by Chico Kidd
6 You will sprinkle me with hyssop, and I will be made clean backwards, and the whores began to braul at the tops of their voices. I had out my sword in the same instant that another boatman, a long timbersome fellow, seized hold of the assailant.
-Let fall your pistol, or I’ll slit your throat, I said to the man, ready to do so an he did or nay; ’twas only then that I recognised his countenance; I’d last seen him bleeding in an alley after that I’d broke his nose; ’twas crooked from that even now.
I looked to my boatman; he’d one hand griped round his other arm, his fingers all a-gored, and was rare white in the visage; I’d fain have left the would-be murderer to the mercy of that one’s fellow watermen save that some one had brought down the watch and they removed the man hence.
Following this I took an other boat downriver and was home anon, and was backwards pleased to behold Roger Southwell a-sitting in the shop, that was shut up by that time and the prentices and journeyman long gone home.
-What do you here? I asked, endeavouring to keep my voice from wrath.
-Such words for an old friend, Fabian? he said; have I fallen so low in your favour?
-Roger, said I, I’ve naught to thank you for.
-Naught save all your good fortune, he replied, and I never did come closer to giving him his lure; being yet a whit prudent I but shrugged my shoulders and stared at him.
For a wonder ’twas he that looked away first; then I did observe his countenance; he had the look of a man sick of the plague that knew he was dying and had little space to settle his affairs. So I stood with my arms a-folded and awaited his explanation.
After a space of time he looked up again and made a kind of Ingratiating smile.
-Will you write out your peal for me, Fabian? he asked, that I may live free of the demon which besets me; such a little thing ’tis to ask.
-I’d a thought you’d be weaving magics to send it back whence it came, said I.
-I verily believe that one is and will ever be beyond my powers, Roger replied soberly. Yet it may be that though I am unable to banish it in this life I may yet do so in another.
-Have you then learned to look beyond death? I asked.
-Nay, not so, said he; however my spirit shall live again when that the right man doth read the riddles I will leave for him.
I cared not; I’d had enough; I picked up a printed peal from the table, the Ink was yet wet, and smudged a trifle.
-Here take it, said I, get you hence and trouble us no more.
And he looked at me most strange and said, -Yet I’ll be within call, an you need me; took up the paper with my peal upon it, and departed.
Then did Catherine come from out another room and embraced me, though she did not mention Roger Southwell at all; and I found myself telling her all that Nicholas Griffin had said and all that had befallen me that day.
She looked at the folded papers I’d laid on the table and said, -This Nicholas Griffin, you think him an honest man?
-Ay, honest, said I, he has no truck with Roger’s magic; his potions are from herbs that grow and not from the black arts. See, I said, unfolding a paper and smelling of the wondrous perfume within, naught that hath such a fine savour can do thee harm.
-’Tis like unto a garden in summer, she said; Am I to eat it?
-Nay, said I, we must needs seethe it first in ale or wine so that you may drink a draught of it. ’Twill save you from sickness and bring good humours. And see, I said, here’s a ring of silver that also hath virtue.
-Well now you have turned your coat indeed, said she, on a time ’twas only magic that you heeded, and now do you sit at the feet of an herbalist.
-You sound like unto a very critic, I said; I but mean the best for you and for our child.
-O I know, said she, and ’tis carrying the child that doth put me into such an ill temper. Let us try out one of these scented potions.
Between one thing and another ’tis some while since that I did last write in this journal; the month of August turned most unseasonable, wet and sickly, a most prodigious rain at the end of the month.
Matthew Boys hath made a most pretty song from the notes of my peal, he played it on a stringed Instrument he called a Chitarrone that was from Italy, that was like unto a lute but more ornamented; he’ll put it in his opera that he is writing with John Fletcher, ’twas he that wrote the lyric to this song, a kind of little sonnet about lost love, for the play’s the tale of Peter Abelard.
That’s a sorry tale enough, showing what barbarities the priests will do; for all it did occur five centuries past, and in France, and they were papists to boot, yet the breed’s the same today, howsoever they do cant and protest.
Perchance this little air can work, in his small way, to counteract the demon whose presence yet makes our weather so intemperate; Catherine learned to play and sing it, although the words are most sad, ’tis the song that Heloise doth sing when that she’s lost her lover and she’s to be made a nun. ’Tis most strange to hear the music-notes on the harpsichord that are wont to issue from the tower out of the great mouths of bells.
This doth call to my mind a man I did meet not so many days since, Thomas Chandler, come to beg employment at the bell-foundry in White-chapel; his father’s a bell-founder in Buckingham-shire and is imprisoned by the Puritans for taking of the mass. Thomas. and his brother Geoffrey hath fled; but they were not taking on men at the foundry. At that I bethought myself of Roger Southwell and his tower; I know not an he hath built it yet, yet I gave Thomas. Chandler a letter to take to him.
By and bye comes back from Roger a letter full of gratitude, he says his tower’s a-building and the Chandlers shall cast him bells this year or next. For me with weather so foul I’d liefer wait were it my task, no sooner had the pit been dug than ’twould be all filled up with rain and mud.
Catherine in some sickness so she drank of Master Griffin’s potion and it did ease her as he said; she’s around four months gone with the child, she should bear it late in February or March an it come to term.
I cannot but be concerned, the skies roil with tempest and all the seasons are turned about, ’tis not yet October but winter’s upon us. I do doubt yet the demon’s power, in spite of the words of Nicholas. Griffin.
My mind being full of these thoughts this is most like the cause of a strange dream I dreamt, strange and sad and so clear I did wake a-grieving until that I remembered my situation; I fancied that we had a little child, that he was dying of an ague, that we had sent for physicians but the river was all frozen up and the coach broke and so the poor mite perished. 116
When that I awoke and did reassure my self that it was in truth a dream I even did consider praying but that I thought it would be presumptious; an it be there’s a God in truth he’s not concerned with one man nor another, no more than with an hedge-sparrow or a pismire. Doth a bee-keeper number the names of his bees, though he care for them?
In December a fancy visited me, that I recalled muted merriment in years gone by at Christmas-tide when that I was a child; this is a thing the Puritans will not have us celebrate, they say ’tis superstitious mummery and the feast hath been but lean these many years.
How soever I said to Catherine, -Lets have us a Christmas-feast and pox take the Puritans; for I desired to give her a treat as she is big by now with child, it is passing strange to embrace her; she likes not occupation so well as she had used to, in truth she is for the most part uncommon dry i’the placket.
-Well we must go to church said she, I’ll not have the time for dressing the meats.
-Twill not be so much for us two, I said, and after all, feastings not confined to meats. Let us simply make merry and forget these drear times, merry by the fireside.
-In truth there’s but little opportunity to do that, she replied. For they do frown upon bear-baiting not because it doth hurt the bears and dogs, but because people enjoy the watching on it. And I did find that a fine metaphor for all the Puritans acts.
&n
bsp; Accordingly we did go to do our duty on Christmas-day to hear a preacher ranting, I took no note on it save that he did take an uncommon long time about it and the day was woundy cold and the chapel likewise.
I took a-hold of Catherine’s hands, they were like unto ice; the words of the song came into my mind, Starves my heart and very soul with cold; I played the air in my head in hopes of countering the demon, an that were the cause of the ice; and thought that her poor chilled hands did warm a little.
At last the sermon did end, and then there came a sudden commotion: a band of soldiers broke in and carried us all away, for why I knew not, doubting they in some wise had found out my intent and meant to chastise me for my thoughts of revelry. But no, in the afternoon came some officers from White-hall to examine us one by one, I believe some folk were took to prison; the reason was for taking of a sacrament that day contrary to some ordnance or another. I was close to laughing at the irony on it but decided ’twas wiser to keep mine own counsel.
These common prayers, they did say, were but the papist mass in English, the which was palpable nonsense; further they accused us of praying for Charles stuart the king they had slain.
-Who’d be so great a fool, quoth I, and they looked like to assault me. What’s a man to do, I said, an he keep apart from the church you do prosecute him for heresy, an he attend you accuse him of being a papist; at this one of the soldiers did strike me in the back with his musket where a coward hits a man.
In spite of all this I was let return home with Catherine. Thus was my plan to revel at Christmas-tide sent all awry; but we made passing merry the following day, and again at the anniversary of the year. Catherine did discover a little verse that did make us to smile, videlicet,
To Banbury came I, O profane one,
Where I saw a Puritane-one Hanging of his cat on Monday
For killing of a mouse on Sunday.
’Tis yet bitter cold, severe and frosty; the demon hath us in a grip of a winter none on us have seen the like of. Today’s the eve of saint Agnes, when green girls dream of those they’ll marry, so men say. I asked Catherine an if she’d ever looked in a mirror on this night, or divined with pins; she laughed and said nay.
The river’s frozen, fish and fowl in blocks of ice, and entire boats too, an you believe the tales; they also say the carrion-crows’ feet do freeze fast to their prey. Did any one doubt that ’tis the demon’s work there is that in the air to give the proof on it: a foul and evil fear so big with threat as is Catherine with child; you can nigh smell the rotten stink on it.
Catherine says the child is restless in her belly and doth kick her intemperately; she hath aches in her back and is constantly tired; the herbal remedies give little relief. In truth I sleep but poorly myself, being visited by formless horrors and imaginings. I went to a whore the first time since I was wed; had no pleasure of it, and later dreamed of the succubus so that I awoke in a muck of sweat.
They say this hath been the severest winter, that man alive hath known in England; I can well credit it; in the shop even the urine that is for cleaning the forms did freeze ere it could be used. I remembered well this stinkerd’s task and let the prentices go hence; most like they went a-skating on the Thames, being over young to go a-drabbing, though it may be I do them an injustice in saying thus.
What a long time a child doth take in growing; I’d liefer have an homunculus, that grows in a bottle. Catherine hath grown so great I did ask an she’d be birthing a calf; she said she did trust not. Her dugs are swelled so big also I’d scarcely know her for the maid she was; is it therefore perverse to be yet, as I am, maris appetens for her, I do wonder.
This day the fourth day of March is Catherine delivered of twin babes, a boy and a girl; she fell in pieces at four a clock in the morning and I did run to fetch the mid-wife, being in great terror that the blood would call to the demon, for there was a great deal on it; Catherine did drink down her draft of one of the herbal potions and for good measure I did cast into the air a handful of Nicholas Griffin’s powder, the first time I’d done such, for I was nigh breathless with the oppression of the night, cold and choking as ’twas.
The poor little boy-twin died soon after his first breath; so sad to see, a tiny mite blue like a bruise and all perfectly formed. The little girl is a lusty child; we shall name her Elizabeth; poor Catherine is grievous sick in a great fever and I grow afeard; this night I can write no more.
The river being frozen I took horse to Richmond to speak with Nicholas Griffin, and a plague of a time it did take me to get thither, the nag an old spavined beast that I do swear trotted slower nor I could walk. The man came to the door in his night-gown; hearing my tale he hied straight to his work-shop and rummaged in drawers a space for to discover the herbs he desired.
Back home by noon for I’d risen in the night, Catherine sore distressed and very weak. The physician hath let her blood, such a foolish fumbler, can he not see she’s nigh drained on it already? An there were a way I’d give her a quart or so of mine own blood; would such a thing could be done. Yet I believe she’s gained colour since she took the new draught. The midwife saith, give her rich food to eat, I bought her meats and pies and tanzeys full with eggs and cream; had to feed her by mine own hand else she’d not have taken it.
The air grows thicker than ever, worse nor thunder ever was; the demon hath taken one child, is it not content with that?
The physician says Catherine will live; I do doubt her fever, she burns like a fire. Mercifully Elizabeth appears strong and suckles the wet-nurse mightily. There are tempests in the skies this night, but no relief in the air; they are like unto flying omens.
In the night Catherine awoke crying with pain, the horridest sound I ever did hear, and her life’s-blood soaking the bed; she fell into a fit so extreme I gave her all the herbs I had off Nicholas. Griffin, though much spilled on the floor she was shaking so. I called for the physician but he came not until that it was all too late.
My sweet Catherine died at dawn, this day, the seventh day of March, and with her died also my soul and the joy of my life; for her I shall go mourning to my grave, never cease to curse the name of Roger Southwell whose demon did take her from me. Quis desiderio sit pudor aut modus tam cari capitis?7
7 How can there be any shame or stint in mourning for one so dear? (Odyssey)
‘...almost every spot of it was covered with great black flies, that never changed their place or moved...
‘And very soon he came back, and the old man that was sexton with him, with a shovel and the earth in a hand-barrow: and they set it down at the first of the places and made ready to cast the earth upon it; and as soon as ever they did that, what do you think? the flies that were on it rose up in the air in a kind of a solid cloud and moved off up the lane towards the house, and the sexton (he was parish clerk as well) stopped and looked at them and said to my father, “Lord of flies, sir,” and no more would he say.’
M R James, An Evening’s Entertainment
His thoughts tossed as by a tempest, Alan Bellman sprinkled the dust of dried herbs into the paste forming in his stone mortar; a sense of approval hung in the air. He held out his left hand and watched it quake like the hand of a drunk, unable to still it by effort of will. In their proper seasons he had mixed the powders, preparing the ground for his next move.
Third time is the charm, part of his mind thought. First was the destruction of John Simpson, which proved the power. Then I snared the girl, all she awaits is her knight (Some day my prints will come, as the woman said in the photo shop, his mind insisted)... which now I become.
Third time, third time.
Cold, he thought as he stuck two fingers into the mixture. Chill and slick and disgusting in ways he could hardly put into words. It numbed his finger-ends, as though they slid over ice. He lifted the small viscous lump out of the pot and stared at it. It was quite unlike anything which came out of a tube from the chemist’s, being somewhere between cloudy and translucent, som
ewhere between the colour of blood and the colour of pus: more like the discharge from an infected boil than anything else, but thicker.
Grimacing a little, he smeared the unpleasant stuff on his face: forehead, cheeks, lips; then a dab on his throat, just where the Adam’s apple made its sharp protrusion. An instant later he gasped, as a hot effervescence fizzed through him from these several points. Cool air hissed into his throat, and he staggered across the room to watch his reflection in the glass of his dark old cabinet.
Steeped in the culture of the movies, Alan had seen transformations galore flickering on cinema screens: Jekyll to Hyde in many variations, man into were-beast, Dracula into skeleton and thence to dust; and had, perhaps, subconsciously expected something similar. But he could not detect any alteration of his features, no sliding of flesh like malleable wax, no sudden palimpsest of one face onto another.
Then a stab of pain closed his eyes for a crucial second, and when he opened them again, he was changed.
‘Christ,’ he whispered, seeing a nineteen-year-old’s reflection in the glass. ‘God,’ he said. ‘Oh, my lord.’ He ran his fingers over the strange and youthful features. His chin felt smooth as a boy’s, and a flap of hair blacker than Alan’s had ever been tumbled over his forehead. He shuddered with knowledge. Then he grinned at his new guise, and began, quietly, to laugh.
Kim was enclosed in her office with that strange old file she had brought back the previous day, and had responded, earlier, with an absent-minded ‘Not this time,’ when Alan had called out ‘Want to go for a ding?’
Nevertheless, Alan took great care to be silent now, as he slipped cautiously down the stairs, avoiding the creaky treads.
He drove a little over a mile, hoping no-one would see him, and put the Beetle in a shady car-park before joining a pair of elderly ladies at the nearby bus-stop.
When the bus appeared the driver peered at him suspiciously and said, ‘Full fare?’