The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  Merriment had dismissed the book years ago as a relic of a dark age locked in by superstition and stunted by religious myopia. Now she attentively searched the etching for details, questioning whether the phenomenon of devils had been long catalogued and captured by previous generations to warn anyone living in the future not to be lax, not to suppose that the world is a flat reality consisting only of things that are normal and mundane. Had the monks writing the Malleus Maleficarium written in earnest? Had they seen demons and devils? Had they known the supernatural world was close by? Had they understood that certain events can produce a malignant spirit? Had they a Dolocher of their own? Had they known how to ward off evil? Had they known how to destroy the devil?

  Merriment quickly read the section on the manifestation of a demon, her breath fluttering in her lungs.

  How does a demon appear? the monks asked. First, it uses a speck of dust. With wicked intention, it harvests moisture from the atmosphere, and using more dust it coalesces into form. The curiously scientific tone made her shudder. She thought of the dark shadow of Pyrrho of Elis’s questions, appalled at how rational inquiry could be applied to irrational subjects. By the meticulous application of a particular perspective, the authors of the Malleus Maleficarium had developed an intriguing argument that lent such a tone of authority to the text that the existence of demons and witches seemed totally plausible. Her mind reeled at the idea of an invisible creature, nothing more than a cluster of disembodied consciousness using dead material to carry out its will.

  She thought of Olocher’s proclivities still festering in his autopsied corpse. She thought of the slippery, fetid flesh dripping from his chest, his spiny coat dark and coarse. She thought of the horrific melding of beast and man. An incubus slithering through the streets of Dublin. She couldn’t stop the thoughts and with every page she turned a fresh image triggered a new gothic digression. The monks who composed the Malleus Maleficarium had meticulously contemplated all mechanisms of manifestation, had analysed and considered the most bizarre possibilities. Beneath the picture of a hideous succubus mounted on a mortal man was the explanation, Devils do indeed collect human semen, by means of which they are able to produce bodily effects; but this cannot be done without some local movement, therefore demons can transfer the semen which they have collected and inject it into the bodies of others.

  She thought of how Gertie had been raped, wondering if the Dolocher had intended to impregnate her, so that her womb would produce his malformed offspring. The book worked hard on her imagination, filling her with such anxiety that she sat a moment with her eyes closed terrified of what was going to happen. Scenes of an excited crowd keen to rid Dublin of all things demonic rose up behind her eyes. She imagined an agitated mob coming to fetch her, to drag her to a pyre, to tie her to a stake. She opened her eyes, scattering the images, faintly amused at the notion that she and Joan of Arc bore the curious similarities of wearing men’s clothing, carrying a weapon and being hounded by witch finders. She did her best to dispel the notions of perishing in flames, her thoughts instead dancing at the possibility of Mister Shelbourne going to the guild of apothecaries to instigate a malpractice suit. Perhaps Solomon’s knowledge of legal matters . . . She thrust aside the half-formed idea. He wasn’t coming back. Her heart squeezed tight, emitting a strong sore pressure, an ache of longing and remorse that manifested as raw pain in her body. Why hadn’t she told him to stay? Tears popped into her eyes. She gazed at a woodcut of the devil, depicted in this engraving as an ebony-skinned creature with a long, spiky tail and recalled the elusive blur of bristling strokes that had emerged from the shadows last night. She desperately tried to bring focus to the unclear edges of her recollection, to draw a distinct face, but like an insubstantial wraith the phantasmagorical form evaded clear scrutiny. I saw his eyes, she told herself, glancing at the peculiar volume in her hands. But her certainty vacillated. Had she seen a curl of bluish tusk? The russet grey folds of pig flesh? The hint of blue irises? Or had she constructed the Dolocher from all of Solomon’s broadsheets, from a hot and feverish imagination destabilised by the screams of the slaughtered pig? She couldn’t stop her mind reeling or her mood plummeting as the walls closed in on her, a tumult of emotions rising from the depths of her being undercutting her stoical rationalism. The Dolocher disassembled all that she had held to be dear and true. The demon heralded a new world. A world rippling with supernatural creatures, full of dark crevices from which all kinds of noxious fumes could infect the unsuspecting mind. And looking down at the Malleus Maleficarium, she realised that simply owning the book could be considered suspect, a totem of her interest in the occult, not a bizarre relic from a medieval mindset but rather a book hinting at her guilt. She became terrified that an accusation of witchcraft could very easily be levied against her and couldn’t dispel the rising trepidation as she pondered what to do.

  She prepared a tincture to calm her nerves and tried to find a chink of light to console herself, but all that came to mind was the fact that Solomon was gone, Beresford was seeking the company of Peggy Leeson, her customers had vanished, her business was affected and there was a religious zealot whipping up the fear of others that could very easily convince some official that Merriment O’Grady should be investigated. She was squeezing the Malleus Maleficarium between her hands, trying to construct some kind of solution to her problems, when Janey Mack appeared at the door, rubbing her eyes, her hair poking up in parts and her face criss-crossed on one side where it had been pressed into the pillow.

  Merriment surreptitiously sneaked the small volume into her pocket and plastered a smile onto her face.

  ‘Hello sleepyhead,’ she said stretching out her arms to invite Janey Mack in for a cuddle. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  ‘What time is it?’ Janey Mack seemed confused. ‘The shop is closed.’

  Merriment began to fetch food from the larder. ‘It’s half past three in the day. The shop was very quiet,’ she lied. She hid her anxieties from Janey Mack, feeling the slow release of her calming cure beginning to at least take the sharp edges off her fear.

  ‘Now.’ She placed an array of produce on the table. ‘How about something to eat?’

  ‘And then we’ll go to the priest,’ Janey Mack reminded her.

  ‘Oh.’ Merriment pinched back her frustration; the last thing on earth she wanted to do was seek out some churchman. What if Dolly’s husband saw her? He could very easily cause a scene. ‘Perhaps tomorrow . . .’ she demurred.

  All the little girl had to say to make Merriment crumble was, ‘You promised.’

  ‘All right.’ She gave in, chopping up some potatoes to throw into a stew. ‘We’ll go later.’

  They were eating dumplings, which Janey Mack declared was her most favourite food of all time, when a sharp series of knocks came to the shop door. This time it was Merriment who jumped to her feet, telling Janey Mack to wait as she slipped out of the anteroom, her heart racing, her hand on her hip ready to produce the Answerer.

  Lord Rochford was not amused. He pushed past, grumbling, ‘What is this nonsense? Locking up early? Let me in.’

  Merriment flicked the sign to Open, asking Janey Mack to keep an eye on things. She needed the little girl out of the anteroom so she could examine his lordship.

  ‘You take the high stool.’ She patted the seat, calling Janey Mack over. ‘Watch the place,’ she said quietly, waving Lord Rochford into the back room. He walked imperiously in, glowering as he passed, his lips curling into a natural and consistent sneer of revulsion.

  ‘We won’t be long,’ Merriment whispered to Janey Mack before clicking the anteroom door shut. She took a breath, collecting herself before she fetched her red ledger and quickly scanned her last entry.

  ‘How are things?’ she asked, masking the disturbed emotions stirred up by the day’s events.

  ‘Better,’ Lord Rochford grumbled, making the statement sound like a complaint. ‘I need more of that ointment.’

  He unbutto
ned his breeches to show Merriment how he’d improved and put his member away once she’d finished examining him.

  ‘Another dose should do it, something a little milder,’ she said, pulling a sachet of powder down from a shelf. Her fingers worked deftly as she weighed and measured, adding a few drops of tincture with a tablespoon of oil to three ounces of the noxious-smelling powder. She moved quickly, aware that Lord Rochford was glaring at her, his left hand rubbing the hilt of the sword strapped to his hip.

  ‘As a matter of interest,’ he enquired, looking around the room scornfully, ‘do you terminate, you know, things?’

  Merriment stopped mixing the salve she was preparing. She held the slender wooden paddle suspended over the bowl, understanding full well what Rochford was getting at. This was all she needed, another reason for the citizens of Dublin to have her arrested and flung in gaol. She shuddered.

  ‘It’s against the law,’ she said firmly.

  ‘But in certain circumstances,’ Rochford pressed. ‘For issues of health.’

  ‘It’s against the law,’ she repeated, spooning the mixture into a tiny glass jar.

  ‘So you’d let a mother die rather than . . .’ Rochford stopped toying. ‘You’re telling me as a handy woman, that you have never terminated a pregnancy?’

  Merriment didn’t answer. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her ears began to ring. She tried to keep her hands steady. A godawful convergence of events was conspiring to undo her existence and now a powerful man was pressing her with such zeal that she could feel herself panicking. She wanted Beresford’s calm resolve to make this all go away. She wanted Solomon . . . If only he would come back.

  Lord Rochford’s nostrils flared, his eyes flicked across the dark shelves, his lips snarled with disgust.

  ‘I want you to carry out an abortion. I will pay you handsomely.’

  Merriment knew from his tone that he was not requesting but rather ordering the termination.

  ‘There’s a girl, lives on Henrietta Street, one of Margaret Leeson’s bitches. She’s trying to blackmail me, says my son is the father.’ His jaw clenched. ‘I want you to see to it that the pregnancy is terminated.’

  ‘No,’ Merriment repeated, her hands beginning to shake. She grabbed a tea towel to hide the tremor.

  Lord Rochford’s expression didn’t change; he didn’t flinch or grunt or express his intention with his body. Instead he merely turned his cold eyes on Merriment and spoke in a flat, low tone that chilled her to the bone.

  ‘Then I’ll shut you down. I’ll say you are an abortionist. My word will be held above yours.’

  He didn’t elaborate, but stood staring, waiting for Merriment to crumble, his grey eyes cold and hard as granite.

  ‘You’ll have to prove it,’ Merriment replied, keeping her voice level. Years at sea had taught her to stand steady, aim clearly and keep her responses to a threat short.

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Rochford shrugged. ‘I don’t have to prove anything.’

  The blood drained from Merriment’s face. She was cornered. At sea, she could jump overboard. On land, she was backed against a wall. Rochford looked about him, flush with victory.

  ‘The girl’s a liar,’ he said. ‘The slattern says she’s five months gone. I’ve dispatched my son to the continent and I want you to cut his bastard out.’

  ‘She’s too far along.’

  ‘Maybe for herbs, but not for surgery,’ Rochford countered. ‘You were a ship’s surgeon. I have that on good authority. I told Margaret Leeson you’d be calling. You appear to know each other. Get rid of the child and I will reward you handsomely. Do it this evening. I will call over, see that you’ve done the job.’

  He flung a scattering of silver onto the table. The coins rolled and tinkled, spinning on Merriment’s taut nerves.

  ‘Do nothing and you will be out on the street in a week.’

  He grabbed the salve and left the anteroom swiftly, the edge of his silver-tipped cane banging against the counter as he passed. Merriment sank onto the edge of the table, covered her mouth with her hands and closed her eyes. There was only one thing she could do.

  20

  Rosie

  The light was beginning to fade when the wind picked up, driving a bank of yellowish cloud down from the north. Solomon looked at the baleful sky and wondered if it would snow. Draped across his left forearm were the last remaining copies of the Occurrences with the added Pue’s News broadsheet outlining the story of the missing pigs and furnished with quotations from the apostle Mark. Boxed off in a square to the right of the headlines were the details of the curfew, passed by a resolution in both houses that very morning. The streets were to be clear by seven.

  ‘Read all about it,’ Solomon called. ‘The Black Dog to be exorcised. Dolocher drags pig corpses away with him. Will the Dolocher return? Curfew at seven.’

  He’d been running all day. Early in the morning he’d dashed to the meeting run by the bicameral houses set with the task of protecting the city; then he rushed off the broadsheet, coerced the printer to speed print his Pue’s News and sent Corker over to the Northside to sell the paper while he covered the Southside of the city. He’d been so busy that he’d had no time to think about Merriment. It was only when the sun was getting low in the late afternoon sky that he realised he hadn’t eaten. He stood at the top of Winetavern Street, the tips of his fingers blue from the cold, and called out the headlines.

  ‘Banished to hell. Pigs vanish. Read all about it. Has the Dolocher been slain?’

  He stamped his feet and was about to return to the office to pick up his bag and go in search of an inn for the night when he noticed a solemn procession rounding the corner from Castle Street and coming towards him. Led by a tall man draped in a black cloak and carrying a wooden cross, the crowd came quietly forward. The darkly clad people moved like a slow, approaching tide, their feet softly scuffing the pavement, their breath coming in white puffs, their heads bowed, hands clasped, eyes filled with a bright, terrified light.

  ‘Do you renounce the devil?’ the tall man bellowed loudly.

  The crowd responded, ‘I do.’

  ‘Do you reject Satan and all his works?’

  ‘I do,’ they chorused.

  ‘Do you reject Satan and all his empty promises?’

  ‘I do.’

  The tall man stared dead ahead, his ashen face framed by a grey powdered wig, his gloved hands tightly gripping the crucifix draped with rosary beads and decorated with scapulars. As he passed Solomon, he asked loudly, ‘Do you believe in God, the Father Almighty, creator of heaven and earth?’

  The crowd responded, ‘I do.’

  Solomon pressed himself against the wall, watching the sea of endless faces pass, their expressions haunted and uncertain and filled with intense concentration. Stray passers-by joined the procession. Solomon’s heart jolted. Merriment was there, holding Janey Mack by the hand. She was wrapped in a green cloak, her hair loose and softly flowing down her back, her head held high, looking straight ahead. She moved slowly, her pale face pinched and worried, her mouth firmly closed, resolutely not praying. Solomon wanted to call her name. He wanted to reach in, take her hand and bring her aside. He wanted to say, ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  He bit the inside of his lower lip, watching her glide past, the back of her head moving away, moving with the crowd, which followed the priest as he turned down Saint John’s Lane and led the congregation into the Augustinian friary. He wondered, had the fright of the Dolocher at her back door converted her? Driven her into religious submission? Made her overthrow everything? Solomon thought of his own transformation after his encounter with the demon. If a desire to reform could animate him to alter, why not Merriment? But there was something about this idea that did not sit well with him. Something of her resisted, her gaze, her refusal to join in the prayers. He was confused, and was mulling over what she could be doing in such a pious congregation when a short woman with watery eyes asked, ‘Ye selling that?’

/>   She pointed at the papers folded over Solomon’s forearm. Solomon nodded.

  ‘Yes, with a broadsheet containing more information, all for eight pence.’

  He sold the last of the Occurrences and walked to the corner of Saint John’s Lane, blowing into his freezing hands and glancing furtively at the scattering of people gathered outside the Augustinian gates. He thought of mingling with the congregation, of seeking Merriment out. Perhaps she was inside the old friary. He thought of slipping into the seat beside her, of whispering to her, his lips close to her ear, his breath warming her neck. He imagined saying, ‘I can come back,’ and dreamed of her tentatively reaching for his fingers, her hand sliding into his, her eyes silently gazing straight ahead as she nodded. Stung by the absurd romanticism of such a thought, Solomon rounded on his heels and marched through the network of narrow alleys and lanes at the back of the church, blind with self-recrimination and seething with the burning desire to escape. He was lost in his own thoughts when someone reached for his shoulder and hauled him back, flattening him against a wall.

  ‘Hey.’ Solomon pushed, instinctively kicking, then seeing a neat row of teeth smile at him, his heart sank.

  Pearly had him in a stranglehold, his large fist squeezing his collar tight, heaving all his weight into Solomon’s gullet as he held a knife to his throat.

  ‘So,’ Pearly grinned, ‘Mister Fish, I am here on account of Billy Knox and an outstanding game fee.’ Then, suddenly dropping Solomon and slipping the blade up his sleeve, he stepped back and brushed down his pale blue nipped jacket, his fingers tentatively touching the pristine white ruff of lace bubbling down over his breastbone.