Absence: Whispers and Shadow

by J. B. Forsyth

  As he looked around at all the women and children heading for market, Garel recalled the way Joannah rushed up the stair with a sickle in her hand. He imagined his wife running wild amongst them and realised the exorcist was right. If the spirit was back in control it would be immoral not to stop her at the earliest opportunity.

  ‘You have my word.’

  The exorcist continued to stare at him as if it would harden his promise. Finally, he nodded his satisfaction and nudged his horse on. They dismounted just before the first row of houses where an old man leant against a hitching rail to which two horses were tethered. Garel handed the man two copper moons and after patting Bo on the neck led the exorcist into the flow of people. He set a stiff pace, weaving through those with little reason to hurry and they were able to overtake a great many before they arrived at the square.

  The heart of the town opened out before them. Stalls and carts were set up in rows and scores of people were bustling up and down the aisles, poring over the offerings. He spotted his wife immediately, no more than fifty yards ahead of them. It was her dress that gave her away - the one that reminded Ormis of blue sky and fluffy clouds.

  ‘There,’ he said, pointing. ‘In the blue dress and lace trimmed bonnet.’ As he waited for the exorcist to pick her out he noticed something odd. Joannah was walking between rows of stalls without even a sideways glance at them – tables laden with woollen garments and rolls of fabric over which she normally enthused. She was walking right down the middle as if she had no interest in them whatsoever. It was a black omen and as she disappeared into the crowd he began to get a very bad feeling.

  ‘This is your chance Mr. Brathra,’ said the exorcist. ‘I wish you luck. But remember, if it is not your wife that walks this market you must signal me immediately. Raise your hand in the air, high enough for me to see it.’ And with that he moved off to one side in a pretence of browsing the stalls.

  Garel caught up with Joannah and followed her down the aisle. He tried to imagine her face, but all he could conjure were the blood blister eyes and wet faced snarl she was wearing after he tried to drown her. And with each step closer he felt a debilitating fear strengthen in his chest. He saw his neighbour, Jon Saddler, strolling up the aisle from the opposite direction. When he saw Joannah he slowed up and raised a hand in greeting, but his face dropped when she walked right by. Garel reached him just as he was turning to gawp and grabbed his shoulder. ‘Jon. How are you?’

  ‘Uh Garel. Sorry I was miles away… I just …’

  ‘Yeah, I saw. I’m sorry about that, but please don’t take it personally. She got a bump on the head yesterday and it’s got her a bit dopey. She probably didn’t even see you.’

  ‘Nothing serious I hope. She doesn’t look too well.’

  ‘Can’t be if she still wants to come out ’n’ spend it eh?’

  Jon laughed, but his eyes didn’t register the humour. ‘I guess not.’

  Garel patted his shoulder. ‘Well I’ll be seeing yer Jon. I best catch up before I lose her.’

  ‘Aye. Best you do.’

  With that he left Jon staring after him and hurried through a clot of people, falling into step alongside his wife.

  ‘Joannah.’

  She stopped dead.

  As the funnel of her bonnet turned towards him he felt his pounding heart climb into his throat. He looked directly into her shaded face. There was no demon in her bonnet, but the eyes that regarded him were not his wife’s. The loving sparkle that had always warmed him was gone. Icy contempt gushed from them now, chilling his blood and numbing what little hope he had left. And for that brief moment he saw through her eyes to the evil that held his wife hostage. She turned away and continued on through the marketplace.

  He stood there stunned, watching her go. He saw an old lady goggling and realised she had seen the exchange. He gave her an awkward smile, then remembering his promise he looked for the exorcist. He made eye contact, but instead of raising an arm he turned away and went after his wife, hoping he hadn’t seen what happened. It had only taken a second to look into Joannah’s face and there were enough people between him and the exorcist to have obscured his view. He had given his word, but his oath breaking arms now swung treacherously at his sides. The shock of what he saw in her face had rendered him speechless and he hadn’t tried to speak to her yet. There still might be something he could say. He would give it one more go, regardless of his promise. His family’s reputation was up in the air and it would land in the mud if he didn’t catch it.

  He followed his wife through a gap between two stalls and into a neighbouring aisle. The crowd at that point was so dense that the exorcist didn’t see them go and he continued along the same row, striding out the very second they disappeared, turning his head this way and that with increasing concern.

  Garel came alongside his wife for a second time. ‘Joannah, you’ve gotta come home with me,’ he whispered, not knowing what else to say. What was he supposed to say to get the attention of someone imprisoned by a spirit demon? When she didn’t respond he reached for her arm, but she yanked it away without looking at him. He saw people were beginning to stare and so he stopped, allowing her to get ahead. Affecting a casualness he didn’t possess, he grabbed an apple from a fruit stall and tossed the seller a coin.

  Joannah shoved past an elderly couple to reach a stall where wild boar was roasting on a spit. Dripping fat sizzled in a fire pit and stomach beguiling aromas filled the air. Up front warm meat was laid out on a wooden chopping board and priced up at three copper moons per slice. The seller was sitting on a log by the fire and he rose to greet her, his easy smile dropping away when he got a look in her bonnet. Without a word to him she took up a handful of meat the way a child would; squeezing it tight enough for it to bulge out between her knuckles. She stuffed it into her mouth, her jaw working ferociously on the fatty mass and the juices running off her hand and down her sleeve.

  ‘Hey. You can’t do that lady,’ he said. ‘It’s not proper…You’re gonna have to pay for all this you know.’ His face was white, his words wavering with disgust.

  Joannah made no reply. Didn’t even look at him. She grabbed up another handful of meat, her face contorting with pleasure as she pressed it into her mouth. She seemed unconcerned that most of it fell off her cheeks onto her dress and she was oblivious to the people staring at her.

  ‘I’ll pay for it,’ Garel said, stepping up beside her, his purse already out and open in his trembling hand. He was ready to give all he had to placate the seller, but the man’s eyes never left his wife - as if a sideways glance would allow her to lean forward and bite him. ‘My wife’s not feeling well,’ he said through a forced smile. ‘We shouldn’t really have come. But we’ll be on our way now.’ He reached for Joannah’s arm again, but this time she whirled with meat dangling from her mouth and gave him a vicious shove that sent him crashing into a neighbouring stall, destroying a display of fruit and turning a full box of plums out onto the square. Before they stopped rolling she turned back to rake up another fistful of meat. People froze in mid barter to gawp and in the resulting quiet her chomping was like that of a dog.

  A bald man with a red moustache cut through into their aisle. He was donned in a red and green tunic that marked him as the market warden. ‘What’s going on here?’ he inquired with baritone authority.

  Garel pushed himself to his feet. ‘It’s nothing, I’ll pay for the damage and we’ll be on our way. My wife knocked her head and suffered some sort of concussion. She’s not quite right yet.’

  The warden looked at the back of Joannah’s head and frowned at the way she was stuffing meat into her bonnet. ‘Then why d’you bring her here?’

  ‘I didn’t. She was resting. I left her alone and she wandered off.’

  ‘Well perhaps you should keep a better eye on her.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Take her home and be sure to compensate these two fellows first.’

  The exorcist had been alert
ed by the crashing boxes and now he shouted across from the next aisle as he fought through the crowd to reach them. ‘Move back from her all of you. Move back by order of the Caliste!’

  The warden looked in his direction, but either his hearing wasn’t up to scratch or he didn’t comprehend the words. He reached out and touched Joannah’s shoulder. ‘Come now, your husband will take you home.’

  Her reaction was instant.

  She spun on him with a meat skewer gripped in her grease slicked fingers. He jerked back and the point of the skewer, originally destined for his neck, raked across his cheek, scraping a groove on his temple and separating the top of his ear from his skull. He clasped his hand to his head and blood poured through his fingers. A collective gasp of horror swept through the crowd and one woman fainted.

  In that moment, as they all stood impotent with shock, the only line of action crystallised in Garel mind. He had to knock her out before they found out what was wrong with her. But as he moved to strike she crossed the line.

  With her arms held out wide Joannah did a slow turn, giving everyone a good look into her face as her eyes ignited with blood fire. She threw her head back and roared and there was a collective flinch from the crowd, followed by a moment of utter silence. The first sound to break it was a single word. It was shouted by one of the market sellers and it was the last word Garel wanted to hear.

  ‘Witch!’

  The Baker’s Oven

  It was all over for them now and Garel knew it. Joannah turned in the direction of the voice, her eyes throbbing red light as if to confirm the accusation. The spell fixing everyone in place finally broke and people began to flee - jumping over stalls and pushing one another out of the way. But not all of them ran. Some stayed long enough to pack up their stalls while others, whose sense of duty was strong, took up weapons and pushed to the front. As the exorcist inched towards his wife Garel wished he had given the signal. The blood of the warden was on his hands now; as was any that followed.

  ‘By the authority of the Caliste I bid you all to stand aside,’ he shouted, raising his hand above his head and twisting it around so that all could see his pulsating mist stone. ‘This lady is the victim of a possession and I am here to release her. Stay back lest you become her possessor’s next host.’

  The armed men backed away from Joannah at once and it was clear from their faces that most hadn’t considered their vulnerability. The exorcist lunged, but she bolted away with her dress hitched up and her white underskirt flashing brilliantly in the morning sun. He gave chase with his cloak billowing and just as he reached out to grab her, she leapt onto a bare table.

  It looked like there was nowhere to go. The table was the last in its row and there was only a line of shops beyond it. But she bounded across it and leapt off the other end, jerking skywards with superhuman acceleration and travelling an impossible arc that delivered her into a crouch on top of the bakery roof. She scrambled up the slates to the ridge tiles and clung to the smoking chimney, roaring a note of triumph across the square. A breeze rippled her dress and her eyes blazed like beacons.

  Below, those who were chasing converged around an abandoned vegetable store and began pelting her with whatever came to hand - a vicious barrage of onions, carrots and tomatoes that rained down on the bakery roof and rolled back onto the square. Most fell short or wide and those that came close were swatted aside. But then someone found a potato and launched it with perfect trajectory. It flew straight into her bonnet; striking her on the forehead and wiping the snarl clean off her face. For a second she was motionless, then she toppled forward like a felled tree. She slid down the roof, pivoted over the eaves and landed on the cobbles with a thud.

  The exorcist was over her immediately and the rest were only a few paces behind. Among them was her husband and he was white with shock.

  ‘Back, all of you!’ bawled the exorcist, throwing his arms wide to curb their murderous enthusiasm. His authority held and they were stayed, content for now to observe in a semicircle of bristling weapons. He dropped to one knee and covered her face with a scour grip.

  Theor Elswer had been an exorcist for forty-two years. But he now made two erroneous assumptions. He assumed the fall had rendered her unconscious and he assumed she was unarmed. He had seen the warden clutching his bloody ear, but he hadn’t seen the skewer in her hand or the way she twisted her wrist to conceal it in her sleeve. As he scoured her limp body she began to reverse that wrist action, bringing the greasy point of the skewer back into the open. He would have seen her do it, but her husband stepped forward to seal his fate.

  ‘Is she alive?’ Garel asked in a wispy voice. The exorcist remained fixed in his endeavour - unreachable with such inquiries, but distracted enough to shift his gaze away. ‘Is she alive?!’ he repeated. He was oblivious to the exorcist’s need for concentration and had forgotten his promise to stay out of his way. He understood on some level that an exorcism was in process, but the echoes of his wife thudding onto the cobbles were still in his head. He needed to know if she was alright and when the exorcist didn’t answer he pulled at his shoulder. ‘Is she alive?’

  Theor shrugged him off, his hand still on Joannah’s face and his mind semi focused within her. But Garel refused to be ignored and tugged him harder - breaking his concentration and forcing him to withdraw his scour. To the villagers who could see his face, it looked like he was pulling his mind up through a vat of honey. He shoved Garel away, his mouth opening to bawl a reprimand. But the words never came out.

  The spirit demon that held dominion in Joannah’s body sensed its chance and brought both her arms up in a deadly clap, skewering the exorcist’s neck to her other hand. Theor’s eyes widened as hers opened, blazing red light into his face. She tugged on the skewer, pulling him down and making his neck bulge at the front. He grabbed her hands in a desperate attempt to stop his throat ripping out, his breath becoming a terrible bubbling gurgle as his airway filled with blood. He tried to stand but he was attached to her by the skewer and the action served only to add more weight to his pierced throat. His knee buckled and he dropped onto her, blood spurting through their combined fingers and pouring over his throbbing mist stone. His chest heaved as his fading body fought to draw air through his blood swamped throat and his eyes climbed out of their sockets with the effort. With one last convulsion the fight went out of him and he collapsed on top of her. In the ensuing silence Joannah yanked the skewer from his neck, her blood splattered face grinning with satisfaction.

  As she pushed the exorcist off a man stepped over her with a raised pitchfork. Garel lunged forward to grab the shaft, but something struck him on the back of his head and he dropped to his knees as the pitchfork pierced her thigh. It went right through, scraping the cobbles and fixing her in place. She sat up with a roar, grasping the handle and trying to wrench it free. It was not a sound of pain, but of rage. Some of the other men rushed forward to finish her off, but the man who was holding the pitchfork called them off. ‘Wait! The exorcist was right. We have to do it proper, or one of us’ll be next.’

  Garel pushed himself up to a swooning stance, thrusting an open palm at the men. Most of the faces were familiar to him. The one pinning his wife was Harlow the tanner and there was also Jon saddler, who he’d spoken with earlier. ‘No…Wait. We could just tie her up and send for another exorcist.’

  ‘Too late for that,’ said Harlow, as he fought to keep Joannah still. ‘Look what she did to this one.’ The top of his pitchfork moved from side to side as she yanked at it and he was forced into a wide stance to keep control. ‘He might’ve done you a favour if you hadn’t kept pulling at him like that. What were you thinking man?’

  Garel had no answer. He could only stare as two men went to work on his snarling wife, prying her fingers off the pitchfork and pulling her arms out to the sides.

  ‘They’re saying you rode in with the exorcist,’ said Jon. ‘You knew what was wrong with her and you didn’t warn anybody... My children were he
re damn you!’

  They were all looking at Garel now.

  ‘He bought an apple from me just a minute ago,’ said a fruit seller, ‘and there weren’t a care on his face.’

  An onion shot out from the gallery of black faces, striking Garel on the bridge of his nose. It whipped his head back and sent him staggering against the bakery wall.

  For a second no one moved.

  Then, all but Harlow set about him. Set about him as though they had agreed it, first with batons and fists, then thrusting with knives and stomping with boots until he lay crumpled against the bakery wall. Not thirty seconds after the onion struck him, Garel’s assailants stood above his lifeless body, panting with the effort.

  ‘Now for the witch!’ cried Harlow. He turned to a plump man in an apron. ‘Bron. Are your ovens fired?’

  The baker was transfixed by the scene and startled by the use of his name. He blinked and looked at Harlow. ‘Of course they’re fired. It’s market day isn’t it? Why…?’ He took a step back into the building. ‘Oh no you don’t. Not in my bakery.’

  ‘It’ll take too long to raise another fire.’

  ‘I’ll not hear of it.’

  ‘Would you rather us leave her here!’ Harlow bawled, his face red and his forearms rippling as he fought his pitchfork. Joannah was barking at the men that held her arms and burning them with her eyes.

  ‘Get her legs,’ he said, recruiting a bunch of men who had been keeping their distance. When all four limbs were secured he jerked the pitchfork free and helped them carry her thrashing body to the doorway. The baker puffed up, bracing himself against the doorframe. ‘I told you. Not it here. It wouldn’t be right.’