Dark Sister

by Graham Joyce

  Maggie came to on the floor, lying on her side inside the circle. The censers had burned out but the scent was still heavy in the air. The candles had burned down. Ash was lying next to her, one arm round her. Her throat was dry. There was a slight tingling throughout her body. She reached outside the circle for the bottle of mineral water and gulped it back. Then she noticed something about Ash.

  "Ash! Ash!" She put the bottle to his lips and trickled mineral water into his mouth. He .coughed and came round, blinking at her. He groaned.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  "I feel fine. Weird but fine. Really. What about you?"

  "A bit shaky. Otherwise fine."

  "Was it like your last time?" said Maggie.

  "Nothing like it."

  "Ash haven't you noticed anything?" Ash looked puzzled as he drew himself up. Maggie nodded at his lap. Ash had a monster erection. His cock was pointing straight up at the ceiling, engorged, the swollen head bobbing slightly as he looked down at it.

  "Goddess! You've come back to me!" He sat on the floor, looking delirious with happiness. Maggie got up and placed a hand on each of his shoulders. She hoisted herself over him. "I owe this one," she said, gently lowering herself down the length of his shaft, "as a gift."

  "Goddess!" he said. "Goodness!"

  THIRTY-ONE

  Sam's nightmares wouldn't go away. There was a fat rat scuffling in his dreams. Waking from these nightmares, he would see the old lady lurking in his room. The rat-rider. For when he awoke it was as if he came back from these bad dreams clutching a black fragment, a ragged swatch of the dream itself, and that torn piece of dream was the old woman. She could appear anywhere in the shadows of the unlit room. As the coat draped over the back of a chair. As the lampstand in the corner. Among his box of toys. Under the bed. Oh, she would fade shortly after he'd woken up, too soon for him to wake anyone else, but not before she'd let him know she was there.

  Amy had returned from one of her mother's visits to Liz with a vague sense that she must protect her brother. Liz had hinted and tapped her nose in a frightening way, leaving her with a feeling of responsibility. Remember me, Liz had whispered, remember me. When Sam became hysterical at the thought of sleeping another night alone, Amy had surprised her father by offering to let Sam into her room. Jealous of her space, like so many growing girls, Amy had up until now almost always refused Sam the opportunity of even looking in her room.

  Alex moved Sam's bed into Amy's room. Then one night Amy was awakened by the sound of Sam crying and pleading in his sleep. She saw him sit up in bed and gaze across the room, eyes wide open. Amy looked over and saw an old woman in black clothes, firmly embedded in the wall. Only her head, hands and feet were visible, protruding from the wall. The rest of her torso was elsewhere, seemingly sunk behind the wallpaper and plaster as if it was made of Styrofoam. She was eyeing Sam with a vicious smile.

  "Sam," Amy whispered.

  The smile on the old woman's face turned into a sneer. She rotated her head slowly, until she was looking, her face green and rancorous, at Amy. Then she faded.

  Amy got out of bed and put the light on. Sam was whimpering. She climbed into bed beside him and cuddled him until he fell asleep, just as her mother and father had done with her when she was smaller.

  In the daytime, Sam would never set foot in the cellar playroom alone. If he did go down there, he would cling to his sister, and if she tired of him, he would cling to Dot's collar.

  One day, in the excitement of a game with Amy, he almost forgot his troubles in the playroom. As he raced across the room, the rug slipped from under his feet and he cracked his head. The rug had shifted to reveal the face, more prominent than before, and more malevolent. The rust-coloured stain bubbled moisture, glistening on the bare concrete as they looked on.

  Amy touched the stained floor, and the rust colour transferred to her finger. "It's wet," she said quietly.

  She looked at Sam. He seemed very small.

  "Wait here."

  "No," said Sam.

  "Dot's here. You'll be all right."

  Sam hooked his hand under Dot's collar and slithered behind her. Amy ran up the stairs and into the kitchen. Sam heard her drawing a stool across the floor. Then he heard a cupboard opening, a rustling, and Amy climbing down from the stool. In a few moments she was back in the playroom.

  She had something in her mouth. Sam and Dot watched as Amy stood before the face in the floor. She stood over it in silence, as if she was thinking hard. Her arms hung lifeless at her sides, her head was bowed slightly, drawn into her shoulders. She stayed like that for a long time.

  Then she pushed her tongue out of her mouth. Sam glimpsed a small object sitting on her tongue, before she drew her head back and spat it violently at the face on the floor. The object landed in the middle of the face.

  Nothing happened. Dot sneezed, but Amy stood her ground. Then the face began to blister and bubble in tiny spots. It peeled back, like old paint, and within five seconds the stain had disappeared. In the middle of the floor was a single dried bean.

  "What did you do?" said Sam, still hanging onto Dot's collar.

  Amy picked up the bean and settled the rug back into place.

  Alex appeared in the doorway. "You kids are too quiet for my liking. Everything all right, Amy?"

  "Yes," she said, pushing past him.

  Sam followed her out, and so did Dot.

  THIRTY-TWO

  "Listen to this," said Maggie. She and Ash were lying in bed, candles flickering, empty wine bottles gathering in number, sound of wind and rain lashing at the window. She was reading to him from Bella's diary, pieces she'd read herself many times.

  A drives me, she drives me and drives me, my wicked dark sister. Always having me do the next thing and the next thing until I know I shall lose my wits. I'm out of patience with her but she's too strong for me, and knows it, and she does so keep on at me until she has her way. I am weak, for I know that without me she can do nothing. So why do I let her drive me?

  Last night it was on the heath and I performed the shifting, and it has done nothing but left my wits in shreds and I can hardly hold this pen for trembling. No, I'll not talk of it, not even in this secret journal.

  Only my dark sister knows.

  Oh, the blackbird.

  And A. says I'm too careless with my coming and going. But I say to her that she is the one who drives me hither and thither. A. says I'll pay for indiscretion, but I've told her if I pay, then she'll pay too, and she knows it.

  All this because I give a herb scrying and a love simple to one who lives near and came asking for it. What can we do, when they ask us?

  Maggie closed the diary. "Why was she so paranoid, do you think?"

  "Old Liz will tell you enough stories to answer that. There was a wise woman near her who was thought to have dried up a spring. When she died the villagers pulled her cottage down brick by brick. This wasn't the Middle Ages, this was forty years ago. She probably had reason to be paranoid."

  "Who?" said Maggie. "Bella? Or the mysterious A.? You said you thought of them as the same person."

  "I do. A. is Bella's alter-ego, I assume. She gives her the excuse to go and do the things she really wants to do. The dark stuff, the things she can't face in herself."

  "You mean Bella was a schizophrenic?"

  "I suppose so. Something like that. Maybe not barking mad, but certainly hiding behind this A. character she's always complaining about. See how she always blames what she does on A.?"

  "I don't see it like that. I think A., whoever it was, was another witch. A separate person altogether. Leading Bella on."

  "The way that diary leads you on?"

  Maggie wasn't happy about that remark. "What are you getting at?"

  "Never mind."

  "No. Say what you were thinking."

  "It was what we were saying about paranoia. You're steeping yourself in a lot of heavy craft these days. If there's one thing I do know, it's that th
e craft has also got a dark sister, and her name is paranoia."

  "I'm old enough to know the difference."

  "Really? I know you've been working something against Anita and Alex."

  Maggie was surprised. "How did you know?"

  Ash produced a strip of leather with five knots tied in it. Each of the knots was signed with a crude alphabetical representation. "These five letters wouldn't add up to the name of anyone we know?"

  "Ash!" said Maggie, not at all annoyed. "You've been rooting through my handbag!"

  "I'm getting very fond of you, Maggie, but ligatures? Just be careful. It's a wrong path."

  Maggie looked away. The rain and the wind beat against the bedroom window.

  Whatever Ash's objections, he swallowed them and indulged Maggie. She practically took over the business at Omega for him, and trade flourished in her hands. What could he say? If he lost some of his old customers, he gained three times as many new ones. Maggie also had a shrewd idea of how far Ash's integrity could be stretched. There was a lot of junk she could have stocked— bogus products carrying extravagant claims, miracle cures, lucky silver pixies—which she didn't. She respected his "what you see is what you get" philosophy on merchandising, and never tried to breach it.

  He indulged her for what she'd done for him. And Maggie found in him a companion and lover who was excited by spontaneity. If they wanted to wake up at a ridiculous hour and go walking by a lake or in the woods, they did so. One time they drove in a thick night fog to a flight of canal locks, just to hear what the place sounded like when you couldn't see it. Dawn, midnight, and dusk. These were the goddess hours, the moments imbued with magic capability. Sometimes, however, even Ash balked. "No, Maggie, no! I'm not going out on the heath on a night like this. Listen to that wind!"

  "But that's what Liz meant about flying indoors. It's why we felt like we were crashing into the ceiling. Next time we have to fly outside."

  "Not in the middle of winter, we don't. Go back to sleep."

  But Maggie lay in the dark quite unable to sleep. The wind outside, far from deterring her from a visit to the heath, only stirred something in her breast. She looked tenderly at Ash sleeping beside her, but she heard voices in the wind. Something was calling softly from the heath, and from the hills beyond the heath.

  She did not know what was calling her, or if the voices were all inside her head. But it was beautiful, eerie, a low chorus of women's voices. One of us, they sang, you have always been one of us. It pulled her like the moon pulling on the tides. She was approaching her period; she felt the mysterious blood connection. How could she tell Ash? He was a man. How could she ever tell .him about voices he couldn't possibly hear and was never meant to hear?

  There was a rumble of thunder. She knew it was a night for her to go. She slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the window. Ash woke up, blinking sleepily at her. She kissed his lips. "I won't be long. Don't worry."

  "Not flying, are you?"

  "No. It's a Macbeth night. I just want to feel it a little."

  Ash groped for his shirt. "I'll come." She wanted to tell him it was a girls' only night, but she was touched by his loyalty. It was the allegiance of a sleepwalker.

  Ash drove steadily toward the heath through the rain. There was the first spear of lightning. The rains lit up against the headlights, swirling silver sparks.

  "What is it?" said Maggie.

  They were about halfway to the heath. Ash blinked into his rearview mirror. "For a minute I thought somebody had been following us. But it's nothing."

  "And you said I was paranoid."

  They reached the heath and parked the car. The trail was pitch-black, but by now they knew their way in the darkness. The rain had stopped. The storm had passed overhead, but there was still the distant rumble of thunder and the occasional fork of lightning. The afterbreath vapours of the fission and the smell of ozone touched everything. The earth was fingered with mist. Maggie breathed deep. She felt her powers magnified, quadrupled. She danced along the path ahead of Ash.

  "The goddess! Hecate! All around us! She passed by this way! Smell her!"

  The grass was heavy with rain. The standing stones were wet, glistening with water droplets, exuding their own granite odours. Maggie walked round the circumference of the circle, inside, brushing her hands against the nine stones. Then she stepped quickly out of her clothes. She pressed her naked shoulders and her thighs to the wet, erect granite, luxuriating in the suck of heat from skin to rough stone and the transmission of cold from stone to bone.

  "Come on, Ash! Feel the rain between your toes!"

  "It's fucking freezing!" he countered. But she was on him, pulling his sweater over his head. Giggling, the pair fell to the ground, rolling in the wet grass. Maggie got up and danced away. There was another feeble flash of lightning, seeming to come from behind one of the stones. Ash stood up and stared into the darkness.

  "Did you see something, Ash?" Maggie was breathless. She put her hand on his arm.

  Ash continued to gaze into the blackness. "I don't think that last flash was lightning."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I don't know."

  THIRTY-THREE

  It was the day of the custody hearing. Both parties had made their visits to the Court Welfare Officer, and both parties concluded that the Court Welfare Officer was biased against them. A report was duly compiled and a date set for the hearing in chambers. To attend, Alex dusted off the only suit he possessed and tied his tie in a strangling, tiny knot. Maggie put on too much makeup and wore high heels.

  Briggs for Alex and Montague for Maggie. Morton Briggs exuded an easy confidence which Alex didn't share. Alice Montague did her best to put Maggie at ease. "Judge Bennett," she said. "That's very good for us." Each side was introduced to and interviewed by their respective barristers and the case was up and running by ten A.M.

  While the Welfare Officer's inconclusive report was being read out to the court, Alice Montague, sitting next to Maggie, whispered in her ear, "Apparently your husband's not calling anyone as a witness. Any idea why?"

  Maggie shrugged. She had no idea whether it was significant or otherwise. She herself was calling her childminder who, despite recent difficulties, had guaranteed to testify to Maggie's qualities as a fit parent. Maggie's worst fears were that Alex would drag in Anita Suzman, programmed to say hateful things about her ability as a mother; but it looked as though Alex was happy to proceed without witnesses.

  However he may have looked, Alex was not happy about much at all. He was beginning to squirm at what he'd done since first receiving the summons, and he was even more nervous about the possible consequences of his actions. But Maggie had started this. She'd elected for the legal path! He'd pleaded, appealed, and begged; but she was not to be diverted.

  So be it. Alex had actually uttered those archaic words aloud one day, an oath resonating with biblical weight. So be it.

  It was, he'd decided, time to regain control. Things had got out of hand and now he was reining in. Emotional appeal had failed, familial affection had lost its way. He had a terrible feeling that Maggie's powers (and only now was he beginning to see them as powers, female, dissipatory, undisciplined) were on the ascendant, and their single tendency was disruptive. He knew he must meet her head-on with cold, hard logic. He saw how the brittle masculine lines of the law could serve him and not her.

  Maggie, after all, had taken the decisive step on a road where he could match her yard for yard. He would fight to keep household and children by all means available. No, he wasn't happy about this. He wasn't happy about any of it. But he had switched off the emotional response and had abandoned himself to a close study of the rules of play.

  And the rules of play had a habit of taking over from the original reasons for the engagement. Maggie soon realized why Alex wasn't troubling to call witnesses, and so did Alice Montague. Alex's barrister presented a large cardboard box containing a collection of small jars, bottles, and packets of
herbs.

  "Your Honour," said the barrister, "what we have here is a collection of herbs, hedgerow plants, oils, incenses—all of dubious medicinal value—which Mrs. Sanders gathered together when she became obsessed with notions of healing, witchcraft, and other practices which I can only describe as occult.

  Maggie felt Alice Montague stiffen beside her. Alex had lied when he'd said he'd burned all of her herbs. She tried to look at him, but he was gazing straight ahead. The judge, who had not spoken a word and seemed not to be listening, took his spectacles off, as if the gesture would help him understand more clearly. "Occult?" he said.

  "Yes, Your Honour, occult. It seems Mrs. Sanders discovered an old diary composed by some eccentric former occupant of the family home. She became obsessed with the bizarre remedies and treatments suggested by the diary, so much so that she began a campaign of experiments on her own children."

  The judge put his spectacles on again and looked hard at Maggie. Then he began poking around in the cardboard box, sniffing at some of the containers almost theatrically. "You are married, aren't you, Mr. Boyers?" he said to Alex's barrister.

  "As Your Honour knows."

  "And doesn't your wife keep a spice rack in her kitchen?"

  "Indeed she does, Your Honour, but—"

  "And does that make her an inferior mother to your children, would you say?"

  "Indeed not, Your Honour, though I must say—"

  "And haven't you ever rubbed a dock leaf on a nettle sting, Mr. Boyers?"