The Printer's Devil

by Chico Kidd

  Then ’twas as if a voice spake inside my head, one which was for me alone, and it said, -Which one of thy weapons wouldst thou sink in my body, then, little man? and laughed, and that bitter laughter harrowed me to the soul.

  But I stood fast, and inch by inch I raised the tip of the sword until that it pointed at her breast.

  -Enough of such folly, quoth the voice within my head, and I knew only blackness, an I’d fallen in a swoon.

  I awoke thinking: What is God that he permits such things to be? And I had no answer, as I have had no answer these many years. Faith indeed hath my father, and my brother also, but in no wise hath that rubbed off on me. I do question all that which they do believe; the foundation of their faith is but the nativity of mine own unbelief.

  8 horrid to tell 48

  In the play Mephistopheles saith of this world, Why this is Hell nor am I out of it; tis true; but tis equally true that if the playwright showed an Angel Gabriel, saying, Why this is Heaven, nor am I out of it, then folk would shy away and be afeard, fearing their God more than the devil. Corruptio optimipessima.9

  In my head was such a pain as I have never felt, a pounding like unto a blacksmith’s hammer, and lights swam before my eyes; I perceived that I did lie where I had fallen, in that empty chamber where Roger hath shown me his creature, nor had the night come, by which I knew that I had not lain senseless for too long a time; but Roger was gone, and so also was the creature. I put a hand on my head an if it would ease the pain, but it did not do so; and so I must needs get myself hence from that place all weak like unto a man with the palsy. I took up my Sword from the floor where it lay and my hand shook so, it was with much difficulty that I sheathed it.

  Now I am a man in good health and but five and twenty years of age, but I felt like unto a very ancient, nor was it an easy matter to hie me home to my lodging. My eye-sight was blurred like unto bad printing, and my head hurt so, I could think of nothing but the pain of it. I staggered from side to side like a drunk man, and I dare say that was what those folk whom I passed thought I was; nor did I care one whit, being concerned only with the getting to my bed. And when that I had done so, at length the spinning lights did take their leave, and I sank into sleep.

  And that night in my sleep I was visited by a very curious dream, the which puzzled me greatly; for it seemed to me that I heard the sound of a great peal of bells, but it was as if many more did ring than we should ever find in a tower, and their sound was like unto iron, nor did they ring any pattern which I do know. And I beheld the figure of a woman or girl with a handbell, nor did any sound come from this bell, although she swung it most lustily. Nor could I make out her features; she was not veiled, twas simply that I could not make her face come clear; And words came into my mind then, which I set down when I awoke, lest I should forget them:

  In memoriam Ledw Helena matris, Lamiw atque, Filiw Doloris, Reginw Orientis at occidentis, Ave atque vale.10

  And then she was overwhelmed by the sea which rushed through narrow streets in vast saves with the speed of thought, that I feared would drown me also; But the shock of the waves was not tremendous, and they bore me along with gentleness, though swiftly. And over all the sound of the iron bells continued, but they slowed until that I could hear but six ringing, then five, four, three, two and at last one, and its music spoke to me and said, Sum Rosa Pulsata Mondi Maria Vocata.11 And I was borne away on the surface of the waters, to waken amazed in my narrow bed, and the morning was fresh without.

  I had as lief searched for a gypsy or a fortune-teller, for though have no wish (nor should any man for all that all the world seems to wish it) to know what lies in my future; let come what will; of such an one I could have asked, Riddle me this dream; but it being just such a day as any other, I must get me to Master Pakeman’s shop to work.

  9 Corruption of the best is the worst thing of all

  10 In memory of Leda, Helen’s mother; and of Lamia, Daughter of Sorrow, Queen of the East and of the West, Hail and farewell.

  11 See page 32

  Many days hence I did make bold to apprise Roger on’t; he seemed to take no heed thereof. But my thoughts were in tempest, like unto the roiling skies when that a wild storm blows; what had befallen Roger, what of the woman (by what other name shall I call it?) which I greatly feared as I have feared naught in my life before.

  However I am thankful that though of Catherine created she resembled my Town Miss in no wise for that would greatly distress me; but she had stupefied me, and put words in my mind, and taken from me near the whole of my will, and in the face of that power who would not be affrighted; Speak with Roger I must, lest he be possessed by her, he him-self who created her, the which remains a Wondrous and Miraculous Deed, whatsoever Prodigy hath resulted.

  I am in unease when that I do consider that Roger is becoming a very Faustus for power, not that I do think he hath sold his soul, rather that there is hubris in the possessing of overmuch power. For Roger is an ill-tempered Man & not given over-much to humility. Alas for the slaying of Ann Pakeman, that hath inspired him to this deed.

  And indeed many days passed ere that I saw Roger again, and each day that passed I could not forbear from conjecture as to his fate. But I confess I never thought to see him attend to Ring with us again; but hence he came, merry as you please, and clapped me on the back saying -How dost thou, Fabian?

  The which I most Admired; and I made to Speak, but Roger spake first, saying -Hist, hist, hold thy peace, I will tell all by and by.

  And so I must needs contain my soul in patience against the time when he is ready to speak. Look so hard as I might I could see no change in him as one who hath been harrowed or possessed or even who had seen a great wonder; Yet these last days have I observed that I have some white hairs upon mine own head, where all hitherto were brown. And I did conceive the thought, for I have heard it said that great dread can turn a man’s hair white, that this might be the cause; or it may be they were present all the time and I but did not see them.

  For it is true indeed and I have observed before, and not only in myself, that it is not only possible for a man to be wilfully blind, but that he doth this constantly; blind, and deaf also; we convince ourselves of halftruths and pretty fables (that we are all saved by Jesus Christ, that a maid be chaste, that good fortune shall come in a week or a year) Such Concerns that we wish to Believe, and ignore the Truth an we mislike it.

  And thus Roger Southwell: being wilfully blind to his own acts; believing that they signify naught, or naught evil; happy as an hog in his filth and seeing not (nor did I then) how consequences do flow out from an action like unto the ripples from a pebble cast into a pool of water. And thus also mine own self, for I do admit contradictions in my thoughts: for the one side, some doings of Roger which I have witnessed do run perilously close to witchcraft, and witches do hang yet in England, we being a most enlightened country (by the flames of fanatical Puritanism, I mean); For the other, that I should not believe witches exist, for non habeo anima naturaliter Christiana 12 nor to be truthful anima of any other persuasion. I may call myself a rational and pragmatic man, yet even so I have seen very magic, and therefore I do believe in it, for I cannot dis-believe that which mine own eyes do witness. But I know not where in any scheme of things the creature of Roger’s art doth have her place.

  12 My soul is not naturally Christian

  Therefore having at length no patience left to me at all I did demand of Roger what hath befallen that time when last I did see him, and what became of the creature.

  -Lilu is grown free of any Constraints I have, he said.

  -Why dost thou name the creature Lilu? I asked.

  -Tis but another way of saying, Lilith, he replied, and ’tis as good a name as any other for a person that was not born.

  -A person, quoth I, she is no person, but what manner of thing is she?

  -She is of flesh and blood, Roger said, but whether or no she hath a soul I know not; and I have not the power to com
pel her; she will do an she will, say I yea or nay; and I know not whither she went, nor when she will return.

  -Do you not care neither? I asked, and an expression passing strange visited Roger’s eyes; I was not sure I had seen anything there; it passed in the blink of an eye.

  But all he said was this, -Hoc mihi non est negotium,13I have other fish to fry.

  13 That is nothing to me

  7: Not Exactly Ghosts

  ‘...thither he / Will come to know his destiny.

  Your vessels, and your spells, provide,

  Your charms, and every thing beside...

  He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes ’bove wisdom, grace, and fear:

  And you all know, security Is mortal’s chiefest enemy.’

  William Shakespeare, Macbeth

  Alan stared at the things he had uncovered with such effort. Disappointingly, there was no grimoire, no treasure map; there was a crystal ball, though, or not quite a ball, which was intriguing. It was an ovoid of smoky glass, wrapped in a linen cloth turned beige with the years. As if it dwelt there, the glass fit comfortably in the palm of his hand; he nearly failed to realise that the cloth itself was important, was what he had gone to seek, until he remembered the key to the cipher.

  The Verony.

  Alan picked it up from where he’d discarded it, and held it up: the light of the fire shone through it, and he saw the outline of a face made translucent by the flames, like the watermark on a sheet of paper. The cloth was about eighteen inches square, coarsely woven, and threadbare in places, especially at the hem. He laid it flat on the carpet, and the image disappeared.

  For no apparent reason, then, the skin on Alan’s back crawled, and he shuddered. He picked up the cloth again, and held it up to the gaslight. The face which he saw was not, as he had subconsciously expected, an image like the Turin Shroud. The old word ‘verony’, then, was being used metaphorically; but if this was the imprint of Roger Southwell’s face - his death-mask in two dimensions - who had placed it there? Who had subsequently removed it and placed it with the glass? Who had invented the maddening series of clues leading to it?

  Alan stared at the face. It looked an ordinary sort of face by any standards, and there was nothing to make it come to life as a portrait might have done. Only the impressions of features lay there. Then, struck by a thought, Alan took the cloth into Kim’s office, where there was a lightbox for viewing transparencies.

  The neon flickered into its daylight glow, and the face stared eyelessly at Alan. He put his own face close to it, almost touching the fragile cloth, but was visited by no revelation. It then occurred to him to wonder the purpose of the crystal egg, so he padded back to the living-room to fetch it, and placed it on top of the backlit linen.

  Later he would wonder how long he stared at the smoky glass before he became aware of images, very far-off and remote, moving in its depths. Something about them made him very uneasy, though he could not say why. A sense of wrongness, of the world tilting, invaded his mind; but it was at too great a distance from him.

  In a kind of trance, he bent his face to the glass, and saw disconnected figures appear, drifting as if underwater or on slow-motion film. He flinched as a clawed hand reached towards him, a cloven foot swelled into being. Faces swam at him, horrible faces, some crowned with horns like obscene growths, some with mouths which were muzzles, fanged and snarling at him. He saw, and heard the rustle of, bat-like wings, and for an instant smelt an odour so foetid that he gagged on it.

  Behind Alan’s shoulder, someone laughed.

  It was not a pleasant sound. Alan jerked round, breaking his eye-contact with a snap as sharp as breaking glass. The room was so charged, so vibrant with the ghastly presence that he half-expected to see blue sparks; but the room was empty. Yet he was still convinced that there was someone, or something, close to him - even if he could not see his visitor.

  His mouth was dry and he found he was panting. He could hear his heart thumping. Sweat ran down his chest inside his clothes, like rain down a window.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he whispered.

  Instantly the room went cold as ice, and the rank and bitter stink wrinkled his nostrils again. Alan’s muscles spasmed, although a faraway corner of his mind was screaming at him to run. Again he heard the echo of mocking laughter. Then, abruptly, the chill smell and sense of alien presence all disappeared as if switched off like a television - but leaving behind the sense that nothing so simple as that would banish it.

  Something was loose in the world which had not been present before, and Alan was miserably certain that it was his fault.

  He sank into a chair, shaking, his legs too weak to support him. The room, apart from the cold neon glow from the lightbox, was in darkness. Alan looked at his watch and found to his astonishment that midnight had passed. Getting up, he turned the main light on and the lightbox off; then, without knowing why, gathered up both cloth and glass ovoid, and left them on the bedside table when he got into bed.

  If Alan dreamed that night, nothing remained when he woke in a panic of anxiety and found that he could no longer see. Frightened, he rubbed at his eyes, and found a cloth over his face: he had been sleeping with the gravecloth draped over his head.

  Puzzled, he bunched the fabric loosely in his hand. I suppose I must have done that in my sleep, he thought. Perhaps my subconscious figured it’d protect me from the things in the scrying-glass. He frowned. Where had that word come from? How did he suddenly know it was a scrying-glass, when yesterday he’d been content to call it a crystal ball?

  Suddenly aware that he felt very peculiar, he got out of bed and went into the bathroom for a glass of water. Leaning over the washbasin, sweat cold on his face as if from a hangover, where he stared at the tap for a long time before turning it on, as if it were an unfamiliar artefact. He drank the water, and splashed some more on his face, but still the strangeness persisted.

  It was Sunday. Alan and Kim were not habitual morning-service ringers, but today Alan felt a strong inclination to go to Westerbridge and ring. He walked back into the bedroom and eyed the cloth and scrying-glass suspiciously. His finds had lost their glamour in the morning light; he felt annoyed at lost effort and vaguely embarrassed.

  So he dressed and drove the six miles to Westerbridge, where five ringers welcomed him with some enthusiasm.

  Several times he found himself looking at Debbie Griffiths. Again he noticed how she seemed suddenly to have grown up. Her image in his brain now triggered the impression ‘woman’ rather than ‘child’: she had developed breasts, and her nipples made points in her T-shirt.

  ‘Alan, make the bob!’ shouted Debbie’s mother, and he hauled on his rope, realising how far away he’d been. The bells crunched discordantly above him.

  ‘Lead after Ted,’ Alec advised him, and Alan, red with embarrassment, got himself back where he ought to have been and began counting his places furiously: he’d never been a good enough ringer to do it on autopilot.

  ‘Four behind next,’ he told himself fiercely, and presently the touch came round.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Alan said, tying his rope. ‘I was miles away.’

  ‘We noticed,’ said Josie Griffiths dryly. ‘How about some Grandsire?’

  ‘I’ll bang the drum,’ Alan volunteered hastily.

  ‘No, you’ll have to ring inside - I’ll make you half-hunt if you like.’

  It was the best offer he was going to get, and simplified his role somewhat. ‘Okay,’ he sighed, grimacing; and, by dint of grim concentration, managed to keep right through the service touch. After this Alec Griffiths invited the other ringers back for coffee, a common ritual on a Sunday morning. Alan accepted, but Ted and Zoe had other engagements.

  The Griffiths’ home was only five minutes from the church, but Alan gave them a lift anyway. Drinking coffee - mercifully good coffee, as Alan knew from previous visits - he watched Debbie covertly, noting things he’d never seen before. How expressive her face wa
s, very unlike the sullen youngsters he saw on the streets. Debbie was lively and animated, as though she liked her life. She was a lucky adolescent in more obvious ways too. No spots. No puppy-fat. Her face was - elfin, Alan thought, and brought himself up abruptly.

  Steady on, he upbraided himself silently, that’s a bit over the top. Elfin, indeed! He drained his coffee mug, and accepted a refill, wondering precisely why he was suddenly so interested in the girl. She has forspoken me, he thought, the words popping into his mind like a quotation - but from where? And what did it mean?

  ‘When does school start again?’ he asked aloud, to cover his confusion, bending to scratch the family dog behind the ears. The dog, a large beige-coloured mongrel incongruously named Blondie, leaned into his legs ecstatically.

  Alan’s query was rewarded with a disgusted face from Debbie.

  ‘Oh, don’t!’ she groaned. ‘The holidays are short enough, as it is.’

  ‘Short!’ exclaimed her father. ‘Wait till you start working for a living.’

  Debbie leaned her head forward so her hair obscured her face, then parted this curtain with her fingers and grinned. ‘I’m not going to work, I’m going to be a singer.’

  ‘What sort of singer?’ asked Alan.

  ‘A soprano, of course,’ replied Debbie, which seemed an unusual reply for a fourteen-year-old - although thinking back, Alan recalled that the sounds he had heard leaking from the earphones of her Walkman were not mindless chitterings of pop music. ‘I want to sing Cio-Cio-San.’

  ‘Don’t we know it!’ said Josie, mock-seriously. ‘Every time she has a bath we get Un bel di at full blast. I think it’s the only bit she knows.’ 54

  ‘I know it all,’ said Debbie, ‘just not all the words. I wish we could do Italian at school instead of boring old Frog.’

  ‘If you know French it’d help you learn Italian,’ said Alan. ‘They’re related languages, you know.’ He was suddenly horrified at how pompous he sounded, and shut up abruptly.