Limbo's Child

by Jonah Hewitt

  Motivated by a rare native upswelling of compassion, Moríro’s indecisiveness fled, and he decided to not merely act the part of a doctor, but to be a doctor truly, something he had not done in decades. He shut the door and shoved back the thin curtain. He took off the ridiculous white lab coat and laid it on an errant chair. Doctors used to have a sense of propriety and wear the customary black afforded their station. They had surrendered the authority of black for the sterility of white and he did not like it at all. If he was going to doctor now, he was going to do it properly.

  He rummaged around inside his olive army coat. The coat was warm and heavy, but mostly he favored it because it had many interior pockets. From one of these, he took out a worn leather satchel. He took off the overcoat and laid it on top of the lab coat. He opened the leather case gingerly and began placing the items inside carefully at the foot of the woman’s bed. A set of small, slender, silver spatulas, a miniature apothecary’s mortar and pestle, folded papers of dried herbs and powders, tiny vials of lead, glass and silver. From one, he used a spatula to remove a dark purple dust that was all that was left from a potent, dried flower, the Amaranth, the undying flower, used by both Greeks and Aztecs.

  He carefully measured it out and placed it in the mortar with a drop of a milky essential oil, silphion, taken from a plant only found in the Atlas Mountains and thought extinct since the days of Nero. While the mixture settled, he pulled a small silver case from his overcoat. Inside was a tiny, thimble-sized cup and a stand that held it over a candle. He lit the candle with a match and set it on the side table near the woman’s bed. He mixed the flower and oil in the mortar and then tipped the mixture into the tiny, silver cup to be warmed. While that was heating, he set about reviving the patient so she could take the medicine when it was ready. He rolled back the thin, useless blanket and examined her feet. They were freezing and nearly blue-white. Worthless doctors. They knew nothing of the humors of the body.

  He pressed the feet and rubbed them to revive the woman’s circulation. After several minutes, the color had returned to them. Then, slowly, a slight blush began to grace the poor woman’s cheek. He covered the feet, gently wrapping them to keep them as warm as he could. He went to her head and examined her. He carefully lifted her head and raised her body to relieve the burden of breathing.

  He felt her hands and her pulse, and the coolness of her forehead, cheek and neck. She was stirring, but still deeply asleep. The doctors had obviously drugged her heavily. No one pursued the apothecary arts with any subtlety anymore. They had so many more wondrous drugs these days than in ancient times, but they used them poorly. Poison was found not in the drug, but in the dose. In his time, a skilled physician could administer nightshade in perfectly calibrated amounts so as to dull the patient’s pain and allow sleep without risking them slipping into stupor or death. But now? Now, they had drugs safe enough to use excessively, so they poured them on like a barkeep serving cheap spirits, trading abundance of effect for an abundance of skill.

  He was trying to rationalize what he was about to do. Strictly speaking, it was forbidden to summon someone from anywhere else than the Halls of the Death. And she had been exiled from the Great Master’s service long ago to far darker places. It was not without risks to him or her, but perhaps, he thought, he could give this dying woman a few days rest and peace, at least, before she passed over. As he stroked her temple and held her hand, he said her name once, and only now, did he call on his powers as a Necromancer.

  “Amanda.”

  The sound of the name reverberated throughout the room. The echo was more than just the effect of Moríro’s lilting accent. Names were powerful, and when spoken by someone as skilled as the Necromancer, they could make all the difference. The second he said her name, she breathed easily for the first time since he had come into the room. She opened her eyes. They were clouded, but he could tell that they were once warm and golden brown.

  “Wh-what?” she spoke very weakly.

  Moríro tutted, “Please do not worry yourself, Amanda. I am only here to help.”

  “Are…are you a doctor? Are you with oncology? Where is Dr. Harris?” Even in her weakened state he could tell her voice was by nature meek and mild.

  “Si…ah… yes, I am a visiting physician,” Moríro glossed over the other questions; it would be too difficult to explain. He thought hard about what to say next. “Amanda, I need your help.”

  “Y-you need my help?” The woman looked weakly at Moríro. She was obviously confused.

  “Yes, with something very important. Something that only you can give me. I need to…” Moríro thought very quickly, it would be impossible to explain exactly what he needed from her in her condition, “I need to test something…and only you can help me.”

  “A…a new procedure?” Yes, she did understand, in her limited way.

  “Actually,” Moríro began, “It is a very old procedure. It will tell me many things that I need to know, and when it is done, I believe it may help you too, but you must understand.”

  “Un-understand?”

  “Yes.” Moríro did want to give her comfort, but he did not want to give her false hope. “You must know, Amanda, that you are very near the end, no? That you are very near death.”

  Amanda gulped. Her eyes were wet.

  Moríro went on. “If you agree, I can at most offer you a few days rest, a few days of peace and clarity of mind before the end, but that is all. But it must be your choice. Do you understand?”

  Amanda stared at the ceiling and swallowed with difficulty. She seemed tired and frustrated, but eager for any relief.

  “But it will make me feel better?”

  Moríro smiled just a little. “Yes, Amanda, I hope that it will.”

  She looked utterly resigned but remained silent. After a long while, she said simply, “O.K.,” and then after a short pause, shifted slightly in her bed as if trying to sit up, “Do-do you need me to sign something?”

  “No, no. That won’t be necessary.” Moríro put his hand to her shoulder to let her know she didn’t have to waste energy getting up. She relaxed, grateful. “This vile age,” thought Moríro, “They couldn’t even let a woman die in peace without paperwork.”

  Moríro reached for the small, silver vial warming over the candle. The tiny amount of dark-purple elixir gave off a heavy, overpowering floral scent. He drew it near Amanda’s lips, and ever so gently placed his other hand behind her head to help her drink.

  “First, you must drink this; it will help you rest for the…procedure…as you called it.”

  Amanda looked perplexed. All other trial medicines got injected into her IV, but she liked this strange doctor; he seemed kind and honest. The other doctors talked to her like she was a child. They couldn’t even bring themselves to say the word “death!” So, she decided to trust him.

  It was a great struggle, even with him helping her, but she managed to take the medicine. She could taste the tang of the tiny, metal cup on her tongue and instantly recognized it was silver. “Why silver?” she thought. The purple liquid was warm and aromatic, heavily floral, sickly sweet, but also very bitter. It was extremely painful to sip, but when it finally slid down her throat in a single lump, she instantly felt weightless. All the sore, aching spots where the exposed ribs and joints from her thinning body contacted the hard mattress disappeared as if she was floating in a large, warm bath. She felt strangely calm and drifted off silently and quickly into a restful sleep.

  Moríro let her head down slowly and looked at Amanda Tipping. She was breathing peacefully. Her eyelids gently closed over her flitting eyes. She was dreaming and at rest. The drunken stupor of the drugs she had been under was gone and replaced with a light, floating, restful sleep. It was time to get to work.

  Moríro needed to hurry. He quickly, but gently, pulled her bed away from the wall and into the middle of the room. The equipment that was attached to her he wheeled over next to her. It was crowded in the middle of the room, bu
t he had to make sure everything would fit safely inside the protection circle. From one pocket in the overcoat, he took a piece of red chalk broken off from a Nabataean baetyl. From another, he took a cylinder of natrun salt taken from an oasis in Fayum. With the chalk, he quickly drew a large, circular figure around the entire bed and her equipment. Then he drew another circle around it again. He drew the seal of Pythagoras and several ring signs between the two circles with Solomon’s knots along the edge. This wasn’t strictly required, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Inside each of the knots, he placed a small pile of the natrun salt. He worked furiously, but carefully – he didn’t want to inadvertently leave any escape routes.

  Then he pulled a brass compass from one pocket and tried to determine the four cardinal directions. The compass was exquisitely crafted and beautiful, but it was ancient and did not respond well to all the other metal equipment in the room, and the needle danced around infuriatingly. Moríro fought with it for a moment, then grumbled and gave up and reached into one of the long outside cargo pockets on his army pants and pulled out a garish piece of black and yellow plastic. He hated the new devices, but when they worked, they worked well he had to admit. It had taken the sales clerk at the store in the mall nearly three exasperating hours to explain to Moríro how to make the GPS work, but he had finally managed it. In a short time and a few clicks, he had accurately plotted the four directions. With the chalk and natrun salts, he drew even more protection figures around the cardinal points: an eye of Horus here and a winged tetramorph there. Last of all, as one further gesture of overkill, he drew an ouroboros, a figure of a cockatrice eating its own tail in an endless circle, around the whole endeavor.

  He stepped back, looked down and examined his work thoroughly. Though quickly drawn, he had never made such an elaborate and perfect circle of protection before. Finally, satisfied nothing more could be done, he looked up. Being careful not to undo his work by scuffing his heavy combat boots across the drawing, he took a breath, stepped carefully inside, bit into his knuckle and held it over the patient. A single large drop of blood fell onto the white sheet over her heart.

  Moríro drew a long, careful breath, closed his eyes, cleared his mind and spoke. It was not a long iteration in a dead language like he had used before. It was just two words uttered quietly but clearly.

  “Amarantha, come.”

  There was no snake of red smoke, no creeping amoeba of tar this time. The drop of blood simply disappeared, and the body became perfectly still. Then, at once, the eyes snapped open, but they were no longer clouded and brown. Instead, they were cold, grey and sparkling clear. The eyes shot instantly towards Moríro, who had steeled himself in advance so that he would not flinch at their sharp gaze. They stared at him wide open and wild for a moment then they narrowed to a critical gaze as a sly smile slowly crept across Amanda’s face transforming it subtly as it did so. After a while, it was no longer Amanda’s face. It had the same form and features, but they had become sharper and more refined, more beautiful perhaps, but also more terrifying. It was an enhancement of the beauty Amanda must have possessed before her treatment, but colder and with less human empathy. Amanda had become Amarantha. She didn’t hesitate, but spoke directly to Moríro.

  “Good evening, Moríro. It has been a long time, hasn’t it?” the voice cut the air with perfect clarity and had none of the trembling, halting, timidity it had had earlier.

  Moríro bowed slightly, but sincerely, from the neck and lowered his eyes as he spoke, “Godmother.”

  “Hmmph,” the woman replied dismissively, “Now you engage in formal pieties because you need something. Where was your respect before? Where was your loyalty when I needed it? I should have left you a foundling and sent your unbaptized soul to Limbo with your mother.”

  “Godmother, please…”

  “Keep my title off your vile tongue!” Amarantha shot back, “Betrayer! Judas! You are no godson of mine! Lickspittle! Save your loathsome, obsequious manner for your slave-master.”

  Moríro nearly did flinch at the word “slave-master”. He had always been taught to show respect for women, elders and your masters. Amarantha had been all three, but it was galling to hear her refer to the Great Master in such a derogatory fashion. He nearly began to reprimand her, to remind her that it was not he who had been punished for disobeying the Great Master, but he stopped. That was what she wanted. She was baiting him. He needed to remember his purpose. He needed to remain calm. Much had passed between the two since she had saved his life as an infant, but that was all past now.

  “Godmother…I need to ask you…a favor…”

  “A favor?!! As if I could refuse!! Send your lackeys instead!!” she spat back, interrupting him, “Surely, they don’t mind being errand boys to an inferior Necromancer.”

  Moríro ignored the insult and pressed on.

  “I command the dead only in this life, but I need a spirit-shifter, someone who can see the cross-over and speak with the dead in the next world.”

  “AND WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF THE DEAD?!!” She suddenly sat up and lunged at him. “You who have all the power and no will to use it? You who have sent hundreds to the other side on the whims of an ancient, desiccated monster with no mercy?!! What do you know of the dead?!!”

  Her sudden movement alarmed him and he nearly stepped back out of the protection circle. That was what she wanted of course, some small avenue of escape, but he wasn’t going give her an excuse. He stood firm and silent. There was no point going over the old arguments anymore. She had made her choice. She had been the Necromancer, his godmother, and his master, but she had made her choice. The sudden anger left her and she chuckled.

  “You’ve finally learned to make a credible protection circle, I see?” She eyed him furiously, but only smiled and settled back on the bed. “Although, the ouroboros is a bit much.” She laughed. “No one can say that I did not teach you well.” She smoothed the thin sheets of the hospital bed in a strange air of smug satisfaction.

  Moríro watched her silently for a while then she spoke.

  “Oh, what is it, Moríro?” She placed the back of her right hand against her forehead in the manner of an exasperated parent. “You always were the worst ditherer. Get on with it. What do you want? What menial task has the old monster sent you on this time that you have to torture the soul of your godmother?”

  Moríro swallowed. “I need to speak with someone in Limbo.”

  “Flirting with the sin of Endor, I see, Moríro.” She smiled. “Getting desperate aren’t we, Godson?” The contempt in the word ‘godson’ was palpable. “What is it? Someone owe you some money? Someone welch on a bet and then died without paying?” She laughed some more and leaned forward to hug her knees, languidly stretching her back, enjoying the body she was in for a moment. Moríro bristled a little. He hadn’t gambled in more than a century, but then they hadn’t spoken for longer than that either. She smiled in satisfaction. And he suddenly felt embarrassed that she was still very good at needling him.

  “I need to speak to Margarita.”

  Amarantha dropped her knees. “Margarita’s dead?”

  “Si. She passed away…early this morning.”

  “How?”

  “An accident, I believe.”

  “You believe? Necromancers don’t die by accident, not unless the ol’ monster has gotten even more senile than usual.” She laughed again. Moríro did not like her calling the Great Master an old monster. Then she chuckled again and said, “But she wasn’t ever a proper Necromancer, was she?” She smiled and laid her head on her knees. “Poor, poor Moríro. You know what awaits – the long emptiness, the endless decay into nothingness. You know better than any the long, dreary existence that awaits each of us, and yet you long for death. Why? Why do you fear your own power? Why do you wish to go into the long night when all else in your position would relish immortality?”

  “I learned from personal experience, Godmother, what happens to a Necromancer when she clings to
power too long and lives past her appointed time.”

  Amarantha grimaced and narrowed her eyes. Her hands clenched the thin blankets so hard he thought she would tear them. That had cut her, but she quickly recovered her composure and relinquished her grip on the sheets. “And now you are trapped, aren’t you?” She was most comfortable with him when she could twist the knife. She had always been that way, even when he was a child. She had found a stern set of Castilian nobles to be his foster parents, but they were tolerable compared to her cruelty. She had made frequent visits and he had dreaded every one of them. Every moment was another instance of disapproving judgment and disappointment. Even now, more than three hundred years dead, she was no different. She went on, “The only heir is dead, the line of Necromancers broken and you will be forced to toil for the old monster forever. The one Necromancer that never relished the power of the office is now condemned to watch the farce of life to the bitter end. How perfectly poetic.”

  “Perhaps not.” Moríro hoped this news would wipe the smug expression off her face, but strangely, it didn’t.

  Amarantha’s eyes only narrowed quizzically. Then, after a long pause, they widened. “A child?” the barely whispered question betrayed not shock, but realization, “Where?” she suddenly said forcefully.

  Moríro stood silent, impassive. He said nothing.

  She rolled her eyes at him, “Of course, you’ll have set your hounds on her by now.”

  “Her?” thought Moríro anxiously, he hadn’t mentioned the child was a girl. She sat up on the edge of the bed and stretched her legs, first one and then the other. She was working out the tiredness and soreness of the body she was sharing with Amanda Tipping, examining it absentmindedly like a new set of clothes while she continued talking in an offhand manner as if bored by the topic.

  “Hokharty and Graber, those are your usual favorites, aren’t they? I bet in your anxiety, you released them to do whatever was necessary. And, of course, you will have set them to rounding up the hunters, zombies, and dead things to do your bidding at all costs, with no thought to the rules, or what they might do in your precious master’s name. You will have been so distraught at the death of Margarita and so upset at the news, you wouldn’t have thought to play by the Master’s rules at all.” She was examining the room distractedly, as if bored, but Moríro could tell that she was looking for flaws in the room and the protection circle. She was planning escape.