by Joni Green
Promise you will bring your strongest magic. We will try. Once the act is over, it’s yours.”
“But this one,” Fye said. “You know what he did. To raise him could destroy us both.”
“He is the one. The gods have shown me. I don’t want to do this, but we have to. If the princess is to be saved, we must.”
“But I fear . . .”
Perdix dug into his layers of rags. From some hidden place, he withdrew a small vial on a string. Inside was a tiny stone floating in a clear liquid. He held the tiny vial, like a precious jewel, between his dirt-blackened thumb and index finger. He twirled it in the sunlight.
A kaleidoscope of colors appeared inside the bottle, throwing off a rainbow across the witch’s face. He quickly put the string back over his neck.
“Ahh,” she said.
Fye’s eyes narrowed. She licked her lips.
“I don’t know,” she said, but already he knew that Fye was clay in his hands.
Chapter 4
Resurrection
Just one wish in all the universe –
The River Red floods its banks
To quench my beastly thirst.
*****
The raising of the dead is no easy task.
There would be many dark days and nights ahead.
The old alchemist was lost in thought.
“What are you doing?”
The memory of those words echoed in the cold chamber.
Perdix sat on a low bench at his long wooden table staring into the small flame that flickered in front of his face. There were scores of beakers full of colorful liquids and a myriad of dusty jars with ingredients unimaginable.
Spices of every variety and a mountain of dried flowers and plants lay scattered about the room. Flasks and jars of ointments and balms lined the shelves behind him. From a tiny window behind his back, gray light lit the room.
The flame flickered. He did not blink as scenes of the past played out in front of his rheumy eyes. His lower lip moved in a silent monologue.
There was no turning back now.
Perdix ground his teeth. He’d wanted to warn the King the youth was no good. The young Princess forbade it. He must say no more. To do so would risk banishment from the castle. Or worse.
A quick rap on his door broke his reverie.
“The door is unlocked,” he said. “Come in. Come in.”
He heard Gilia’s voice through the crack in the door. She refused to enter.
“You are a skittish colt,” he said.
“And you are such a boar, Perdix.”
“What? What is it? You waste my time,” the old alchemist said.
“It is the Her Royal Highness. She has fallen on the steps to the stables. I explained to her that you would be of little aid. But she is deaf to whatever I say.”
“How many times have I told that one to steer clear of those stones? They are loose. And now she has fallen. Is she gravely injured?”
“No, Perdix. It is only her knee. It is cut and swollen. But you know the slop that is on those stones. They are covered with filth dropped from the tower rooms above. You must do something. A balm. A salve. A prayer. Anything,” said Gilia.
“What about Urien? Won’t her father call for him?”
“The child calls for you, Perdix. Only you. She forbids me to seek out Urien. I fear she is in much pain.”
“I will come as soon as I can prepare the magic,” he said. “Where is she?”
“Her chamber.”
Perdix skittered about the room. He gathered many ingredients and set a metal pot over the flame. Dropping leaves and twigs and sundry other things in, he watched them catch fire. He waited until the flame turned cerulean and quickly poured a brackish liquid into the mix.
A thick cloud of acrid smoke rose from the potion. The vapor turned from gray to white. Perdix poured the viscous liquid into a small stone box and set it on the ledge to cool.
It would take several minutes before it congealed. He stared out over the land surrounding the castle.
The fog of yesterdays two year prior rose before him. He frowned deeply. He should have known he could not save her. That magic was too strong. Even for him.
*****
It was two years ago.
The black feather of the crow had blown through the window. It was an omen. A bad one. Perdix abandoned his beakers and flew to Ava’s chambers. His heart was pounding in his throat.
Adrenaline filled his muscles with unearthly strength. He pushed open her door, and it clattered against the stone wall.
His jaw dropped, and for an instant, he could not move.
"What are you doing?” Perdix yelled.
“How dare you barge into the chamber of the princess without permission! I will have your head!”
Wolfstan held Ava by both wrists. She was struggling, but there was no chance the small girl could escape his grasp. Her gown was ripped. She was as pale as the delicate blossoms of the summer snowflake.
"Get away from her,” Perdix said, storming across the room.
Wolfstan drew his knife with blinding speed. He slashed across the old man’s face, ripping a jagged wound from the top of Perdix’s scalp, across his right eye and cheek, and slicing across the old man’s left shoulder. Blinded by rage and blood, Perdix kept charging.
He slung the young man across the room. Wolfstan slammed into the stone wall and slumped to the floor.
“Did you kill him?”
“No. He merely sleeps,” said the alchemist.
“Pity.”
“Are you alright?”
“I am now. But you are not. Oh, Perdix! What has he done to you?”
“Do not worry. I will be fine. Where is Gilia?”
“He sent her away.”
“Galleron! Galleron!” Perdix called. “Get your master out of here.”
Galleron rushed to Wolfstan and began helping him to his feet.
“Take him to his chamber. He will recover soon. I am going to the King, Precious One. I must convince him to break this horrid arrangement.”
“No, I forbid you. My father will not listen. You will be banished, Perdix. And I will have only Gilia to protect me.”
The old alchemist’s shoulders slumped.
“I must go see Fye,” he said, disappearing as quickly as he had appeared.
Chapter 5
The Cat’s Eye
Barbed tongue and loathsome fangs.
We are but prey to Evil’s child.
*****
“Can you restore my sight, Fye?”
Fye was outside her hovel. She stopped skinning the rabbit she was preparing for dinner. She looked at the old man, lifting the dirty rags he’d wrapped about his head.
“I don’t know,” said the witch. “The wound is very deep. I hope I can. Come with me.”
Fye led him into her hut made of mud, straw, and sticks. She lived in the woods outside the castle where there were no prying eyes and none of the gossip that permeated everyday life inside the walls of Corlac.
“Down on the skin, Perdix.”
The old man got down on the deerskin on the hard ground near the fire pit. Fye went outside with a handful of herbs. She came back and crossed the room, removing the lid from a large wooden box in the corner.
The stench was pungent. She retrieved several other ingredients and returned to the gutted rabbit outside her door. She scooped up the organs and stoked up the fire beneath the cauldron.
Dumping each item in, she repeated several ancient magic words. The acrid smoke bellowed from the boiling pot.
Fye gathered the coals in the pit together in a heap. Adding more kindling, she stoked the flames even more. Sweat droplets formed on Perdix’s face.
“Good, old man,” she said. “We will start by burning out some of the poisons in that eye.”
He merely groaned. Fye paid no heed. She was too busy. She went to another corner of the room and dug into the ground. Retrieving a large parcel, she loos
ened the skin coverings.
“Ahh, yes,” she whispered as she unrolled the ancient scroll.
The sacred scroll was filled with drawings and inscriptions and had been handed down for many generations. Fye could not read, but the Ancients came to her in dreams, telling her the meanings of the glyphs and drawings. If she was to find a spell for Perdix that would restore his sight, it would be here.
She worked nonstop. She fed Perdix a broth that made him sleep soundly. He must not move or make one sound. At the end of three days, exhausted, she sat upon a rock beside him.
She brushed across his face with the magic herb. She blew her breath upon him.
He stirred.
“How do you feel?” she asked when he roused.
“Not bad. Not good, either,” he said.
“Look,” Fye said, holding up a reflection crystal in front of his face. “It’s magnificent. Far better than I could ever have hoped.
Perdix studied his face.
“The window to my soul is no longer round,” he said, pulling down his lower eyelid. “But the yellow color around it is quite beautiful.”
“Close the other,” Fye said. “Can you see?”
“The rat scurries from the shelf in the corner to the dark hole that leads outside. Fye, I fear he has made off with some of your prized seeds from the wooden bowl you keep on the ground.”
“Ahh,” she said.
She laughed, and the gap-tooth hollow of her mouth was wide and dark. The remaining teeth were velvety with plaque and food. Perdix noted that her breath smelled like a stagnant swamp. He looked about the dimly lit room. His mouth pursed. His brow creased. The mystery was solved.
“Your cat,” he said. “It has one eye.”
Chapter 6
The Raising of Hell
Remove the sorcerer’s heart and spit upon it. Stake it to his eye and rid me of the pest that wants one thing – for me to die!
*****
“By God’s nails, you have brought the bishop,” Fye whispered.
“Of course,” whispered Perdix. “He speaks the language of the angels, does he not? Besides, Wolfstan is an infidel. After he marries Her Highness, he will sweep the vestry clean.
The bishop would make a pact with Lucifer to retain his comfy seat in the palace. Look at him. Fat. Finely dressed. You would do the same, Fye. Don’t try to deny it.
Besides, he has the Book of Spells. He has agreed to read it. But only once. I do hope once is enough, but it is the best I can do. Then, he’ll leave the rest to us.”
Perdix looked up into the clear night sky. The galaxies hung low. He felt the weight of the full moon bearing down upon him like the mountains of the Tetzel.
“My Lord,” Fye said, bowing her head to the regally dressed man.
“The pit burns well,” said Perdix. “Its light should last long enough.”
Fye bowed her head again.
The bishop glanced her way, said nothing, and stared into the fire.
“And we have the dogs of the court,” the alchemist said.
“Good. They will alert us to the scent of Dyryke’s ghost,” she said.
“Remove the stone that covers the grave,” the bishop said to Fye and Perdix.
“Yes, My Lord,” Perdix said.
Both bent low and picked up the flat stone tablet. When they went to place it on the grass, the marker began to jiggle and dance like the earth was shifting beneath it.
There was a deafening cracking sound. They dropped it like a hot coal beside the hand-dug hole. Perdix and Fye jumped back.
The grass beside the stone glowed orange and yellow. A blinding flash of green-blue light and a roaring peal of thunder shattered the silence of the graveyard.
A huge cloud of dark, gray smoke billowed up, stinking with the burning smell of sulfur. Their eyes watered, and they hacked and coughed and tried in vain to expel the intense burning that made their throats raw.
The bishop screamed and turned as white as snow.
“Stand your ground,” Perdix yelled to the bishop. “Fye!”
Fye lifted her head to the heavens and began chanting a magic spell. Lightning flashed. Thunder pealed. The winds picked up and blew with a mighty force. It seemed as if a war was being fought above their heads.
Fye’s words echoed over the graveyard.
Once, twice, she repeated her spell. Then silence.
The winds stilled. The stars twinkled. The three stood among the gravestones as blue shadows danced over the graveyard. The flames in the pit popped and sparked as Perdix threw another log onto the fire.
“It is finished,” he said. “We may begin.”
Dyryke’s stone slab was no more. The blacken pieces of rubble smoked and trembled and dissolved into the dirt.
Dyryke’s stone slab was no more. The blacken pieces of rubble smoked and trembled and dissolved into the dirt.
The fire from the pit lit up the jagged hole that was about three feet wide and five feet deep. The ragged remains of a wrapped body lay inside with a few trinkets and a golden goblet, intricately decorated with jewels and precious stones. The chalice rested on the corpse’s stomach.
Here and there, a bone broke through jagged holes in the burial wrapping that wound about the body from head to toe.
“Well,” said the bishop, “I guess it’s time for the witch to prove her metal. I can only hope she’s as good as you say.”
Perdix looked at Fye. He shook his head. Fye nodded once.
She moved closer to the open grave and peered down into the dark hole. She took a deep breath, spit into her hands, and rubbed them fiercely together. The dirt and grime melted into her saliva. She pressed her wet palms tightly against both temples.
She squatted down on the ground. Her long matted, greasy locks fell across her bosom. She lowered her chin onto her chest and began to chant in a strange, ancient language. The bishop had never heard anything like it.
“You were right,” he said. “Her magic is strong. It is freezing out here. Look. I blow my breath. It becomes a frosty cloud, and my teeth are jumping in my gums. We will catch our death out here in this godforsaken winter blast. By God’s cross, I should have worn my furs.”
“Shh,” said Perdix.
“By God’s nails, I’m turning blue.”
“Shh.”
Fye was in a deep trance. Her head rolled from side to side. Strands of frizzled hair danced back and forth and round and round like leaves caught in whirlpools. Bits of foam formed at the edges of her lips. Her eyes rolled back into her head. She threw her face skyward and screamed.
The bishop jumped.
“Is she dying?”
“No. Now, please, Your Grace. Silence.”
The bishop said no more. His tongue was stopped in his mouth.
Fingers of thick gray smoke suddenly begin to rise from the grave’s hole in serpentine coils toward the stars. There was a strange buzzing sound from deep inside the pit. A bright blue glow and then, a spear of light flashed brilliantly from the center of the grave. A loud roar peeled from the earth, and the two men saw the silhouette of Dyryke’s stiff, flat corpse floating in the air.
The rotting strips of cloth that wrapped the body fluttered like dancing butterflies in the eerie light. Fye screeched out commands in her ancient tongue, and the cadaver began to move to one side. When it was safely floating above the solid ground, Fye let go of her temples and spun around in a blur of motion seven times.
The remains dropped gently to the grass.
“Look at the cup,” said the bishop. “They said he was buried with it. It is incredible. More beautiful than anything I have ever seen. So many jewels. So many wonderful stones. And solid gold, too. I must have it, Perdix. I must.”
“But My Lord, we are not here to rob the dead but to restore unto him life.”
“Nonsense,” said the bishop. “I’m stuck in this cemetery in the middle of the night freezing my nuts off. I deserve something of greatest value for my misery. Give me th
e chalice.”
Fye reached down and picked up the precious vessel. She felt the heat burn her dirt-encrusted fingers.
“It rages with fury, Perdix,” Fye said, throwing the vessel onto the ground.
“What are you doing? Have you lost your senses?” the bishop said, grunting to bend over and pick up the cup before it rolled back into the grave. “Scite, you haggard fool.”
Fye looked on as the fat man fingered the jeweled object without burning his hands. How odd, but she kept silent.
The bishop stood there. His fat, ruddy cheeks were like round apples as a smile spread across his face. His eyes caressed the shining object.
A clap of thunder rumbled in the distance. The bishop jumped, almost dropping his precious find. He cleared his meaty throat.
“Unwrap the bones. We haven’t got all night. I must be back before dawn. Tomorrow is tax day.”
Chapter 7
The Rotten Stinking Corpse
The bewitching hour is short and passes fast.
The Feast of Red is long.
Fore’er, it lasts.
*****
The old witch skittered down into the black hole.
“What is she doing?” asked the bishop.
“My Lord,” said Perdix, “she is gathering some of the dirt the bones have been resting upon.”
“Get out of that hole! You’re wasting time,” he said.
“Fye,” said Perix, “hurry up. We are losing precious night.”
“Don’t pinch your nipples,” the old witch yelled from inside the grave. “It isn’t every day a blessing such as this comes round. My sack is almost full. You know I cannot pass this up. I’m going as fast as I can.”
She climbed out of the grave and began to help Perdix unwrap the strips of cloth that bound the body.
“I’m glad that Dyryke is not a rotten, stinking corpse,” said the bishop. “I’d hate to think I might spew the pottage I just ate all over this unholy ground.”