The Book of Shadows

by James Reese

  In the days following this inspiration, I combed countless markets and finally found thirteen suitably simple chairs, which I arranged seven versus six at the table. Behind the chairs I set up tall screens, and looped white cloth at intervals (you’ve seen the same in Poussin’s pictures). I fashioned thirteen wreaths of laurel. A neighbor, the Comte de P——, had a superb collection of Etruscan pottery; I persuaded him to loan me drinking cups and vases, which I arranged on my long mahogany table. A hanging lamp lit the scene.

  I cleared my kitchen to practice my sauces in private. And perfection they were—one for fowl, one for fish, and the most exquisite for the eels my fishmonger swore he could secure.

  For music, I converted an old guitar into a gilded lyre. It was Narcise who suggested Gluck’s “The God of Pathos.” (But who would play it? On any other evening, I’d have had a stable of fine musicians to choose from.) Narcise was my partner in planning the party, and this of course posed a problem: I knew all the while that he could not attend.

  On 29 October, I summoned my friend. “Darling,” I lied, clasping him to my bosom, “something has come up, something I should have anticipated but did not. You must help me! You must!” I told him that some months back I’d executed a commission from a Mrs. Jameson W——of London. I had completed the portrait and then I’d simply forgotten to arrange for its delivery. “Now it seems her newly refurbished London home is ready for guests, and a party had been planned to unveil the portrait! The lady”—allied by secret affections, said I, to the Prince of Wales—“has been most patient, but if the portrait is not hanging in her home by the first of November I will be ruined! Finished forever among the English elite!” I then produced a tightly rolled, sealed canvas (it was, in fact, a throw-away study of Skavronsky) and begged, begged, Narcise to deliver it for me.

  Narcise left the next day for London. I gave him money enough to keep him across the Channel a month or more. I’d already written an agent in London, one whom I’d used in the past, telling him that my man would be arriving from Paris on the thirtieth with a portrait which, for reasons I could not detail, had to be secreted out of France. I asked would he hold it for me; as far as I know he’s holding it still, these long years later. All in all, it was a costly and distracting scheme.

  Finally, the last day of October arrived. All was in readiness. I finished the cooking and laid the table myself. I’d dismissed my staff with a week’s wages, telling them that I was readying to paint a large group portrait (“The First Supper,” I called it) and had no need of their help.

  As the hour approached, I decanted the bottles of Cypress wine I’d bought at considerable expense. I baked honey-flavored cakes crowded with Corinthian raisins. I saw to the details of the table, set with my finest china and crystal. I lit the beeswax tapers. I dressed. And I was nearly sick to my stomach. To see my beloved Téotocchi again! To meet the other sisters, from whom I would learn—finally!—so much…. Yes, after this night my life would never be the same.

  As my mantel clock struck the appointed hour, there came a knock at the door. I answered in my mock-Athenian garb, laurel wreath in place atop my piled hair, and immediately I felt the fool. Téotocchi looked me over, head to toe: one eyebrow arched, a slow smile slid onto her lips. Finally, flatly, she said, “Oh my…” and simply slipped past me into my home.

  I was stunned to see Nicolo at her side: I’d thought these esbats were the strict province of women, and to Téotocchi I managed to say as much.

  “Ah, him,” said she, shoving my beautiful friend forward, “he is here to…to fill a void.” Nicolo—and he was somehow different from the boy I’d known in Venice—hid behind his mistress, showed little more than one black-suited leg and a tall riding boot, mud-splattered. He would not meet my gaze; he turned from me, shyly, as I moved to embrace him. I stopped.

  “Surely,” said I, “having shared what we shared, shyness seems hardly appropriate to—”

  Only then did he raise his face to mine, and I saw that it was not shyness but shame that worked within him. At first, I did not notice, for I did not look at his eyes but into them, searching for the smile I’d always found there. But when Téotocchi stepped aside, and the light in the foyer shifted just so, I saw that Nicolo’s eyes had turned the color of perfect, palest topaz. These were irises unknown to the human spectrum.

  “Mais non!” I rather indelicately exclaimed—I was shocked, not repulsed; the color seemed only to set his darkly beautiful features in greater relief. Finally I managed to ask, “Whatever has happened to your—”

  “Go outside,” commanded Téotocchi to the boy, who proceeded to do just that; here was mindless obeisance the likes of which I’d not seen from him in Venice. “Prepare yourself for the Maiden,” said Téotocchi, further. Nicolo nodded: even he, it seemed, knew more about what would transpire that night than I.

  With the boy outside—we watched as he removed his short-waisted jacket, rolled his blousy cuffs, and launched into calisthenics with Spartan ardor—I asked of my Mystic Sister, “What have you done to him?” Was I angered? Protective, perhaps, for I continued to consider Nico a boy, though he was but a few years younger than I.

  “Oh, that,” said a smiling Téotocchi. “He doesn’t know it—simply because I continue to lie to him—but it is reversible. Flattering, don’t you find it, that harvest-like hue?”

  “But…but why?”

  “He had an idea about independence not long ago; and I cannot, simply cannot brook the thought!” I waited patiently for what would follow. “Sometimes, dear, it behooves us to remind our men that we’ve rendered them…unfit for the larger, lesser world. He sees those eyes in the mirror and he understands that he is mine.” She did not say what I knew to be true: she loved him.

  “But how did you do it?”

  “Never you mind,” said T. “A bit advanced, that lesson, and you’ll learn enough tonight to keep you busy for a long, long while. But fear not: you’ll have occasion to admire our Nico. For now,” said she, looking this way and that, smiling wryly at my home’s finery, the surfeit of gold-leaf, carved wood, and marble, “for now, can you guarantee that we are alone, that we will not be disturbed or espied in this palace of yours?” Before I could answer, Téotocchi turned, threw open my front door, sent up a signal—perhaps it was a whistle, perhaps a wave—and…

  And there came tramping past me in single file the strangest assortment of women conceivable. Some were richly adorned; others were clad in rags, and stank. One I thought I recognized. I heard several languages being spoken. Not a one, not a single one offered a word of salutation to me. A few remarked with smirks and arched brows my outfit. Once inside, they passed through the foyer, through the dining room—not a one seemed to notice my well-laid table—into the grand salon, and, finally, through double doors out into the gardens.

  Still standing, stricken, in the foyer, I heard the glass doors slam. Silence, a sudden and absolute silence struck me then, sure as a blow. I made my way to the grand salon. I could see the group gathered in the gardens. They’d formed a loose circle, with Téotocchi at its center. They held hands. Téotocchi spoke; I could not hear her, but I saw it was she who spoke. I watched through the thick glass as the circle suddenly broke and the witches sprayed like shot through my moonlit gardens.

  Never had I felt so alone, for never had I so anticipated the end of loneliness.

  I remember being thankful that the ragged assembly had come into my home under cover of darkness, unseen from the streets, or so I hoped; for, if I was not to have a life among them—already I knew this to be the case—then at least I might return unsullied to society proper.

  I admit it: I considered walking from my own home. But instead I walked past my beautifully laid table—seeing the laurel wreaths tied with white ribbon to the back of each chair pained me—and I made my way out to the gardens.

  The gardens, of course, were extensive, of a scale complementing the two homes between which they spread. There were innumera
ble plants and flowering shrubs and trees, all contained by borders of boxwood. I concerned myself with the roses only, deferring to my gardeners on all other matters.

  Stepping out onto the flagstone path, I saw no one but Téotocchi. She sat on a stone bench, straight ahead. Where were the others?

  “Oh,” said Téotocchi, apology in her tone, “they’re here. Having a look around.” She shifted to one side of the bench. Moving toward her, I saw movement in the shadows. I was about to protest. Eleven women, witches or not, traipsing through my well-tended gardens? I did not like the idea, not at all.

  “There are things you will need,” said Téotocchi as I sat down beside her. “Things you will need to practice the Craft. They are simply seeing what it is you already have, what it is you need.” One of the witches had presumed to light the votives that sat waist-high on wrought-iron stands, beneath glass bells; with the flagstone paths lit, I saw several more of my “guests” skulking and slinking about, some on all-fours. I rose, angry. This was too much! “Now, now,” said Téotocchi, patting the cold stone beside her. “Sit.”

  I sank onto the bench, heavily, as though there were no breath in my lungs to buoy me. Tight, too, all through the neck and shoulders. I could not sit up straight. My hands lay palm-up in my lap. I felt like a tree that has survived a fire, lifeless and dry. I’d crumble if touched. Crumble or cry.

  “Perhaps I misled you as to the purpose of the evening?”

  I looked at Téotocchi, and suddenly there came this rush of words: “But there is no account of an esbat in your Book. I did not know what to do. What to expect. I thought—”

  “I know, I know, dear,” and she guided my head onto her shoulder. “The Books cannot contain all,” she explained.

  She stood. Her black robes were one with the shadows; the moonlight fell on her face and neck and hands, showed them whiter than white. Beautiful as ever, she seemed afloat in a pool of deepest night. “This is my fault,” she said. “I should have—”

  “No,” I interrupted. “It is done. Leave it be.”

  “But you’ve gone to such trouble.” She nodded toward the house. “Knowing your penchant for excess, I should have—”

  “Arrête,” said I. We laughed, and I rose to stand beside her. All around us, the sisters scavenged. “No more blame,” said I.

  Just then we were interrupted by a terrifically tall sister sticking her head up from behind a bush to observe, breathlessly, incredulously, “But there is not a sprig of rowan to be found anywhere! Not a single sprig!” This said, she sank back behind the bush.

  I laughed. Téotocchi scolded me, but I could not help it. “Laugh or cry,” said I, adding, “Tell me: the one in black, who came with you and Nico, it seems I know her from somewhere. Perhaps the—”

  I stopped, distracted by that same tall witch, for here she came at us, swiftly, down the flagstone path. Standing a full two heads taller than I, dressed in pale yellow robes, with her long hair flying out behind her as she moved, she looked for all the world like a giraffe loping across the African veldt. Her gaze, I saw, was fixed on me. When it seemed she might step right over me, she stopped, suddenly, and lowering her face to mine, she asked, “Surely, dear, you’ve a rowan tree or two?”

  I said I did not. I said I could plant one or two if need be.

  “Need be, dear. Need be!” This witch looked down at me, her eyes separated by a nose so long and crooked it seemed she could only see me with one eye at a time; indeed, she did tilt her head this way and that as she took me in. Finally, stepping back to take in my attire, she turned to Téotocchi and asked, “Whyever is she dressed like this?…Esbat as…un bal masqué, perhaps?”

  Téotocchi did not respond; instead, by way of introduction, she said, “Sebastiana, this is Cléofide; she comes from the Cambrésis.” Neither I nor the tall witch said a word. We stood staring at each other, tense as cats in the street. When finally she extended her hand—the unadorned fingers were whip-like, the nails red-lacquered and sharpened to points—it seemed impossibly long. Her hand was without warmth; shaking it was like shaking a bone. When finally she relaxed her mouth, which had been drawn tight as a miser’s purse as she’d appraised me, it was to say, without inflection, “Charmed,” adding, “But I know of no witch without a rowan tree or two.”

  Téotocchi teased this Cléofide, wondered aloud if perhaps she wasn’t overly fond of rowan, too trusting of its powers. She reached out and fingered the long, looped necklace of wine-dark rowan berries that Cléofide wore.

  “Not at all,” sniffed Cléofide, worrying her berries as one does rosary beads. “Rowan has served me well,” said she. She then turned full-bore on my Soror Mystica and asked, her free hand at rest on the bony shelf of her hip, “Do you mean to imply that this witch has no need of a rowan tree?”

  “I mean to imply no such thing, dear Cléofide,” replied Téotocchi.

  “I am relieved.” Silence. I expected the witch to turn and leave, amble off into the gardens. Instead, and to my great surprise, she unwound one strand of the berries from around her neck and raised it up. Instinctively, I bent ever so slightly forward; Cléofide approached, and I felt the strand fall down over my shoulders. Still, I did not like this witch; and the sermonic way in which she said what followed won her no farther toward my favor.

  For centuries, said she, throughout Europe, believers have fashioned crosses of rowan twigs and placed them over the doors of cottages, stables, cowsheds, and pigsties to ward off witches. “To little effect,” said Cléofide. “It’s true: I have seen a few efficacious crosses, but those were formed of twigs cropped from a tree the harvester had never seen! Such a cross is but one in a thousand.”

  I wondered what she meant by “efficacious”? Did the transgressing sister die, cramp horribly as she stepped over a threshold thus adorned? I did not ask: I was battling multiple distractions, for I could see other sisters in the gardens, some of whom carried things they’d torn—roots and all—from the ground. Elsewhere I heard branches being broken. I even heard the snip, snip of shears. And I was cold: the night was starry, clear, and crisp, and I wore only my Athenian costume (I’d stuffed the laurel wreath deep into a bush when it seemed no one was looking).

  “You’ll excuse me,” said I, interrupting Cléofide, “I must go inside to see to—” But I hadn’t taken one step toward the house when Cléofide sprang at me, grabbed my upper arm and held it tightly, too tightly, and said, with a hiss, “Go if you wish, Sister. But hear this: plant the rowan for one reason and one alone: to keep the unquiet dead at a distance.” She took her hand off me, roughly. It seemed she might strike me. Pathetically, I pointed back to the house, “…my sauces…they’ll burn…and I—” but I fell silent when Cléofide spoke again:

  “And when you search out a rowan to uproot and plant, look in a churchyard. There is always a rowan in a churchyard.” She came close to me now, closer, till I felt the heat of her breath, and added, in a whisper, “It stands besides the yew, for the wise know to plant them side by side.” That said, she stood straight up and smiled widely. Her demeanor suddenly, inexplicably changed. Fingering the strand that now hung around my neck, she added, “What’s more, the berries are beautiful!” With that she turned in a swirl of yellow silk, let go a rolling laugh, and galloped off.

  If I’d been chilly before, I was stone-cold now. I stood shivering—Cléofide had scared me—wondering how best to slip from the gardens before another sister could “greet” me…. I did not make it.

  This one was called Zelie. She was short and fat and wore black, and as she came at me fast down a flagstone path she had the aspect of a boulder breaking through my gardens. When this Zelie spoke her words were underscored by a whistle, for she hadn’t many teeth and the few she had were…let me say they were unluckily located—two on the top formed a groove through which her tongue slipped as she spoke. And she spoke quickly. It was hard to tell—what with all that whistling—but it seemed she had a southern accent. French, of course, a
nd easily understood; but decidedly, liltingly, bouncingly southern. I do not mean to slight this witch. She was, in fact, the first sister to show some civility. In fact, she’d brought a gift, which she presented with words similar to these:

  “You have a hazel tree, I am happy to see.” This she found amusing. “That sounded like a spell, didn’t it? ‘You have a hazel tree, I am happy to see.’” She fell into a fit of laughter, wheezing and whistling, her black-clad bosom heaving.

  Why yes, I said, I believed there were several hazel trees in the gardens.

  “Hazel is good,” said she.

  I averred that yes, it seemed so to me.

  And then, from the folds of her robe, this Zelie drew forth a hazel rod, delicate, expertly carved. Her face settled into seriousness—a moment earlier, those same features had been aswim in a sea of fat. “This,” she said, presenting the rod, “is a caduceus, like that given Mercury by Apollo. It is the symbol of an enlightened spirit.” Enlightened? Surely the one thing I was not was enlightened. Nonetheless, I took the wand from her. It was unaccountably light. Carved to resemble two entwined sticks, and with a snake winding up its length, it seemed…how else to say it: it seemed…alive, and I very nearly let it fall. But I held to it as Zelie informed me that Pliny had used a hazel rod for divination. Moses, too, possessed a hazel rod, harvested by Adam from the Garden of Eden; it was with this rod that he and Aaron had issued plagues into Egypt. “So you see,” said Zelie, “it is rather a powerful thing, in the right hands.”

  “Surely mine are not the right hands,” I asked.

  “Not yet, sweetie,” she whistled, “not yet”; and with a giggle she was gone.

  This went on for some time. The sisters stepped from the shadows to show me what they’d discovered in my gardens, or to tell me what it was I lacked.

  I had hazel. But in addition to rowan, it seemed I’d have to plant ash, aspen, elder, birch, holly, oak, hawthorn, and bay. Hawthorn to protect my homes from lightning. Holly for use in spell-casting. Elder to fashion into amulets, and to make wine of its berries. Aspen to lay atop “unsettled” graves. Et cetera.