NaGeira

by Paul Butler

  “Indeed,” said Mr. Jarvis, somewhat taken aback. “And what did you make of our playwright?”

  “A mind diseased with wickedness, sir,” I replied in quavering tones, “a soul in the very torment of unrepentance.” I felt badly talking of my cellmate in such a manner, but he had insisted that I must.

  “Well,” said the gaoler, brightening. “You can see, Mr. Ridley, you can see how we work here for the reclamation of our inmates, no matter how far they have fallen.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Mr. Ridley whispered, his gaze still on the table.

  “So,” said Mr. Jarvis, shifting and preparing to rise. “I will leave you together, as you have requested, sir. This is entirely in your hands and a matter for your own discretion.”

  The chair scraped against the floor as he rose. He walked to the exit in silence then, coughing slightly in a gesture of studied dignity, as he left the room. Mr. Ridley did not lift his gaze from the table until the governor had closed the door. When his eyes met mine, I was aware that accusation was trying to burst forth from my face and show itself. But I relaxed my brow and cheek as the playwright had advised and I felt the danger pass away.

  “You mentioned a convent,” he said. It was like a sentence from the middle of a conversation rather than an introduction. I had to remember what I said in the letter.

  “When I thought of the danger I had put you and your family through, sir,” I said quietly, “I began to think of ways to make some recompense.”

  “It is an idea,” he said quietly, “and there are such convents abroad.” He paused for a moment and added carefully, “They follow the church of Rome, you understand.”

  “But that is why I must go,” I said with breathless enthusiasm. “Such an institution would give your honoured family a sense of safety, as I could not easily return. And if I should return to wicked ways,” I said, slowing down and clasping my hands together as though struggling with myself—I needed to draw as much attention to the next part as possible; the playwright insisted it was a line that never failed to please—“and you know how weak and fragile is the will of woman, how changeable, how easily distracted from its course—I would nevertheless be far away, cloistered, and unable to cause harm.”

  Mr. Ridley suddenly stood and turned away from me.

  “No one must know,” he said quietly. He turned his head slowly until I could see his profile. “There must be no letters, and you must never return.”

  I had the most curious feeling in my chest. It was as though my heart had swelled and was pushing against my ribs. I had won. I had accomplished what I had set out to do. Yet here, in the very midst of victory, I felt like screaming out in anger. I was merely leaving one prison for another, and this new gaol would be as elaborate as a palace and as impregnable as a fortress. Each one of its bricks would be fashioned from pure deceit.

  I trembled in fury, watching the side of this man’s face.

  “Do you agree?” he asked.

  “Never to write to my mother?” I said, as calmly as I could.

  “It would be best for us all,” he replied. He turned slightly towards me again and, for the first time, I saw fear in his expression. “You don’t know how close we all were to damnation,” he murmured. “It was a warning.”

  Now I knew there was something I did not know, something beyond the gold of which the playwright spoke, beyond even the shame of Mr. Ridley’s hasty marriage with my mother. My heart thumped hard and my throat felt constricted. I had to know.

  “Tell me,” I said. “Tell me what you’re afraid of and I’ll agree to everything.”

  I didn’t care what I promised now. I knew I was on the verge of something and I could not back away.

  He stared at me for a moment. All the angular strength was gone from his face, washed away by his anxiety. “I knew your mother before,” he said, bowing and resting his knuckles on the table.

  “I know you did,” I replied, slightly impatient.

  “I knew her for many years, many years.” The last part was like an echo fading into space. “I knew her before you were born.”

  He was silent again, but my heart drummed its battle rhythm.

  “When you say ‘knew,’” I said quietly, “do you mean … ?”

  “Yes!” he interrupted, bowing again and gritting his teeth. “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  “So,” I said doubtfully. “What has that got to do with me?”

  He took his knuckles from the table, stood up straight, and sighed.

  “Everything,” he said. “It has everything to do with you, and everything to do with you and my son.”

  Newgate is hardly ever silent. There is constant audible motion from somewhere within its many cells and chambers—doors opening or closing; people yelling, screaming, laughing, arguing; gaolers walking the corridors with jangling keys; stonemasons working. But this, at least in my memory, was one of those rare moments when there was not the slightest sound. I looked into the moist eyes of the man in front of me and, against my will, I understood.

  “No,” I said with a certainty I did not feel. “It isn’t true.”

  “It might not be true,” he said through pursed lips. “But, then again, it might be.”

  “Your eyes are dark and mine are green.”

  “Thomas’s eyes are pale also, yet I know for certain he is my son. Your eyes prove nothing.”

  “But I am like my father …”

  Mr. Ridley raised his eyebrows, then looked to the floor.

  “I mean the father who died. I am like him in disposition and taste. We had the same minds, the same interests!”

  “All of which can be learned from habit, from the long practice of company and conversation.”

  “But I would have known,” I insisted, suddenly angry. “I would have known if Thomas were so forbidden. My senses would have warned me.”

  “But you have trained your senses in the bogs and forests of a heathen land,” said Mr. Ridley, his voice sharp now. He stood behind the table again, leaning into it as though it were a shield. “The values it has taught you are those of rank bestiality. Your senses would have told you nothing awry because they have long wallowed in evil.”

  “He is not my brother,” I said with conviction. “And you are not my father.”

  He winced at the last words as though receiving a blow, then he squared his shoulders proudly. “Father or not, I have been severely tested by you. You bring chaos to order, darkness to light. I am not trying to punish you, and I owe you this one chance of redemption. It is my atonement. You must agree to my terms or remain in this place.”

  There was a pause and his eyes locked on mine.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The boards of the schoolhouse floor vibrate beneath me as the witnesses enter. I hear their breathing and the rustle of their clothes as they move, but I cannot catch as much as a single whisper. My arms pull against the ropes again—I can’t help struggling, although I know it’s futile—and my skin chafes. The wood of the cross on the wall is splintered and its surface disfigured by wormholes. I imagine myself crawling into one of these minute tunnels and disappearing. I laugh suddenly at the idea. Of all the situations I have been in, this is the most absurd. If only I could tell them they are acting like fools, that they should untie me at once and go home or go about their business. Suddenly, I feel a movement and a shadow above my head.

  “See how she mocks the holy cross with her laughter,” says Seth Butt. His arm reaches over me and takes the cross from the nail. “She will put a curse upon it.” The wall above me is now bare and I hear Seth retreat behind me, returning to the group.

  “Should we begin with a prayer?” asks someone—I think it must be Joshua.

  “We must pray afterwards, when the deed is done,” says a man with a soft voice. Though he sounds rather timid, everyone becomes silent as they listen to him. I can taste fear and respect in the air. “First we must recite together the words we learned for our protection.”
/>   “Of course,” says Seth. “Simon is right.”

  There is a general murmur of agreement and a pause. Like a wave crashing on the shore, the voices begin, those of men, women, and children interweaving, yet slightly mistimed, like the grinding of pebbles under the incoming tide:

  “Lock them out; lock them out. Lock them out forevermore.

  “Lock them out; lock them out. Lock them out forevermore.”

  There is a momentary pause.

  “Curse go back; curse go back. Back with double pain and lack.

  “Curse go back; curse go back. Back with double fear and flak.”

  Silence. Someone shuffles his feet. Another person coughs. I stare at the grimy wall. The wood is paler where the cross has stood and wormholes stand out sharply and clearly defined. Again I imagine myself crawling into one of them. This time I stop myself from laughing, though I do not know how laughter could make things any worse.

  “Let us hear from our principal witness,” comes the soft voice of Simon Rose.

  There’s a sound of people shuffling to the side, making room. David Butt coughs.

  “Don’t worry, boy,” says Seth. “Tell the truth and no harm will come to you.”

  There is a hesitation, and then David clears his throat again. “It started when I collected wood for the … accused,” he begins uncertainly. “I listened to Mr. Simon reading from the gospel on Sunday, how he told us to help those who were less fortunate than ourselves.”

  There is a rumble of approval behind me.

  “I thought about the old woman, Sheila, up on the hill,” he continues with more confidence. “I knew she couldn’t move around much and I thought how difficult it must be for her to collect her own wood.”

  “A gracious and Christian thought,” says Simon Rose in an encouraging tone.

  The ropes are constricting my ribs and making it hard to breathe. It occurs to me to interrupt this foolishness, but I haven’t the energy at the moment. The first bead of sweat trickles down my forehead. I calm myself and listen.

  “I went and collected wood for her and she asked me to come in and sit down,” David continues. “Then she told me that I was in love with Sara Rose and that I should let no one stand in my way.”

  “And what did you reply?” asks Simon Rose.

  “That I loved and honoured my neighbour as the Bible instructed me to, sir, but that nothing else was between us.”

  “Go on,” says Simon quietly.

  “And then … and then, everything went dark …”

  “Yes?” Simon’s voice is a whisper and the room is suddenly unnaturally hushed, as if all the spectators were holding their breath.

  “And then there was an evil-smelling smoke,” says David with some hesitation.

  “What colour was the smoke?” asks Simon breathlessly.

  “Yellow.”

  “Sulphur!” a man’s voice breaks in. There is a general gasp, half-suppressed.

  “Thick yellow smoke curling before my eyes,” continues David.

  “And what did she say to you?” asks Simon Rose urgently.

  “She said, she said, I was no longer to be myself. I was to obey the will of her master, the devil.”

  A woman shrieks and there is a hubbub—a stamping of feet and a sharp yell. For a moment I fear I will be attacked and killed from behind. My arms strain against the rope as I try to lift my hands to shield my throat from a blade. But then everything falls silent.

  “Is she all right?” asks Simon.

  “Just fainted,” replies a breathless man, possibly Joshua, although I cannot tell for sure.

  “Now, David,” says Simon with hardly a pause. “What else do you remember?”

  There is the vibration of footsteps as the woman who swooned is taken from the building. The door opens and then closes again.

  “Everything afterwards was like a dream,” David says, his voice suddenly full of wonder. I would never have credited the boy with so much imagination. “I walked down to the wharf one morning as though compelled against my will. I spoke with Sara, but the words were not mine. It was as though someone else had taken hold of my tongue.”

  “And then?” Simon Rose asks gravely. “What happened then?”

  The door opens again and someone shuffles back in.

  “And then my hands reached out,” says the boy, his voice rising to a yell. “They looked like my hands, but some other force outside myself was driving them! I tried to stop it! I screamed at my hands to stop squeezing her neck …”

  “Enough!” orders Simon. “Enough of that.” There is another pause. “And how did you come to be free of it? How did you rid yourself of the devil’s influence?”

  “I don’t remember clearly,” comes the reply. “I was in the forest for the day and most of the night as though sleepwalking, then I found myself coming to the town.”

  “Found yourself hungry and without food,” I manage to croak. Despite the pain of the ropes, I find myself chuckling.

  There is a moment’s silence. I am not sure how far my voice has carried.

  “Burn, vile witch!” David yells in my ear. He is close enough for his spittle to land on my neck.

  The floor creaks and it seems someone comes to restrain him.

  “It’s all right, young man, we know how you feel,” says Simon. “Tell us what it was that brought you back from Satan.”

  “It was when I broke into your own house, sir, intent upon I know not what …”

  “Tell the people,” urges Simon patiently.

  “In your home, sir, I saw by the rolling light of the moon the silver cross hanging above your hearth. Suddenly, the dreadful nightmare, the evil influence I was under seemed to disappear and I fell to my knees and wept for the blood of my Lord and Saviour.”

  Simon Rose gives a long, contemplative sigh.

  “So, you see,” he says at last, his voice little more than a whisper, “though it was my own dear child who perished, I forgive this simple boy.” The boards creak to a soft thread and I suspect Simon Rose is placing his comforting hand on David’s shoulder. “I can see there was an influence at work upon him, one that none of us can vanquish without God’s help.”

  Simon’s audience is so quiet, so focused upon his words, that I wonder for a moment whether they have all suddenly disappeared. But then, as the floor creaks once more, I hear a few murmurs of approval. “This, my friends,” Simon continues softly, “is why I am asking that we burn this witch without delay.”

  And suddenly the world stops. The silence I believed I had been hearing seems like a maelstrom of noise and distraction compared to the icy stillness that now reigns. The breeze has ceased blowing; the birds have paused in mid-flight; the men and women standing behind me have all turned to stone. Burning will be unnecessary, I feel I should tell him: save your firewood—my blood has stopped running of its own accord. I will be dead in a matter of moments anyway.

  “Should we not hear what the old woman has to say, Simon?” a lone voice breaks the spell. “So we know we are doing things properly,” the dissenter adds hesitantly.

  “It is an honourable thought, Joshua,” Simon replies, “but you must see the danger. This creature can turn us all towards murder and mayhem with a flicker of her eyelid. There is only one safe course for our wives and children. We must burn the evil from this village before it consumes us all in hellfire.”

  “He’s right,” Seth insists. “The case is proven. We must commit her to the flames.”

  “You would say that,” says another, possibly Jack Power. “It’s your own nephew who did the killing.”

  Suddenly, a number of voices are raised and I can hear none distinctly. Seth’s harsh tones bark above the rest, his words unclear but his indignation vivid enough. Seven or eight people argue at once. Then, quite unexpectedly, the voices trail away.

  I hear Simon sigh. “My friends!” The room becomes hushed again. “My friends!” There is a shuffling of feet. “Don’t you know that Satan feeds of
f discord?”

  A few people mutter, but others hiss at them to be silent.

  “We will leave the witch under guard and repair to my home. There, as good neighbours in Christian goodwill, we will plan some trial by which we can all satisfy ourselves of the witch’s guilt.”

  “Who shall guard?” asks Seth, as the door opens. There is a great rumble of footfalls as people begin to leave.

  “Who will volunteer?” calls Simon.

  “David cannot,” says Seth. “He may fall under her influence again.”

  “So may any of us,” grumbles Jack Power.

  “Father,” comes a soft voice I do not recognize, “I’m afraid!”

  “Afraid, my chuck!” Simon replies fondly. “But the witch is bound. Her face is to the wall, and she cannot harm us.”

  “But Father,” the girl persists—and now I know it is Emma’s voice. Its quality has been altered so effectively by feigned innocence as to be almost unrecognizable—“she may overcome any guard you may leave with her. They may free her and then, in turn, they may bewitch others.”

  Simon makes a distracted sound, somewhere between fond dismissal and a faint realization.

  “The safest thing to do, dear Father, is surely to leave her bound and on her own.”

  “She’s right,” mumbles Seth.

  “Of course!” exclaims Simon, delighted. “Of course! My clever girl! We must leave her alone. Come on!”

  I hear Emma skip on ahead. The men follow more heavily. In a moment the door swings to and closes with a bang. I am left in semi-darkness again.

  ———

  The smell of burning brings me to. I have been dreaming of meadows and butterflies, of forests and the scent of sweet pine. My arms feel quite dead and, when I raise my head, I am facing the worm-eaten wall that my dreams had so joyfully blown away.

  I hear a clunk from the door behind me and my heart stirs. Are my executioners approaching? There is another noise and the door creaks open. No voices. No footsteps. My dead arms pull against the rope, but then my whole body seems to collapse into defeat. The door creaks again, slowly, like the bending of an aged tree, then shuts. Soft footfalls approach.