The Book of Shadows

by James Reese

  “It is for our protection,” explained Sebastiana, “you’ll see.” She then directed Father Louis to go out to the roseraie, candle in hand, and half-fill the hammered-tin watering can beside the door with soil scooped from under the Ambrose Paré. “Read their labels,” said she, but the priest did not understand. I directed him to that double-rose of medium size, purple-crimson in color; and this pleased Sebastiana—she told me so.

  While the priest worked, with Madeleine standing near, Sebastiana incanted, “Hellish, Earthly, and Heavenly Goddess of the Light, Queen of the Night, Companion to the Darkness, Wanderer, Traveler, you who crave the terror of mortals, Great Gorgo, Mormo, Keeper of the Moon in Its Thousand Shifting Forms…” She invoked the infamous gorgon Medusa. She continued on, stopping only to scoop my hair from the floor and place it carefully in the watering can, first separating it into long strands, which she tied at one end with bits of black string—“soaked,” said she, with a wince, “in cat’s urine.”

  I watched as she worked her Craft over the can, planting the hair and withdrawing her hands fast. “Snappish little devils,” said she. A spitting hiss rose now from the hammered-tin can, which sat like a kettle at slow boil.

  …Understand: the hair of a witch will—when cut, imprecated, and planted…the hair of a witch will, when next the moon wanes, evolve into serpents whose purpose it is to guard whatever perimeter they are planted along. (Ravndal, bounded by the sea on one side, was protected by these snakes on its remaining three sides.) They—and what I saw in the watering can that night were but their squirming larvae—they are white, nearly translucent by day, and black by night: they are rarely seen, even by their victims, for they reside in the deepest dirt and rise only to strike at those who come uninvited or unescorted by their Creator or that witch’s surrogate. They spring from the soil, fast as a flash, to bury their single fangs deep in the intruder, extruding a necrotic venom that works on the soft tissues of the body, consuming the flesh from within. “Three of our snakes,” said Sebastiana, “can take down a horse, devour it whole—bones too—in two days’ time.” She added that it’d been years since she’d “augmented the guard.” At Ravndal, it was “time to sow snakes.” (N.B.: Plant the snakes thirty-six to a row, with a six-pace break between rows.)…And snakes born of my hair, said Sebastiana, would produce a most potent venom, for I was a new witch.

  …Too, I needed to get rid of all that hair, for, as Sebastiana opined, “I think, dear, that you would do best to travel southward as a man.”

  I was easily convinced: she showed me men’s clothes. The fabrics were impossibly rich, the needlework exquisite! And though certainly not lacking in detail or decoration, they showed infinitely fewer buttons, clasps, and clips than women’s clothes, and they were much more comfortable. Yes, I must have said it a hundred times: Yes, I’d dress as a man! And why not?

  The hour had quickly grown small. Father Louis and rather sullen Roméo had long since disappeared, leaving Sebastiana, Madeleine, and me in the studio.

  “Ah oui,” said Sebastiana ruefully, sticking her finger through a moth’s work, done on a dress of white chenille. She cast the dress aside and dug again in the tall armoire, coming up with this, her clinching argument:

  A suit—coat, waistcoat, and breeches—cut from light green silk. The coat, which fell just above my knee and not below, as designed, was embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and fern fronds sewn in threads of variant browns and gold; the buttons had embroidered covers as well; and the collar of the coat stood high. The sleeves, though, fell a bit short: we chose a blouse with extra-long and lacy cuffs to compensate. And that is how I was dressed some hours later, at dawn, as we drove from Ravndal with that bulging nécessaire fastened to the back of the coach.

  That nécessaire—a large trunk, or traveling armoire—was in fact a bit more complicated than that, with interior and exterior drawers, both plain and hidden. It was constructed of dark woods, with inlays of mother-of-pearl and ivory. Its lining and outer strapping were of heavyweight canvas. Its sturdy buckles and locks were brass, and brass too were the rods within, for the hanging of clothes. The nécessaire sat before the stationary armoire, the one I knew to be crammed with clothes, the one from which I’d already chosen a few outfits, including the robe of green silk that Roméo had worn and those regrettable red silk pajamas. The nécessaire, when first I saw it, was already half-packed: Sebastiana had begun packing it as I slept. Now she was un- packing the trunk: I simply had to see this blouson, these culottes, et cetera…. Yes, I daresay she was giddy. (She sought with her lighter mood to distract me from the events of the day and the coming dawn. She succeeded, briefly, and I remain grateful.)

  “Mon Dieu!” said she, “I’d forgotten just how much I’d collected over the years. It’s all sat packed away for so very long!” Only that very night, struck by the notion that I ought to dress as a man—“at least to leave here,” said she, “and maybe longer. Who knows?”—only then had she thought again of those clothes.

  “Ours was a world of masquerade,” sighed Sebastiana, rifling through the armoire. “We were”—and here she looked up, rather dramatically, at me—she deigned to address Madeleine, too; Madeleine, who sat at a distance, her blood pooling on that purple velvet spread—“We were,” said Sebastiana, “les Incroyables. Dress was an art like any other. We didn’t give a damn for the accepted fashions. We defied them at every opportunity!” Here she paused. “That is, until a man’s wearing the wrong color hat could lead to his death in the street!”

  She raised a half-robe to the candlelight just then; its whiteness had gone gray. “These clothes, each piece,” said she, with a sigh, “each piece is bloodstained. Do you understand?” I said I did.

  “How is it you have all these clothes?” I asked.

  “How is it,” echoed Sebastiana, “that I’ve ended up with this ragged, tattered, and moth-eaten musée des modes?…You have read a bit in my Book, no?”

  “I have,” said I.

  “‘Le souper grec’, and its preceding chapters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Eh bien,” said Sebastiana, “then you know of the royals and aristocrats, the privileged people I painted. And you know too that I had property safely beyond the city.” I nodded. Madeleine sat silently by. Sebastiana fingered a length of blue damask. “When these…acquaintances of mine slipped into exile, I agreed to store their wares, ‘hold them’ till they came to reclaim them. Of course, the few who may have returned would have searched for me in vain, for I was secreted here by then.”

  It was rather dangerous, what you did, no? asked Madeleine.

  “Sedition would have been the official charge,” said Sebastiana. “Punishable, of course, by death.” Then, with forced lightness, she cast aside the memory of that long-ago day just as she cast aside this moth-eaten dress or that unraveling blouse, and she drew from the armoire a suit of salmon damask.

  “No, no,” I demurred. I could not imagine wearing such a showy thing, and I said as much. “Ah, but this was the color of the proper Van Dyke costume,” said she, passing her hand over the smooth fabric on the back of the jacket, which was broad, too broad for me. I wondered were these…Asmodei’s clothes?

  “Some of them are, yes. Asmodei was known to dress in his day. ‘The glass of fashion and the mold of form,’” she added, wistfully, quoting some unnamed source. “But this suit,” she went on, “this is an archer’s suit, one worn by a friend, a certain Marquis, whose days ended in Spain, I believe.” The suit was topped with a short cloak. I tried the ensemble on, at Sebastiana’s urging, and Madeleine’s too. To my surprise, it fit passably well.

  “Mais non!” I said. “I cannot! It’s too…. pink! I look like…like an overlarge salmon! I’d feel obliged to walk backward down the street in such a suit!”

  It was great fun. We whiled away the night like that, the three of us. Madeleine, sitting cross-legged on her spread, grew ever more at ease as the hour of our departure approached. Sebastiana, her a
rms turning like the wheel of a mill, pulled from the seemingly bottomless armoire suits of ditto and suits cut of Genoa velvet, and shirts edged in varieties of Flemish lace—the laces of Antwerp, Mechlin, Brussels, and Binche, all of which she could identify by their motif. There was damask, chenille, dimity, and brocade. There was the most exquisite passementerie. I modeled the clothes that Sebastiana presented, for yes, each outfit came with a story of its provenance. And then we’d all opine; enfin, we voted, the three of us, and the clothes were packed or discarded, depending on majority rule.

  Many of the outfits did fit; there were droppable hems, and the trousers buttoned at the knee, or near enough. We’d a store of pins, too: Sebastiana made minor alterations. It was fun! Truly, it was. Sebastiana spun her tales faster and faster. We doubted fully half of what she said that night, so exaggerated did the tales become. Madeleine would laugh from time to time, the mechanics of which act were, of course, grotesque—Sebastiana, as kindly as she could, told the succubus to sit back, lest the spurting blood stain the clothes; still, it was nice to see the ancient girl smile and laugh…. Poor Madeleine, I miss her; I began missing her the moment Father Louis and I—

  The mission! Alors, my mission, our mission, was simply this:

  The elementals would accompany me southward, to the city of Madeleine’s birth; at a crossroads beyond that no longer extant city, she, or her mortal remains, lay buried in unconsecrated earth. There, by means still quite mysterious to me, we—Father Louis, Madeleine, and I—would seek to undo whatever trick of the Church had consigned Madeleine to a centuries-long deathless death. She sought to live again, to live so that she might finally and truly die. Yes, Madeleine wanted desperately to die.

  It seemed that in years past, when first they met, Sebastiana had tried to help Madeleine effect this, but for whatever reason she had failed, and refused to try again. Madeleine and Father Louis had then tried all manner, all manner of ways to win her release over the centuries, to no avail. My saviors had come to believe that to effect Madeleine’s death it would take the strength of a new witch. They’d waited a long time for a new and untried witch, a powerful witch to make herself known—Sebastiana had agreed to assist in the finding of such a one. Such a one as I.

  Our “soirée” ended at the first light of day. Again, as it had at C——, dawn came to redefine my life.

  Sebastiana and I packed the nécessaire. Crammed as it was, we could barely close it. “Ah, attendons!” exclaimed Sebastiana, just as I’d secured the first of the brass buckles. “I nearly forgot.” With that, she took from under the easel that bag of black velvet, to which she’d returned the golden shears hours earlier. “You won’t be needing these, at least not for a while,” said she, withdrawing the shears; she secured the mouth of the bag, tied around it the leather strap that had held my braid at its base. “But the rest of this, all this, is yours.”

  “What is it?” I asked, watching as Sebastiana shoved the bag deep into the nécessaire.

  “Let us say that it contains a legacy of sorts, passed from me to you; the contents are yours to dispose of as you please.”

  I thought then that the bag contained certain trinkets, things Sebastiana knew I’d need, or thought I might want. I thought specifically of her red coral combs; though those remained in her hair, I took the bag to be full of similar items; and, once I tasked myself again with the brass buckles of the nécessaire, I gave the bag not another thought.

  And then I saw the coach that would carry me from Ravndal. To say that I have not traveled widely is, of course, a gross understatement. Still, even I knew that one rarely if ever came across such a coach as that on the backroads of France. Indeed, it had been years since so showy a thing adorned the streets of Paris. I said as much—once I’d steadied myself—when Sebastiana led me outside at dawn and I saw…

  “You cannot go fast,” said she, “it’s true; but you can go in style.” Style, indeed! I stared as the thing came rolling to a stop before us, Roméo at the reins of its two horses. “It could take four horses,” said Sebastiana, “but you’ll have to make do with two.” Roméo, lantern in hand, remained atop the box; his smile—so pleased I was to see him smile—outshone the low moon, the blue light of which caused the coach to glow. The elementals? They were near, doubtless hovering as little more than misted soul, clouds of life-matter drawn out along the shore. Asmo? Nowhere to be seen. Sebastiana stood beside me wrapped in an ermine stole, smiling and stifling her laughter.

  “Isn’t it grand, great heart?” she asked.

  “Grand,” I echoed. “Yes; grand, it is. Surely you don’t mean for me to—”

  “Roméo, my boy,” directed Sebastiana, “the nécessaire sits ready, inside the studio. Would you please?”

  Roméo came near us. He leaned nearer Sebastiana. I heard what it was he whispered; he wanted first to show me the coach. “Go right ahead, then,” said she. “But it’s properly called a berlin.”

  I was in possession—incredible, this!—of one of three carriages built by a Parisian saddler in 1770, all of them intended to lead young Antonia and her senior attendants into France. Problem was, the girl was sent from Austria in a hurry, and this last of the berlins was not yet completed.

  The young Archduchess had been promised to the French for a full year before they were able, as Father Louis put it, “to take delivery.” Heads of state had waited with lessening patience upon the girl’s first blood. Maria-Theresa, most eager of all to ally Bourbon and Hapsburg, had ordered that her daughter’s inexpressibles be checked thrice daily. The Empress’s private correspondence with the French envoy, Dufort, made repeated reference to the imminent arrival of one “General Krotendorf.” When finally the future Queen of the French spotted her silks, her mother was ecstatic! The “General” had arrived to save Austria! Long-standing plans were quickly set in motion.

  One thing not set in motion was the third coach, still unfinished. Paid for in full and forgotten, the trap would come to sit for years in the saddler’s garage. At first, no one could afford it; later, no one wanted it. Twenty-odd years later, in the early days of the Revolution, when all workmen and merchants engaged in the opulent trades sought desperately to drop their wares, Sebastiana bought the berlin—“A bargain, je t’assure!” said she—and used it to decamp from the rue Cl——to Chaillot, under cover of darkness; later, laden with all it could carry, Sebastiana had it driven to Ravndal, where it had sat unused in the stables ever since.

  That morning, beneath a brightening sky, I took Roméo’s hand and climbed into the coach for a closer inspection. The inner walls of the cab were lined in red satin and trimmed in cherry wood. The facing banquettes were upholstered in blue velvet; the cushioned seats themselves bore thread-paintings depicting the four seasons. I smacked a seat and a thick puff of dust rose up. “Regarde!” said Roméo, and with that he lifted the same cushion to disclose a commode! In addition, the carriage bore a larder for storing provisions, a simple stove, and a dining table that could be lifted up from beneath the deep blue carpet. I inspected a tall box beside the larder—a portable set of cutlery, complete with spice box and egg cups, the whole made of porcelain, gold, and hammered steel. Four hooks bearing unlit lamps were screwed into the dark wood; two lamps hung between each set of windows; over the windows were black shades of fine, doubled linen.

  What a fool I’d feel like rattling south to the sea in so ostentatious a trap! “Isn’t there a simple diligence I might board and…” But Sebastiana dismissed my concerns with a wave of her hand.

  Climbing from the berlin, I saw that someone—Roméo, no doubt—had toned down the rich appearance of the outer carriage. Gilded wood had been painted over; still it shone through in spots like gold in a streambed. The door handles had small black sacks tied over them; along the road I’d steal a peek: solid gold. What band of brigands would not set upon such a contraption as we crawled along the backroads of the country?

  “My dear,” said Sebastiana, in response to the question
I had not voiced. “You have read too many novels. And we don’t call them brigands any longer; they are mere thieves.”

  “Call them what you will,” I countered, “but as we near the southern port cities they’ll pick us apart!”

  Sebastiana assuaged my fears thusly: “Heart,” said she, rather dryly, “you’re a witch traveling in the company of two entities several centuries old. I think you’ll be all right.” It was then I would have sworn I heard Asmodei’s quite distinctive, ferruginous laugh somewhere above us. It came like sounds from a forge, issuing perhaps from an upper-story casement, perhaps the roof; but, looking up, I saw no sign of him.

  All that happened next happened quite fast. It’s a blur to me now, though these events transpired but a fortnight ago.

  Sebastiana had left me a bit of my beloved blond hair, tying it back with a green silk ribbon, and Roméo, seemingly amused by my new suit and hairstyle, single-handedly loaded the nécessaire onto the berlin before climbing back atop the box. “Is he…?” I asked hopefully of Sebastiana.

  “Yes, dear,” said she, “but only as far as”—here she named a village a half-day’s drive from Ravndal—“and then he returns to me, to us.” Roméo would drive me to P——and there he’d help me hire a driver and fresh horses. He’d return to Ravndal on one of the horses, the second of which he’d sell in P——.

  Eager though she was to see me take to the road, Sebastiana let me return to the studio. I lingered there a short while, alone. I left the chatelaine standing beside her boy; they spoke admiringly of the berlin. I sought to absorb the studio, take in its every detail. But all I remember now is staring at the map that Father Louis had clipped to an unpainted, yellowed canvas set atop the easel; early the previous night, he’d detailed the route we would take south, to the crossroads, to the sea. Finally, I stepped out into the roseraie. The air was chilling and wet and sea-scented. Mist rose at the base of the bushes. I dared not snip a bloom, but I did sniff those few that had fast become my favorites. Would that I could retain their scents, take with me their sweet perfume. It was then a tide of anguish rose within me, but it was without depth, and I mastered it fast, fast as it rose. I would not cry. Quickly, I quit the garden. Passing through the studio, I took up the two Books of Shadows—Sebastiana’s and mine—and made my way out to the coach.