The Dolocher

by Caroline Barry

  Merriment winced as the liquid burned, sliding in cutting waves down to her stomach. She lay back on the pillows, closing her eyes for a moment. Solomon stroked her hand and for a while thought she was sleeping.

  ‘He was in the yard,’ she spoke, her eyes still closed. ‘The night they killed the pigs. He was waiting.’

  Then, jolting forward, she grasped Solomon’s arm,

  ‘Where’s Rosie? Did he take her?’

  ‘No, no, no.’ Solomon stroked Merriment’s shoulders trying to get her to calm down. ‘She’s in the Lying-In Hospital. She lost the baby.’

  Merriment sank back into the pillows with shock. Solomon lifted the glass and made her take a few more sips. Merriment’s face began to flush, the sherry working on her anxiety, helping her nerves to steady. She smiled feebly and whispered, ‘What will we do?’

  Solomon stared at her.

  ‘I’ll stay with you,’ he promised.

  Merriment’s smile was full of pity. ‘It won’t matter,’ she replied despondently, and turned her face away to gaze at the floor.

  Wounded by the remark, feeling unwanted and useless, Solomon drained the glass. For a while they listened to the flames patter in the hearth before he stood up and unhooked the shutters, pulling them back to show her the night outside.

  ‘It’s been snowing,’ he told her.

  ‘Why are you here?’ Merriment searched his face.

  ‘I thought . . .’ Solomon ran his fingers through his hair. He wanted to stay. His chest contracted: was she going to ask him to leave?

  ‘I mean,’ Merriment sat up a little higher, ‘how did you get here?’

  Solomon stood a moment, framed by the mullions of the window, his reflection distorted in the small panes of glass. Over his shoulders, the snow came in hushed waves; the flakes picked out by the candlelight flashed mildly as they momentarily drifted by before vanishing into the darkness.

  ‘I found you,’ he repeated.

  ‘So you said.’ Merriment became curiously animated, her expression suddenly filled with familiar concentration. ‘But how?’ she enquired, something steady in her voice outstripping her distress.

  ‘I was staying in the Boar’s Den,’ Solomon began.

  He didn’t want to tell her he’d got into a game. He scratched his right eyebrow, looking away as he remembered joking with Fred and Jessop. He had managed to inveigle his way into their company, bought them drink, and by careful prying, hidden beneath layers of nonsense and card tricks, he had extracted slivers of information. They had left before curfew, sniggering as they tumbled out into the street, Fred wagging his finger and whispering ‘scapegallows’ and Jessop vomiting against the wall.

  ‘Look at him shooting the cat,’ Fred tittered. ‘There’s the best of Ethel’s stew.’ And they crept away joking about the curfew and boasting about putting up a fight and escaping the militia.

  Solomon wiped his hand over his mouth and reached for the empty glass on the table. He needed more drink.

  ‘I heard a scream. A few of us did.’ He spoke slowly, staring at the glass as he refilled it. ‘We ran out. And I saw you in the snow. I couldn’t believe it.’ Solomon looked away. ‘I carried you here, a few of us . . .’ Solomon took a long glug, draining the glass. ‘I thought I was laying your corpse on the table downstairs.’

  He sat down on the bed. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he looked at the floor. ‘Janey was hysterical. Stella had a hell of a time trying to stop her crying. It was Ethel saw you were breathing.’

  ‘Ethel?’ Merriment asked.

  Solomon nodded. ‘The owner of the Boar’s Den. She and her husband came with us and two soldiers. The others took Rosie to the Lying-In Hospital. Once we knew you were alive, we patched you up. Janey talked to you over and over. She cleaned and bandaged your wound, kept kissing your face and stroking your hair and whispering that you were going to be all right.’

  Solomon sighed, looking a moment at the swarm of spectral flakes cutting the night air with soft icy precision. The snow landed on the mullions, piling inches thick on the slender staves between the glass panes, forming a crystalline depth on the window sill, gently illuminating the houses and rooftops across the way, bringing a quietening hush to the world. He was exhausted.

  ‘She’ll be pleased as punch to see you sitting up and talking,’ he said.

  Merriment searched his profile, watched him looking out at the snow, watched him worry his lips between his teeth and clamp his mouth shut, his expression drawn and tired.

  ‘And you stayed,’ she said softly.

  He turned, his breath caught in his chest, suspended by hope. There was something in her tone, a possibility that shimmered beneath the words. Was she glad that he had stayed? She smiled, her fingers tentatively reaching towards him. He took her hand, involuntarily sighing, her fingers winding through his, squeezing softly, reassuring him.

  He could stay.

  They looked deeply into one another’s eyes, neither of them speaking, a tender pressure building between them, the silence filled with unspoken affection, and for a long time they just gazed, relieved, quiet, warm and together.

  It was Merriment who broke the spell.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked.

  ‘I think it’s about four in the morning.’

  Merriment frowned.

  ‘It’s been snowing all night,’ Solomon said. Merriment looked out at the whirling flurries, turning in the bed as she gazed at the thickening snow falling from the black sky.

  ‘I don’t believe in God,’ she confessed. ‘Even with the Dolocher, I don’t believe in God, maybe that’s why . . .’

  Solomon drew nearer. ‘No more now,’ he said. ‘Enough for tonight. Try to sleep.’

  He kissed her again, her lips softly responding, kissing him back.

  ‘No more,’ he said and Merriment closed her eyes.

  *

  When Merriment woke up the next morning, Janey Mack’s face hovered next to the bed surrounded by a halo of blinding-white light.

  ‘There ye are,’ Janey Mack whispered, her huge eyes wide with anxiety. Merriment tried to pull her thoughts coherently together. Where was Solomon? It was daytime.

  Behind Janey, Merriment could see the unshuttered window and a rectangle of white sky and snowy glass.

  ‘Janey,’ she whispered, carefully sitting up.

  ‘Ye look shockin’ pale,’ Janey Mack said, reaching in to help Merriment haul herself up.

  ‘I’m fine.’ Merriment winced, her whole body shuddering with a dull, pervasive ache. Janey Mack grabbed the eiderdown and pulled it aside, choking back the tears.

  ‘Let’s check yer wound, make sure it’s not gone sour,’ she said, fighting hard to stop her chin puckering.

  Merriment inspected the wound. A scab was forming. ‘That’s a good sign.’ She gingerly tapped the edges of the cut and said that all she needed was a little perigynium ‘to stop septicaemia setting in’. Seeing Janey Mack’s expression, Merriment took a deep breath, summoning up all her inner resolve.

  ‘You’ve done a wonderful job, Janey.’ She smiled painfully, touching Janey Mack’s hair. ‘A wonderful job.’

  Janey Mack shivered with relief, tears beading her eyes.

  ‘Y’er sure?’ she blinked, too afraid to be happy. ‘It looks shockin’ red to me.’

  ‘Red’s a good colour with a wound like this.’ Merriment covered herself up. She felt hollowed out and cold. Her bones ached to the very marrow. Her heart was deeply troubled. The world was not safe and as she gazed about the brightly lit room, she couldn’t shirk off the continuous waves of terror as the memory of that first moment of her attack replayed over and over. She tried not to see the Dolocher, but flashes of his black bristling skull exploded in her mind. She relived that instant when the darkness burst open and out of the inky blackness the Dolocher surged towards her, grotesquely strong and evil. She tried to swallow down the memory, but her swollen throat served as a horrific reminder of her encount
er with a demon.

  Janey Mack connected with Merriment’s nervous glance. She climbed onto the bed and flung her arms around Merriment’s neck.

  ‘What’ll we do, miss?’ the little girl blurted. ‘It’s shockin’ awful to think he nearly had ye. Cuttin’ ye like that and almost haulin’ ye te hell, and if ye’d have died, I’d be beside meself with grief. How would I ever go back out to scavenging after the comfort of yer kindness and the world would be sorrowful lonely without ye and I wouldn’t know what to do. Ye won’t die,’ she blubbered. ‘I couldn’t live without ye. I’d be lost. I’d be lost.’

  Merriment kissed the little girl’s head and rocked her gently.

  ‘Janey,’ she hoarsely rasped as she mustered up enough strength to lie. ‘I’m not going to die. I promise.’

  Janey Mack shivered, snuggling deep into Merriment’s side and burying her head for a moment in Merriment’s shoulder.

  ‘Will we have to go to sea?’ the little girl asked. ‘Sail far away from Dublin and the Dolocher?’

  Merriment wondered the same thing.

  ‘Did he crack the ground open to drag ye away down into the pit of hell?’ Janey Mack sat up, her huge eyes barely blinking as she held her breath waiting for the answer. Merriment recalled the Dolocher straddling her, his rank breath fanning over her face, drops of moisture dripping from his snout, his vicious energy as he squeezed on her gullet, driving the back of her skull into the cobbles.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I shot him,’ she said, suddenly remembering the flashpan exploding, the musket ball cracking with a deafening rapport.

  ‘Did ya!’ Janey Mack squealed, kneeling up on the bed, too astounded to be still. ‘Did he eat the bullet and run off?’ She leapt to the floor, her whole body animated.

  Merriment frowned, her mind searching for details.

  ‘Mother of sweet divine intercession.’ Janey Mack spun left to right. ‘And what else do ye remember?’

  ‘He let out a whelp.’ The sudden recollection jumped out of Merriment’s mouth, arresting her, unleashing a rapid succession of questions that scattered like tacks, piercing holes in her experience.

  Could a demon be wounded? Could it be destroyed?

  ‘Where’s my pistol?’ she asked.

  Janey Mack hunched her shoulders and pinched her fingers together, stooping a little as she asked, ‘Have ye not got it?’

  Merriment pointed to her cloak draped over a chair. ‘Is the holster there?’

  Janey Mack held up the empty leather pouch, her mouth dropping open as she gasped, ‘Gone. Do ye think he ate the Answerer too?’

  Merriment pulled back the blankets to get out of bed.

  ‘No!’ Janey Mack ran at her and covered her back up. ‘Ye’ve to stay in bed. I promised Sol. He’ll give me a shillin’. He’s downstairs cooking breakfast for ye. Whistling like a lark and frying bacon and bits of bread and he’s even going to make ye a pot of tea, and,’ she added hastily, ‘if the Dolocher ate yer pistol, there’s no getting it back. Sure, it’d have melted in his guts on account of his innards being made of smelting fire. Ye may whistle goodbye to it.’

  Merriment smiled feebly and waved Janey Mack back onto the bed, a single question buzzing beneath the sea of horrible images that repeatedly burst into her mind.

  Did I injure the Dolocher?

  Merriment lay back on the pillows and looked out at the white sky. Across the way she could see sloping rooftops covered in snow. Desperate to distract Janey Mack and to ease the little girl’s worries, Merriment asked her to explain why she wasn’t out playing snowballs.

  Janey Mack shrugged.

  ‘I haven’t the heart,’ she sniffed, slipping her hand around Merriment’s fingers. ‘Did he say anything to ye?’

  ‘The Dolocher?’

  Janey Mack nodded fearfully.

  Merriment looked at the ledge of gleaming snow. A grey dove landed on the sill, its yellow beak pecking hopefully as it fluffed its plumage, sending a small scattering of icy dust down onto the street below. The Dolocher’s pearlescent teeth, pared into points, cut through her thoughts. She saw the edges of the skewed lantern rolling by her head cast a garish milky glow as the flame swelled, brightening at the peculiar angle, highlighting the dark hairs sprouting jaggedly from the Dolocher’s narrow snout. His wild blue eyes, bloodshot and bulging, rolling deep in his dark craterous sockets. The bristles black and coarse, flecked with russet and grey in places. The patches of blue-grey bald spots where his exposed dead flesh shivered. Over and over Merriment struggled to supress the images. The Dolocher’s wild frenzy, his ferocious strength, his horrible bristling visage kept surging through her thoughts, reminding her of the noxious putrescence of his pure undistilled evil. She shuddered and clamped her teeth together, trying to quell the rolling fear sweeping through her body.

  ‘Did he?’ Janey Mack asked again. ‘Did he say anything to ye?’

  ‘What would he say?’ Merriment tried to make her voice light; instead it rasped harshly.

  ‘I don’t know. He told Solomon to change.’

  ‘I think that was metaphorically speaking.’ Merriment dragged herself together.

  ‘Is that how demons speak? Metaphorically?’ Janey Mack frowned. ‘Is that the language of hell?’

  ‘Some people think so.’ Merriment forced a smile, then took a slow, long breath, pain radiating though her bruised chest. ‘It means that Solomon decided to change after his encounter with the Dolocher.’

  She asked Janey Mack to pour her a glass of water. She couldn’t shake the black concerns that swirled at the centre of her being. She would have to change. She watched Janey Mack tip water into a glass and as the clear sparkling liquid flowed with a natural brightness, she wondered how to alter the crookedness of her own spirit. Would she have to get on her knees and pray? Where was God? What was God? Was this her punishment for sleeping with Beresford? For helping Misses Lennon drug her cruel husband? For helping Stella? Had she been measured and found wanting by some remote deity? A God she had no relationship with was calling her to account and all she could do was kick and resist the idea of an all-seeing eye. Would the Dolocher come back?

  The questions tumbled hot and fast, over and over as something within her baulked at the very notion of praying. God would know she had been coerced, that terror drove her to her knees, that a note of insincerity bubbled beneath her invocations. Perhaps the universal divine being that she had manufactured as a preference over the biblical God of the Old Testament did not care for her radical views on existence.

  She silently repeated the phrase an eye for an eye, unable to steady her disturbed mind. Janey Mack handed her a full glass. She sipped on the cold clear water. Its icy freshness stung as she swallowed, and she made a silent promise. She would change. She would do her best to be a better person.

  As she sipped, the memory of the Dolocher’s attack erupted in a new set of flickering images. A series of half-lit contours and staccato grunts. She remembered him recoiling a fraction, his dark skull rocked a moment, his side flinched as the musket ball went through him.

  Had she wounded the demon?

  Janey Mack began to chatter, her little face glowing with a mixture of anxiety and relief and as she babbled Merriment began to feel curiously restored by the little girl’s natural charm.

  ‘Corker says it’s a tall tale spun by Sol. But I said Sol has changed and how do you account for that? And Corker said, “A good fright disrupts bad habits for a while, but eventually the goodness wears off and the badness comes back, strong as ever.” I think he’s bitter, Corker, that is. I think he’s bitter on account of his mam once fell down the stairs and broke her leg and was good as gold for two months and Corker was likin’ her new mood and then she went wicked again, least that’s what he told me and that’s made him sceptic of anyone changing for the best. He reckons it doesn’t last.’

  ‘I see.’ Merriment tried to sound interested. ‘Well, time will tell, won’t it?’


  ‘That’s what I said. I said, “Hold yer horses, Corker, last month ye were hustlin’ over in Christchurch market and now yer workin’ in a fine office with a fire.” But he contradicted me there and said he’s freezing the skin from his bones trekkin’ up and down the town, selling Pue’s News. But I said, “A fine friendship has developed between yerself and Sol and if ye think Sol will leave ye, why bother at all?” And he says, “We poor have no choice but to depend on the kindness of others.” And I said, “What of it? If kindness comes, will ye not take it?” And he says, “It’s like walkin’ the plank: eventually y’er going to go in the deep end.” And I said, “Y’er miserable even when good fortune shines on ye.” And he says I’m gullible on account of I have landed in a fairy tale with you willing to look after me. And I said, “That’s not gullible,” and then he smirks at me, ’cause he’s a tendency to smirk, and tells me I’ll be let down yet. And I smirked back at him to annoy him, and I said, “That’ll never happen.” And the minute Sol walks in the room, there’s Corker as chipper and full of jabber, all talk of court assizes and house meetings like he’s a town official and him looking with big eyes up at Sol, like Sol himself stepped off a coach and four wearin’ a crown. I was that cross with him sucking up to Sol with big doe eyes, I pinched him. He gave me a dig back.’

  ‘Did he?’ Merriment was glad to be distracted by Janey Mack’s prattling.

  ‘We’re thinkin’ of building a snowman later, out in front of the shop. I said we could put a sign on him.’

  ‘What would it say?’ Merriment asked.

  ‘It would say, Feeling better, as if he’d been to visit ye, and ye fixed him up.’

  ‘That’s very clever.’ Merriment sat up higher in the bed, shifting forward and propping more pillows behind her back. ‘Now, if I’m going to get up at all I need hot water to clean this wound, and the perigynium. It’s in a jar on the second shelf over by the retorts near the back door. It has a purple seal, you can’t mistake it.’

  ‘Right-o.’ Janey Mack bounded off the bed. ‘But ye’ll not get up today. Sol was very stern about that. He says I have to do me best with the customers and turn away anyone I can’t help until y’er feeling ready to stand.’