinced by Alba’s deathly mien on Eric’s mutilation night. And she recalled that last word spoken from the prison: her name, only her name, but a sound so pitiful as to cramp Elsie with tears. Then completely did she pray God in thanks for sending the witch Marybelle to release her dear Alba, pray God make her the best witch ever; and to any end of Earth would Elsie follow that woman if it meant the dearest girl’s release.
Elsie queried Eric of their packing. His curt reply was typical of his ongoing melancholy. Take whatever you can carry and yet run, he answered, which seemed to Elsie a clear explanation of their upcoming lives.
Her despondency was displaced the day Eric came to her nearly weeping, frightened like a boy in the night with creatures about. Most sincerely he convinced the miss of their wrongness in being normal, for they had returned to eating meat. According to Marybelle, they must set themselves solely toward Alba—yet here they were consuming animal flesh—and was this carnage fit the mistress? Of course not, Elsie agreed, from that day hence neither person eating meat. Grand did not notice, and the servants did not understand, Elsie’s explanation receiving derision, a response she found a
ppropriate for such a strange religion.
Their weeks of nervous gloom continued. Even Randolph seemed dejected, if only because his family’s main activity was fomenting their own distress. As for Eric’s family, at one midday meal, Grand mentioned how pale the boy appeared, that his health would improve if he ate but a bit of meat, for would any wife have him starve in memorial? Yes, Eric thought, one would. Additionally, Lord Andrew continued, his strength might increase if he left the house more often. And his spirits as well if he gained some activity for his thinking, perhaps employment in an area to interest him. For example, his own business concern might hire….
How influential was Lord Andrew to so activate his grandson, for Eric at once bolted from the table, the townhouse, toward a carriage and to London’s center, an office of the ocean dryly misplaced, Eric present not to seek employ, but to verify his previous spending. And what did Mr. Eastmon think of this thin man pale as an invert witch who entered his office in a panic and left praising God like an evangelist for Eastmon’s having kept his schedule, kept his secrecy?
• • •
How terrible for Eric to awaken from nights to well please Lord Andrew with their activity, in that Eric crawled and rolled across his bed as though employed in nocturnal marching, only to rise to a day worse in its anxiety, for Eric could experience torment better when not weighted down by nightmares. In this manner, his days proceeded, Eric’s apprehension increasing in proportion to the calendar, as the time for the voyage approached. As the time for magic neared, Eric had more and more attacks of acutely unpleasant ideas: those of the ship’s schedule, of Eastmon’s identifying his passengers to all of London, of Eric’s not having prepared himself adequately, spiritually, of Marybelle’s being mistaken or false or incompetent, of her being absolutely genuine, yet failing due to Eric’s inadequacy, his lack of will, lack of love.
Elsie fared little better. As though an exchange had occurred between servant and master, Elsie began plying the anger that had been Eric’s center, whereas he became so timid as to fear each small aspect of living, feeling dread to eat another meal, sleep through further, fretful dreams, or face his grandfather, who would certainly rebuke him for his laggardness, his sloth, his blatant support for the very devil in the form of his wedded witch. Though usually a smoldering coal in this latest epoch, Elsie would spark sharply into bright anger whenever some servant would inquire of her laundering the master’s wardrobe again when he wore but one jacket. Then the miss would reply as to the questioner’s lazy, godless life with no activity but demeaning a man with more love in his dirty pants than this fool’s entire existence. One too many humorless comments of her eating no meat received a response of onion shoots tossed against the face, which Elsie herself swept from the floor, since the young mistress well loved her onions, did she not? All of this in tears, of course, for Elsie was poor at anger, a failure at retribution.
This reversal ended with Eric’s awareness that the weeks before their voyage had turned to days, his heart a crash in his chest when he thought that his foreboding nightmares would soon become real, for Marybelle would return and bring evil, bring forth evil from him.
Eric would be leaving, he knew it, felt it, felt he was leaving not only his land, but his life, for he was also leaving his parents. How could he finally tell them of his love? And Eric was struck with the fantasy to have driven him from his home. With so brief a time together, had that name ever truly been a wife? Even if she had been his spouse in the past, what purpose was a wife to one with no gender? But this thought was quashed by the accuracy of Eric’s turmoil, for beyond false impressions stemming from separation, ever near him was the knowledge that his wife was his life’s most genuine part; and though his desire for her was yet sexual, his need seemed religious, as genuine as God.
Then the days were two. The third day would see the Queen’s Flight depart. With this awareness came a dread to stop Eric’s heart as though struck by the devil, for he felt that his entire existence was one day ahead, and if his life were not proper then, never would his torment end, for never again would he be with Alba. But this final panic was neither fear of Naylor’s killing me nor of Marybelle’s failure to return, but the absolute conviction that no opportunity, person, nor planning would come other than Marybelle, that return she would to end his anguish climactically, bringing devices not of person nor planning, but evil, a magic for the wife’s release that would not be equivocal, but absolute.
• • •
Eric determined to make certain there was yet a ship, a schedule, a place for him and his. Even his quitting the house was despairing, for outside he could not suffer his preparation as painfully as within Grand’s madhouse. To a dry office for wetness he hied, gaining data from a subordinate of absent Eastmon, then via carriage to the dock on the Thames where the ship would depart. And there, the particular vessel, a wooden crate rocking in the breeze. Here was the very captain to invite the passenger aboard to view his lodgings. Though Mr. Denton did not care to visit this cave, this prison, he acquiesced for sake of further business, Eric applying his knowledge of ocean conveyance, hearing that—yes, indeed—on occasion a person is found stowed away, an additional passenger rarely accepted for a fee and an additional fee, since a ship’s stores and space are limited for any voyage. Then the captain offered how discreet a person he was, especially when dealing with an appreciative colleague, such as this gent Denton, who provided him with a golden gratuity.
Eric then left to conclude his designs. He hired a covered wagon and purchased a mariner’s chest that Eric prayed would not become a coffin. Having expunged all of his activity, Eric returned to Miss Elsie for more apprehensive despondency, a contradictory evil of mistreated hearts.
No nightmares struck Eric that night, for no sleep would come. Neither did Marybelle the following day. For some unspeakable, spiritual reason, he was not surprised. Throughout that day, Elsie remained near her master, often looking toward Eric, waiting for some speaking or sign, but silent Eric scarcely left his chamber, sitting in a narrow chair, staring through the window, certainly looking nowhere. The door he left open for Elsie to pass by and look within, for Elsie to come and see nothing.
That day disappeared. The next came for Eric after a sleep calm in that it seemed suffocation. The morning of the ship’s schedule had arrived. Arising late for a day devoid of expectation, the husband was left only with the exquisite end to his despair, a denouement worthy of a man to have wed a witch.
His final inversion came with Elsie. Eric was dressed and staring at his chamber door when she appeared at that plane. What geometry so conjoined them that their functions became reciprocal with their mutual view? Having been driven to him by another door, Elsie received his anxiety as she looked toward Eric, who truly seemed her master then, or was he a tormentor? For as soon as she approached him, he smiled, then laughed, not at her distress, but their mutual success, for he knew her message before it was spoken: The madam named Marybelle had arrived. But, no, he told her, this was no madam, but like Alba, called the miss. No miss neither of them, he laughed. Not miss, but witch. And was his laughter not a cackle?
Elsie lagged behind as Eric quit the room, the master moving downstairs with an unreadable mien, seeming to Elsie not spritely nor well humored, but having some mad implications of both. And when in the foyer Eric continued out with no glimpse to Marybelle a pace away, what did Elsie think of his thinking? What mad emotion had the servant when her sick though smiling master left her behind? What small, insane disappointment had she from not being taken to save the mistress? So there she waited, approaching the door moments later, prepared to move with the pair who frightened her while offering a salvation she could not understand, could not refuse. Later she moved into the house with no dejection, thinking then of baggage and mementos, formulating her own preparation for her family’s exit from Hell.
Chapter 42
Bodily, Emotional Mist
On the floorboard lay a fabric bag
of no great craftsmanship, its contents unrevealed to Eric as were his companion’s thoughts; for not a word had she spoken, their destination also a mystery as they journeyed by carriage. But were they moving toward Alba, or away from her detention?
Marybelle’s magic was first proven by their goal: Gravesbury Reach, where the wife had first revealed her own sorcery. How perfect was this Marybelle to select the sole locale of Eric’s life that seemed mystical in itself, though in fact the source of that magic had not been the land, but its populace and her proving.
Eric stared at the receding driver, for with no word spoken, Marybelle had exited the wooden box with her bag and walked toward the Thames. Eric stepped from the carriage and away the driver went as though having occult instructions instead of common recollection of previous orders.
She continued to an area free of tall growth, that very locale upon which Eric had first known his wife completely. There did Marybelle stop to place her bag as Eric remained by the path until driver and carriage were near out of sight, no sound heard of that creaking cave, of the wife calling him toward magic.
He next found himself before bent Marybelle. The passage to her was not magical, though. Since he had stared at the woman with every step, there seemed no change in his position, their relative states, her apparent size increasing too gradually for notice, that medium of space and separation present even when he stood near enough to vomit on her; for regardless of proximity, the two were not together.
Before her knees, she had collected bits of dry foliage as though a nest. Then from her bag she removed a handsome, whitish bowl of blown glass, of a size to be supported by a single palm. This vessel accepted her foliage after she had placed the glass upon the ground. From her bag, she then procured bits of hard rock, dark and sharp, which she struck together, sparks emitted as though from her fingers, tiny bright igniters falling to the bowl to light the dry tinder. Could the observing man comprehend the true fire, which was terror in Marybelle? For she was a witch too alive despite past deaths to accept that worst dying for her kind. And was this male’s ignorance the cause of this fire? For when the blaze became brilliantly established, Marybelle lifted the bowl to fling its hot contents against Eric’s face.