The Book of Shadows

by James Reese

  I remember asking another question that night. “The blood flow,” I said. “Will it ever cease?” That incessant bleeding, how to account for it? How was it that an elemental could bleed? Or was blood an element too, like water, air, fire, and earth?

  “I must insist, again, on order,” preempted Sebastiana. “These five questions only,” said she, taking up the salver, “and no more. You see, don’t you, dear,” she added, apologetically, “that without structure we might sit here forever, tossing innumerable questions back and forth and—”

  Interrupting Sebastiana, Madeleine answered: The blood flow has never stopped, not once since I passed from the living. Will it ever stop? I do not know. But I have hope, great hope. And we have a plan. And you will…

  Sebastiana was unhappy, impatient; she interrupted the excited succubus in her turn, saying to me, “I see that if you are to know of these beings, it’s I who must speak of—”

  “Yes, please,” urged Asmodei. “You do it. So boring, all this claptrap, all this arcana and apocrypha…. I’d much rather take my turn upon our witch. I’m quite curious, you know. Tell me,” said he, leaning nearer the priest, “what was it like when you slipped your—” Sebastiana stopped the fiend with the clatter of silver on crystal. “Bah!” said he, “so chaste you appear, S. But I am not fooled.”

  “No,” retorted the chatelaine. “Impossible to fool a fool.”

  Asmodei said nothing. He sat rolling grapes between his forefinger and thumb, popping them, sucking them, spitting the seeds this way and that. All the while he stared at me. Finally, he took to spitting the seeds at me. Several landed too near my place; they glistened darkly on the marble.

  Ignoring him, Sebastiana spoke of the elementals. “It seems their origins are similar to ours,” said she, “that of witches and demons. Tales of succubi and incubi go back to the Hebrews, Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, Assyrians, Persians…nearly every faded culture has left some record of such beings. Beings born of ‘polluted semen.’”

  “Whatever the hell that is,” added Asmodei. “My seed is pure as honey from the comb.” He trailed his ringless right hand down his chest to his lap, where he worked it fast and loose; he let his face fall into a mask of pleasure, and I had to turn from him.

  “Some say they are beings borne of the semen of self-abusers. Or borne of ‘impure’ thought—the mind’s ejaculate, if you will.”

  “Sebastiana,” sang out Asmodei, “I’ve a splendid idea: why don’t we just let these two give us a show. Or better yet, let’s set them to work again on the witchlet!”

  Sebastiana went on as though Asmo had not spoken. “Some say that they are borne of women. That the succubus takes the semen and passes it to the incubus, who then plants the demon seed in the womb of a mortal woman. Others hold that the succubus draws the semen from the recently hanged, storing it in her womb until—”

  “And doesn’t that make for a pretty picture?” asked a sardonic Asmodei. “Tell us, Madeleine, have you ever wandered the gallows in search of such sex? Is it true that hanged men go hard, that they stiffen and stay that way till all their seed is spent? Do tell us!”

  Sebastiana went on without comment. “Christians called them the Lilim, the Children of Lilith.”

  “Do you mean,” I began, “that you don’t really know—”

  “We know no absolutes,” said Sebastiana—and without much effect, she went on to offer this: “But it is our belief in nothing that frees us to believe in everything, in anything.”

  My mind slowed, stilled itself in the brief silence that ensued and was broken, of course, by Asmodei: “Of course, none of that precludes our telling sweet and atrocious tales of incubi with cocks carved of horn and covered with icy scales; or of succubi with cold lacunae, devouring mouths dripping—”

  The rapping of Sebastiana’s ring. “Be silent, beast!”

  “Ah, but none of this is of my own devisal,” countered Asmodei.

  And remember too that I am just such “an atrocity.” I am kin to the legend and lore. Madeleine was indignant, mad.

  “That, my dear, is your problem,” said Asmodei, dismissing the succubus with a wave of his hand; this might well have been the start of a fantastic row, but Father Louis precluded such with these words:

  “Stop it now! I insist!” Father Louis spoke not to Asmodei, but Madeleine. “Why,” he asked, “why must you take up this anguish, this suffering for all time?” More was said, whispered from Father Louis to Madeleine. I cannot record it here, for I could not hear it clearly; but I can say of his tone that it was consoling. Madeleine’s anger or anguish abated; and she, with a nod to me, disappeared. Vanished. As I know of no corollary in the movement of fog or steam or rain or snow, I say simply that one moment she sat across the table from me and the next she was gone.

  I rose where I sat, stood staring at the leaping flames. I remained like this for some time, till the flames stilled and Roméo, his hand on mine, gestured that I should sit. Clearly, even with his mortal’s sight, he’d witnessed such trickery before; he was undisturbed. Indeed, he was already busying himself with tablework: scraping plates, gathering goblets onto a tray.

  “The small hours are upon us,” said Sebastiana, “and a witch needs her sleep, as do demi-demons and Breton boys.” As she’d made no reference to the elementals, I looked to where Father Louis sat…or had sat, for he too was gone. The active flames confirmed it.

  Sebastiana bade good night to Father Louis and Madeleine, in absentia, and rang again her tiny brass bell. This, accompanied by a fast incantation, comprised a ritual of some kind. This further unsettled me, but Sebastiana drew my attention when next she spoke: “Two questions remain. Allow me.” She took up the first of the folded sheets and read it aloud:

  “‘Why did you save me?’” Her reply came fast. “Two reasons, heart. One: you are a witch—a most unusual and, I think, talented witch—and so worthy of protection. Two: had we not rescued you, you would have been…you would have met an unjust end at the convent.” I thought then of Sister Claire, and my heart constricted like a fist. “And there’s a third reason, too: we wish something to be done—certain of us, in particular—and only you can succeed at it.” She did not explain further, not then. She stood, peeling the blue silk from her neck; it slithered away to show one ample breast, heavy and high; she made no effort to conceal herself.

  “Last question.” I alone sat enraptured. Roméo shuffled between the table and the kitchen, clearing away the china and crystal and silver. Asmodei, with bare hands, shoveled ash onto the flaming logs of the fire, smothering it. “‘How do I live?’ Hmm, rather broad that one. But as it happens I have an answer.

  “In the studio, upon your return, you will find two books and an assortment of papers. The black book belongs to me. Rather, I wrote it. It is my Book of Shadows. Plainly, simply, it is the record of my life’s lessons. It is the story of my apprenticeship, my novitiate if you will. The other book, the red one, is yours. It is blank, yours to fill. It is your Book of Shadows, for every witch must have one—several, actually, written over a lifetime. Read mine. Copy from it all that seems of use. Take care to use it well, to learn from it. Trust and learn. In it is all I know.

  “And now, good night all,” and she quickly, blithely, slipped from the room, having summoned Asmodei to her side with something of a low whistle, or whisper. He, as though he could not resist, came up fast behind me before answering Sebastiana’s call and with his large hand he reached down and raked his steely fingers over my chest, pinching and laughing till Sebastiana stopped him with a hiss, a frightful protracted hiss. The rigidity I felt poking into my back, well, I did not know it for what it was till I wheeled around and saw the…the flare where Asmodei’s loose linen blouse overhung, just barely, his black breeches. Long after they’d gone I sat staring at the door through which they’d parted, stunned and silent.

  “Don’t pay him too much mind,” said Roméo, continuing to carry things off to the kitchen. “With Sebastia
na around, he is rarely much more than very, very rude.” I offered to help, but Roméo refused me, thankfully; my offer was somewhat disingenuous: I knew myself to be incapable of the simplest act. I was stricken. Overawed. So, I sat.

  Will I die?

  What am I?

  Who or what were my saviors?

  Why had they rescued me?

  And, How will I live?

  The five questions had been asked and answered; and so how was it that I knew nothing? The answers were already lost in the questions to which they, in their turn, had given rise.

  Finally, I rose to stand before the dying fire. Staring into the smoldering ash, wondering could I summon the elementals, Roméo reappeared. “‘Witches and Breton boys need their sleep,’” he quoted, smiling wisely. “I’m sure they’ve lit the torches, but here, just in case…” and he handed me the lantern I’d carried to the dining room a lifetime earlier.

  That night, returning to the studio, I did indeed find the two books Sebastiana had described. And though she’d said the books were black and red—the former hers, the latter mine—that is not a satisfactory description.

  These books were huge, quarto-sized. The paper was thick and slightly waxy, vellum of a sort; despite their slickness, the pages took ink well. The early pages of Sebastiana’s book, looked at cursorily, seemed to have been written some time back yet they were still in fine shape. Perhaps the wax had been added later, as a preservative? No—I discovered that the blank pages of my much newer book had a similar quality. Both books were thick as Bibles; indeed, they very much resembled overlarge Bibles, their pages gilt-edged, their spines embossed.

  I took up my book from where it lay on the escritoire. It was heavy; I held it in both hands. Its cover was oxblood satin, vibrant, vital, a thing alive. And into the satin of the cover had been sewn a large, ornate H, a sister ornament to the S on Sebastiana’s book; my initial was sewn in black and gold and red thread—ten shades of red, it seemed. Yes, it was needlework, fine needlework, yet it reminded me of those medieval manuscripts whose margins had been adorned, illuminated by monks painting with single-bristle brushes till the onset of blindness.

  I opened my book for the first time that evening, as though to confirm what I already knew to be true. It was indeed empty. Nothing but an inscription in the upper inside corner of the front cover. That handwriting—tight, angled, and neat—had already become so familiar. It was Sebastiana, of course, who’d written:

  “And if it hurt none, then let it be.” She’d signed it, simply, S.

  I opened the black book, Sebastiana’s. Its cover was faded to gray in places, and small silver triangles both reinforced and adorned its corners. A silver rod had been sewn onto its spine for strength. The pages showed their age: some were torn, others stained. They lacked the suppleness of my untried pages. But this was a book for the ages, of that there could be no doubt, hand-sewn in the old style, covered with care. And page after page was filled—left to right, top to bottom—with Sebastiana’s orderly, exact script. Its inside cover bore that familiar S, complete with the toad sitting in the lower curve; it was colored with care. There too I found an inscription:

  “Tutto a te mi guida. Ciao, Soror Mystica…” Everything guides me to thee. Farewell, Mystic Sister. It was signed, Téotocchi, and in the same hand dated, Venice, 19 May, 178—.

  I opened by chance to an entry dated 6 August 181—, and I began to read.

  20

  From the Book of Sebastiana d’Azur—

  “Beginnings—I Yearn for Old

  Paris—Russian Friends”

  IN THE PARIS of my day, there were suppers everywhere; nothing was embarrassing but your choice. These long years later, I struggle to convey a sense of the urbanity, the grace of ease, the affability of manner that made Paris such a charmed place. Women reigned then; it was the Revolution that dethroned them.

  We would meet at nine, dine at half-past ten. The company was numerous and varied; no one thought of anything but amusement. Talk of politics was discouraged. We would chat easefully of music, art, literature. We would share anecdotes of the hour. And when the wine flowed we’d act charades—and, as many of our fellows came off the Paris stage, this was an absolute delight.

  Need I report that certain rivalries were intense? There were arguments between the Gluckistes and Piccinnistes, which, like as not, would end in furious but funny bouts of wig-snatching! Another time some supposed friends of the writer Poinsinet, having gotten him quite drunk, convinced him that there was an opening at Court for an office called the King’s Screen; as audition, they persuaded the poor man to stand before my fireplace till his calves were fairly roasted.

  As for the suppers themselves, they were simple—some fowl, some fish, a dish of vegetables, and a salad. The first courses were but necessities, for without them dessert could not be served; and it was over dessert that the singing would begin. Nine was slow in coming; but then the hours passed fast as minutes, and midnight would arrive as a surprise.

  I preferred to have a dozen at table, though there were many suppers that saw twice, sometimes thrice that number; often marshals of France sat on the floor for want of chairs. My only rule was to never dine at tables set for two or thirteen; the former was apt to be boring, and the latter begged bad luck.

  My guests? There might be the Comte de P——, who lived near me in the rue Cl——and whose company I enjoyed. Or Madame M——, born of a famous father but charming in her own right. Most esteemed, most fun of all was the Comte de Vaudreuil (governor of the Citadel of Lille, Grand Falconer of France, et cetera), whose mistress was the Duchesse de Polignac, confidante to the Queen. Vaudreuil was equally esteemed as epicure and statesman, and he was rich beyond measure, owing to his family’s acres of sugarcane on St. Domingue…. Such names! How they ring still in my ears!…Let me add: no name rang louder than my own; but it was a name I disdained.

  Alors, my name is…rather, my name is not Sebastiana d’Azur. That is the name I have taken. My birth name is a secret I will keep, and my married name I rejected long ago. In truth, that name would be easily discovered by one who wished to learn it, for I was famous in my field of portraiture. Of course, the name by which I was then known was my husband’s name—a woman had little choice; a woman artist had no choice at all. A woman wishing to paint had to be allied to a man, preferably a dealer in pictures or a painter himself; and so it was I would attach fame to my husband’s name. In time, of course, I’d drop the name, the man, and the fame.

  I was orphaned at an early age. My father found his death at sword’s end in some faraway place when I was four. My mother died before my eyes when I was eight. She was a witch, of course. Did she know it, did she practice the Craft? I don’t know. And, as you know how witches die, or will learn soon enough, I spare myself the telling of that tale.

  A neighbor raised me along with her own five boys. She was a good woman, though husbandless and poor. I left her house when her middle son tried to misuse me and, I am proud to tell it, lost an eye in the attempt. Not yet fourteen, I took to the streets of Paris.

  Though I hardly thrived, I survived; and never once did I sell my womanhood, due not to some scruple, but rather because it was expected of me, and so repugnant to me.

  It was during those early years, spent begging, stealing, going where the day took me, that I somehow discovered my talent: I could draw. I could draw well; and I did so, decorating the banquettes of Paris with chalk and chunks of coal. I determined to become rich and famous when I grew up; and I succeeded, beyond the scale of my most fanciful dreams.

  Which brings me again to that man who will remain nameless. My husband.

  He was much older than I. A minor portraitist whose canvases possessed nothing of their subjects. He and his first wife, une chocolatière, had moved to Paris from Brest. She died of consumption. It was shortly after her death that I met the man; soon—aided by an acquaintance who knew of our mutual needs—we’d struck a deal. I would be, in appe
arance, his youthful bride; as for “conjugal favors,” he would seek them elsewhere. In exchange for my public if not private company, and my limited housekeeping skills, I would gain access to the tools of his trade, to his studio, to private collections, to other artists’ studios, and to the Salon exhibitions.

  It was an arrangement that might have worked well. He, however, soon sought more than I’d agreed to give. Worse, he fell in love. I put him off, retiring to the studio he rarely used and painting all through the night while my husband slept; when he woke at dawn, I would head off to bed. Eventually, quietly, I began to paint portraits professionally, keeping my fees. This was illegal, of course. I was reported—need I tell you by whom?—and officers of the Chatelet seized the studio in which I’d been practicing unlicensed. It was then I left my husband. Within the year, not yet nineteen but at long last having achieved my license from the Academie of St. Luc, I left Paris, too, taking my husband’s name but none of his money.

  I traveled for some years and only returned to Paris in 178—. Summoned by the Queen of the French, I had no choice but to put my studio under seal and quit Russia. Hastening a life-sized portrait of Prince Galitzen and leaving undone several half-length studies, I set off for Paris. (I was famous by then, though not as famous as I’d be by that decade’s end, in the years nearer the Revolution.) This royal commission—among the most coveted in all of Europe—I owed to the Countess Skavronsky, Potemkin’s niece, who suffered her wealth as no one else I’ve known…. Ah, Skavronsky…

  Catherine Vassilievna Engelhardt, the Countess Skavronsky, was famously indolent, passing her days recumbent on a chaise longue, wrapped in a black cloak and wearing no stays. With neither education nor talent, her conversation could bore a nun. Yet she had a ravishing face and a sweet if simple disposition, and these things in combination with less readily defined characteristics constituted her charm. I liked her. And she me.