The Bookseller's Secret

by Catherine Jordan

  “Here,” Dusu said, and threw it with as much force as he could muster, smacking Mason in the face.

  Water splashed out of the pages, sopping his neck and shoulders, dripping down his legs and feet. Skin sizzled where water hit. The volume dropped to the ground with a splat.

  If a bone was broken, Dusu could not tell through the grisly condition of Mason’s seared face.

  “What have you done?” Mason asked, hand at his face, voice quivering. The eye moved from the book to Dusu. “The water.” He opened his mouth to say something else, then closed it. The eyeball stared at the bucket. “We have to get rid of the water.” The eye shifted, as if looking for a dumping ground. It settled on Dusu. “Drink it. All of it.”

  Dusu bent to lift the bucket.

  Mason took a long stride toward him. “Slowly!” He raised his spear to Dusu’s chest.

  Dusu brought the bucket waist high, one hand on the lip, the other supporting the bottom.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Mason said. “You’ve seen how fast I can …”

  Dusu tossed the entire contents on Mason.

  Hair washed down his shoulders, and the skin on top of his head split down the middle like an overripe tomato. With horror, Dusu watched flesh melt and blood wash over Mason’s chin and throat, exposing white bone. His brawny shoulders shrunk, muscles dripped down his arms. The spear fell to the stoep with a clang. Mason collapsed to his knees.

  A cackle rang from behind Mason. The laughter belonged to her. Dusu had been so focused on Mason's demise, that he hadn't noticed her arrival.

  She no longer wore Thuzien’s tattered uniform. The hem of her high-collared, old-fashioned, white dress draped the tops of her feet.

  “Well done,” she said to Dusu.

  Mason lay in the grass, part puddle, part man, moaning.

  She stepped around him toward Dusu, and all he could do was cower.

  101—Father Charles Thurmont

  Charles’s intention had been to enter and exorcise the house and the woman.

  Tatwaba closed the front door behind them. The man in white stepped aside, and Charles had wide range to move about the entryway.

  A grand staircase rose out of the foyer’s center to a high, second level. He did his best not to look around the rest of the cavernous house. The walls played tricks, and the shadows hid secrets. Doors to his left and right opened to places he did not wish to venture.

  “This way, please,” Tatwaba said, her hand on his.

  Charles’s heartbeat was steady. He had faced the oddities, unexplained and hardcore fears. Inhale slow, deep. Exhale while bearing down as if forcing a bowel movement. The exercise lowers the pulse. Focus on what is happening, not what might, because you have already prepared for what might.

  Charles followed Tatwaba and the man through open glass doors, down a hall, and into a sunken dining room. A set table that seated six was centered in the room. A sideboard fit against a curved wall, next to another closed door.

  “Please sit,” the man said, pulling out a chair for himself. Charles did as asked. Tatwaba exited through the door beside the sideboard. It swung shut on a hinge, and he heard her footsteps descend, then heard the clang of pots and pans.

  Charles was beginning to think about why he was sitting at a table instead of praying, and why the ceiling was round yet had five corners. Meaningless images flashed before his eyes: the bright white tablecloth, the “S” monogram on the napkin draped across his lap, the weathered patch of skin on the back of his hand, now beginning to tremble. Inhale. Exhale. Bear down.

  “Where is she?” Charles asked, giving a cursory glance toward the room's entry, expecting to see Eva, but not Eva—his daughter, whatever her name—coming through at any moment.

  “Outside,” he said. “Dealing with Inspector Dusu.”

  “I placed the Eucharist in the door,” Charles said, bewildered. “She can’t leave the house.”

  “That was no Eucharist. I replaced the host with Styrofoam wafers. You never noticed the difference. Ha! You don't recognize me, do you? Do you remember me being at the church doors? How blind you are.”

  Stupefied, Charles realized the man sitting across from him was the same man in white he had seen outside the church. He slightly resembled Jeffrey. He was Jeffrey. Charles’s shoulders drooped. Blind indeed.

  The hinged door swung open, and Tatwaba walked through. She held a decanter from which she poured a burgundy, thick drink into a glass and placed it in front of Charles.

  “No,” Charles said, and Tatwaba put her hand on his bare forearm.

  “You must be thirsty,” she said.

  A tickle irritated Charles’s throat, and he tried to conjure up spit to swallow. The drink. One sip is all he would allow. Charles put the cold glass to his lips.

  Jeffrey had repeated Charles’s name twice before he snapped back.

  102

  Charles put his empty glass on the table. The vein running from his throat to his stomach went cold. Then hot. His stomach turned sour, and lurched. Just when he thought he would throw up the drink, the sensation passed.

  He wiped at the sweat beading above his lip, and noted another filled glass at the head table.

  “Are we waiting for her?” He asked. His mouth watered. He refocused, trying his best to suppress the urge to grab his empty glass and lap the last drop.

  Jeffrey stared at her place setting. “Yes. She will be joining us, my daughter.”

  Jeffrey’s fingers crept longingly to his throat.

  “How can you live here, with that creature?” Charles asked.

  His response was pathetic, and disturbing, a bastardization of a Bible verse. “Eyes have not seen, ears have not heard, what awaits those who love her.”

  “I heard Caroline was alive,” Charles said.

  “Was? Is.”

  “A demon has possessed her body and animated it. Caroline is not alive. Your daughter is kidnapping people, turning them into monsters.”

  Jeffrey shook his head. “People come to her willingly.”

  “What people?” Charles asked, stifling his scoff.

  “Satanists,” Jeffrey said.

  The title sounded repulsive in the heavy air. “Satanists attend black masses,” Charles said. “They prostrate themselves to Satan for power and money.”

  Jeffrey took a sip from his glass. “Humph. Black masses. Don’t tell anyone I said this, but they’re all pomp and prostitution in front of an upside down crucifix. They coat themselves with excrement, eat human flesh, and drink blood. She has asked her followers to tattoo themselves with symbols and chant gobbledygook, to cut themselves and offer the pain up to Satan. They are asked to perform foolish tasks and give up their soul and their dignity, and she sits back, laughing at their stupidity.”

  “It's the price they think they have to pay,” Charles said. “I would think forfeiting one’s dignity would not be worth any price.”

  Jeffrey peered over his glass at Charles. “Dip your foot into the pool of iniquity, and you might find the water warm and inviting enough to take a swim.”

  “You have taken several laps through the pool,” Charles said.

  “I have the appalling responsibility of ensuring damnation,” Jeffrey said with utter sincerity.

  Tatwaba burst through the swinging door with a tray on her hip, her apron bearing a tiny spot of dark red. She began placing tureens and covered bowls on the sideboard against the wall.

  “The damnation of others is no insignificant task,” Jeffrey continued. He unfolded his napkin and placed it across his lap. “People need to think they are getting something in return. You can’t see your soul. What exactly is it? Where is it? Does it even exist? Why not give it up?”

  Charles turned his nose at the smells emanating from the bowls.

  “The soul is intangible,” Charles said, barely above a whisper. “Money is real.”

  “Ah ha!” Jeffrey said, pointing at Charles. “Did you hear what you said? The soul is no
t real! If you cannot use your senses to describe it, then it must not exist.” Jeffrey was smiling, visibly pleased with the direction Charles had inadvertently taken. “Very good. Very good.”

  “The soul is real,” Charles argued, realizing he was being seduced into Jeffrey's argument. But he told himself that the poor boy had to be shown the error of his ways. “Evil and magik are also intangible, and just as real.”

  “True,” Jeffrey said, “but the use of symbols give the illusion of something tangible. They are an outward sign. Those things—symbols and chants—are how she tricks people into thinking they can put limitations on spirits, that they can be controlled. She doesn’t need symbols or symbolic words to unlock power or grant requests. Devils don’t answer to spells because they have to; they answer to situate you comfortably on a rug before yanking the rug out from underneath, and yelling, ‘Gotcha!’”

  “People go to this woman willingly, never to be seen again, because that is what they want?” Charles asked. “Am I supposed to believe your life was so deficient that you had to turn to her for some want you couldn't otherwise fulfill? The woman is a devil! You can stop her. You do have a choice. ”

  “Really? Tell me all about my choice. Tell me how you've come all this way to save me, and take me home. But let me point out that you've walked in here all full of yourself, ready for an exorcism, yet you sit at her table having downed three—yes, three—of her muti-drinks. Search your memory bank on how to perform an exorcism, and I'll bet you'll find it empty. It’s frustrating, isn’t it,” Jeffrey continued as Charles shrank into his seat, “knowing who she is, where she is, and not being able to do anything about it? Everybody has asked me why no one can get to her. Nkumbi asked. Lindsey. Caroline. Fuck you. Fuck all of you. If you think you can pull her out of this house and contain her in a cell, then do it.”

  “I can’t use that excuse,” Charles said, hand automatically moving to his glass as Tatwaba refilled it, regardless, he knew, of what Jeffrey just said. He quickly snatched his hand back. “I can’t report back to the Church and tell the bishop, ‘Too bad. We must direct our attention elsewhere.’”

  “Would you want to, if I gave you a way?” Jeffrey asked, his tone acidic.

  103

  Charles would have laughed at Jeffrey's offer, had his internal struggle been less challenging.

  Years ago, when Jeffrey had become friendly with Eva, Jeffrey became a bit of a cracker, a loose cannon. Placid but not entirely harmless, yet certainly not the contemplative man sitting across from him as if enthroned upon the Earth. This was not the same Jeffrey who Charles had known. He shook his head. “No, I would not.”

  Jeffrey gave a terse nod. “As I suspected. I have a compromise, if you will.”

  The hairs on Charles’s head tingled, and in the back of his mind, he knew it was now or never; get up and die now, or you will never be the same again.

  “I can give you names and enough evidence to incarcerate at least twelve sangomas, five police officers, two doctors, and a congressman,” Jeffrey said. “I can hand you a bank president and an outspoken reporter. You can inform the authorities and have them all arrested at once, or you can spread the wealth. You will be saving lives and carrying out your sworn duty.”

  Charles understood Jeffrey’s bribe was as tainted as it was tempting. He opened his mouth to denounce the offer, but Tatwaba placed a cold hand on Charles’s hot cheek, and he stiffened. He would later wonder if by her touch, had he narrowed the tunnel through which escape would be possible? His emotions slipped away and with them went his reasoning. Although he recognized what was happening, to his dismay, he did nothing to stop it.

  “You don’t have to be one of us,” Jeffrey said. “You will move to Rome, and we will reward you with a position of authority in the Magisterium. Think of it—you will be in communion with the Pope, laying down the teachings of the Church.”

  Tatwaba left the room again, and Jeffrey leaned in across the table. Whispering he said, “You are better off as a bishop to the Pope in Rome; you can do so much more there, then here. You'll have a team ready to oust her. Here, what are you? Dead.”

  Jeffrey leaned back and said, “All you have to do is accept this offer. Because if you say no, Tatwaba will place her hand on your chest and ask your heart to stop beating. Then what good will you have done?”

  “Ah, here comes Nora. You have until dessert to give me your answer.”

  A tall girl dressed in a white gown slinked into the dining room. She had long blonde hair, neatly brushed, and small, sharp facial features. Big green eyes looked Charles over begrudgingly.

  She dragged an unwilling creature by a gold chain fastened to a blue and red jeweled collar. A copper disc dangled from the collar, twinkling whenever the creature moved its head. Slime dripped from its hind legs leaving a trail in its path. The wretched animal was grey and hairless, long and thin, like a bald, emaciated dog. It yelped, pulling back with each yank she administered. The girl dropped down into the chair at the head table, the creature panting at her side.

  It turned to face Charles, and he at once saw the green eyes. It hissed at him.

  “Do be quiet, Mr. Granger,” Jeffrey said to the animal. “You have caused enough trouble, and we will not stand for any more insubordination.”

  “I told you, I was not the contact,” the creature said, insistent. And I didn’t give your book to that sangoma.

  Charles’s eyes widened at hearing words from a dog. It can’t be a dog, Charles reasoned to himself.

  “I did not send any seeds to anyone,” the creature said.

  “Liar!” the girl screamed and backhanded the creature in the face. It bowed its head, but not without a snarl. “And I suppose you didn’t allow Mason to leave with seeds, did you?” Nora yanked the chain, and the creature whined. “The letters addressed to the priest, supposedly from Jeffrey? You almost caused a catastrophe.” Nora raised her face to Jeffrey. She smiled. “But almost doesn’t count, does it?”

  Jeffrey returned the smile. “No, my darling, it does not.”

  “I figured those letters weren’t from you,” Charles said. He looked to the creature. “They were from that?” He thought he saw a smile play across the creature’s mouth.

  “Nora, this is our adversary, Father Charles Thurmont.”

  She did not bother with hello.

  “How did everything turn out on your end?” Jeffery asked her.

  “We had to make some sacrifices. Lowther, I hate to say, is hanging on by a thread as his host lays at the foot of the stoep in a pool of his own filth, thanks to Inspector Dusu and your bucket of water, Charles.” She gave Charles a quick glance. “Now we’ll have to step around that every time we leave. The ground beneath him is turning to quicksand.”

  “Another pool of quicksand?” Jeffrey asked, putting down his glass. He looked at Charles. “A valiant effort was made. Congratulations. You knew the damage water would bring.” Jeffrey took a deep breath, and then turned to Nora. “What about Dusu?”

  “I threw what was left in the quicksand.”

  Jeffrey nodded. “Lowther was brilliant, just brilliant. I shall miss him. Perhaps I should go say goodbye, have a final word.”

  “As you wish,” she said.

  104—Jeffrey Thurmont

  I stood on the bottom step, watching what was left of Mason and Lowther slowly spread and sink. His spear was being swallowed tip first. Dusu’s naked feet stuck out of the bubbling pit, his toes splayed and rigid.

  The book lay at the edge of the pit.

  “You did well, Lowther, quite well.” I bent to pick up the book. “What is that thing bobbing by your neck? It looks like a rubber ball.”

  “Caroline’s,” Lowther gurgled.

  “Caroline’s what? Where is she?”

  “Her eye. Mason ate her.”

  I sighed, dusted off the book, and laid it on the bottom step. “Mason ate her? Throwing blame elsewhere, are we?”

  I reached into the warm muck f
or the eye. It was slippery, and I almost dropped it. I spat on it, wiped it clean on my cuff, and probed the eye’s white, staring into the warped, green iris, the dilapidated pupil. “It was never really her, anyway.” I considered throwing the eye back into the puddle.

  “My threats have been eliminated,” I said, pleased, but not satisfied. “This permanent mess at the foot of our steps will make a nice snare for anyone who dares get too close. But I’ve decided that ultimately, you failed. You won’t be coming back. You will find your home inside the walls with the others. Farewell.”

  Lowther gave one last gurgle before fully submerging.

  The door opened behind me.

  “Well, hello. I almost forgot about you. Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Home,” William McPhee said, closing the door. “She's letting me go.”

  “You’re not leaving looking like that, I presume.” I stared at his changed face, his green eyes, and running nose. His neck was longer and thinner. There was still a deep, red ligature mark under his chin.

  “Looking like what?” McPhee asked, holding out his arms, looking over the clothes he had torn while running through the forest. Clearly, McPhee didn’t get it—his appearance was ghastly, but all he saw was disheveled clothing.

  “You need a new suit,” I said, trying to suppress a grin. As if a new suit would make the dead man look any better.

  He stepped off the stoep, and stared down at the book.

  “Congratulations,” I said. “It's now yours. Here, take this, too.”

  “What is it?” he asked, prodding at the eye I placed in his open palm.

  “Powerful medicine. You’ll need it.”

  He shrugged, slipped the eye in his pocket, and picked up the book.

  “Take care.” I stepped aside. “Oh, and mind the puddle.”

  105—Father Charles Thurmont

  Charles was alone in the room with Nora, the creature, and Tatwaba. Charles shivered. He fidgeted as Tatwaba placed a filled plate in front of him, and refilled his glass.