by Jan Siegel
“Come on. If you want to look over the rest of the house . . .”
“One moment.”
There were few cupboards, but all were marked with runes of guard. She opened them with her lizard’s paw, scanning the contents: spellbooks plastic-wrapped against possible damp, more flasks and phials, what appeared to be a winged fetus curled up in a greenish fluid. She took nothing, though she retained the bottle with which she had destroyed the magic symbols. The last cupboard was set deep in the wall, its double doors padlocked.
Luc asked: “Can you break the lock?”
“Not with magic. For a lock, there must be a key. What have you got?”
Luc’s collection of house keys proved unhelpful, but Fern found the right one in an adjacent drawer. “Almost as if the padlock is for show,” she remarked. “A gesture.” She unfastened it, and the doors swung wide.
It was Luc who screamed, a cry of astonishment and horror abruptly cut off. There was a single big jar inside, and it contained a human head. Fern, more accustomed to such things, merely froze and stared. It was the head of a woman with her eyes closed as if in sleep and her long hair floating in the liquid around her. Her skin was almost translucent, showing the faint blue tinge of veins at her temples, though no blood beat there; her mouth was as exquisite as a half-opened rose, but very pale. Luc said: “What kind of a hellhole is this?” And: “Do you know her?”
“I think so,” Fern answered slowly. “Don’t worry: this isn’t human. It is . . . fruit. Unalive and undead. We will not disturb her now.” She closed the cupboard, replaced the padlock. She added with the edge of a smile: “Of course this is a hellhole. It’s a witch’s lair. What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.” Luc shrugged. “Black velvet curtains—black candles—an altar to worship the devil.”
“Witches worship no one but themselves,” said Fern. “You’re thinking of Satanists. They have no true power, only the crumbs they can borrow from whatever Spirits they invoke.”
“Can we go now?” The voice of Skuldunder piped from the corner where he had retreated as soon as they entered the cellar.
“Where next?” Luc demanded.
“The spellchamber. That might have black velvet curtains. I wonder what Morgus did with the Tree? She must have planted it somewhere.” Fern checked the level in her stolen bottle: it was still three-quarters full. As they passed through the kitchen, ignoring the sounds of the hag hammering inside the chest freezer, Luc helped himself to the longest of the skewers and thrust a vicious-looking knife through his belt. “You look like a pirate,” Fern commented. “Aren’t you going to carry one in your teeth?”
Skuldunder muttered something and appropriated the nearest implement, which turned out to be a carving fork. Wielding it, he resembled a clumsy miniature Beelzebub, rendered even more comic by the hat brim screening most of his face. But nobody laughed. The emptiness of the house would have sucked up laughter, like a vacuum swallowing air.
When they reached the ground floor again, Luc said: “If you’re looking for a tree, there’s a conservatory. One of those Victorian monstrosities big enough for a small jungle. As far as I can remember, it’s badly in need of repair.”
“Dibbuck mentioned it,” Skuldunder volunteered. “He said there was a gypsy working there.”
“We’ll try it,” said Fern.
Luc switched on the flashlight again and led them along a dark corridor toward the back of the house. They saw the conservatory entrance across a sitting room full of slumbering mounds of furniture: a many-paned glass door set under a high arch that flashed the light back at them in broken glints. Luc opened the door without any hindrance. “No hex this time,” he said. “There can’t be anything here of importance.”
“Then let’s go,” said Skuldunder. “I don’t like it.”
Fern peered ahead into a different kind of darkness—a leafy darkness rustling without any wind. Fear emanated from it, tangible as a smell. She said: “There’s something here.”
Luc had seen enough that night not to argue. As he stepped over the threshold, Fern touched his arm. “Go carefully,” she said, “and very slowly.”
“I’ll wait,” said Skuldunder.
“If you run away,” Fern tossed over her shoulder, “I’ll spit you on your own fork.”
They moved forward down a kind of aisle between unseen thickets. The flashlight beam glanced over huge moth-eaten sprays, the withered fronds of dead palms, a cracked urn hatching a writhing nest of stems. The rustling had ceased: every sprig, every blade was still. Their soft-shod footsteps and the susurration of their breathing made the only sounds. At one point Fern’s toe nudged what she assumed was a piece of snapped branch, only it gleamed white in the gloom, like bone. And then the beam, probing ahead, found something she recognized. She did not speak, but her grip tightened on Luc’s arm, and he stopped in his tracks. He had no alternative. In front of them, filling the end of the aisle, was a tree. The Tree. It had been planted in a stone trough, but the stone was already cracked; groping roots reached out across the floor and thrust down between the paving stones. Its trunk, twisting slightly so as to spread itself within the confines of the conservatory, was broader than Luc’s waist. The light beam moved upward, taking in the oaklike foliage, blinking back from the convex panes of the roof beyond. “Back down,” Fern whispered. (She didn’t know why she chose to whisper.) “I saw something . . . there.” The beam fixed on what might have been a misshapen apple hanging from a low branch, its rind very pale, a wisp of black down sprouting from the junction with the stem.
“What is it?” asked Luc. He, too, kept his voice low.
“Look further,” said Fern. “There may be one more advanced.”
The light roamed to and fro among the leaves. The beam was weak, but it traveled almost down to eye level now. It lit up another apple, smaller and greener, and then at last, within easy reach, it alighted on the object Fern sought—and dreaded to find. This time, Luc did not scream. Fern heard the hissing intake of his breath, saw the smudge of light tremble before it grew steady. The head hung there, life-size and complete in every detail, its milky skin glistening faintly as if with predawn dew. Jetty tangles of hair snaked down below the neck stump; eyes and mouth were closed. Luc held up the skewer like a sword, pointing at the monstrosity. “Explain.”
“This is fruit,” Fern said, “of a kind. The parent Tree is the one I spoke of: it grows in another dimension. The heads of the dead ripen there: it is said all who have done evil must hang a season on that Tree. Sometimes many seasons. This—it can’t be a seedling: the Eternal Tree has no seeds—it must be a cutting, nurtured by magic. But I don’t understand how it can bear fruit, here, in the real world—or what fruit this might be. It looks like Morgus herself, but she lives. It must be her twin sister, Morgun . . . Maybe this Tree is so imbued with her power that it will carry only those who are part of her history.”
“Like that one in the cupboard?”
“I . . . doubt it. That’s Sysselore—she looks much younger than when I knew her, but I’m sure. I believe she was taken from the original Tree and brought here. It’s been done before.”
“By whom?”
“Me.”
“This one’s alive.” She felt him start. “I saw its eyelid twitch. She’s alive—”
“Oh, yes,” said Fern. “She’s alive.”
She had seen that moment before, when the eyes jerk open, and the whole face springs into animation. But she had never before seen such an expression on any of the heads. The eyes stretched until the iris was fully exposed, the mouth spread into a smile—a wide, happy smile devoid of laughter, eager, exultant. “At last!” it said.
At last ? Fern was bewildered. The heads of those in purgatory were not usually elated or fulfilled.
“Take that light from our eyes,” it continued peremptorily. “Let us see you.”
Luc shifted the beam a little to the left. Under Fern’s clasp his muscles felt rigid.
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“The dark cannot hide you, Fern Capel,” said the head. “Have we not possessed you, mind and body? Did we not steal your very soul?”
“Morgus couldn’t keep it,” Fern retorted. “Why do you say ‘we’? I didn’t know you identified so closely with your twin.”
“My—twin?” The head scowled as if confused.
“You are Morgun? Aren’t you?”
“Morgun! Do not insult us. That our own flesh and bone should turn into a milksop, mewling after the world’s approval and men’s love. She hung in bitterness on the Eternal Tree in a time outside Time. She wanted forgiveness, but not ours. Her mistake. We did not wait to see her wither; we had better things to do.”
“Then—who are you?” But she knew the answer.
“We are Morgus.”
“How—?”
“We are one with the Tree. Blood and sap, root and sinew, we are bound together. Long before, we plucked it from its progenitor with the most secret rituals, and it was brought to this world—first to Syrcé’s island, then here. This fruit is the symbol of our union. Others will follow: we will be many. The power of the Eternal One is in us, and with it, we will engulf this kingdom of Britain. The network of our roots will burrow deep in its soil and our unseen branches will overspread the sky. Already, there are those who have drunk of our sap and serve our every need. One in particular, who was rich and powerful and called himself honest . . . his mind is in our keeping. He brings us Money, which in this latter-day world opens all doors. We have watched long in the spellfire and learned much: there is no more nonsense of succor, valor, honor. Now Money is men’s credo and their grail. The gods have fled: their place has been taken by small men with big bank accounts. Your leaders are no longer warriors or greathearts but mere performers, posturing before the multitude. Once, they would not have sold their honor for gold; today, they sell it for a sliver of plastic, a scrap of paper inscribed with many zeros. We will buy our way into their inmost circle and dose them with our potions, and Logrèz will be ours forever. Oh yes, we have learned much, Fernanda. We did not need you after all.”
“I am Morcadis, or have you forgotten? You named me; I cannot be unnamed.”
“We do not forget. We will taste of revenge before all else. You may sneak in here when our earthly self is absent, but you cannot hide for long—”
“I am not hiding,” Fern pointed out. “Can’t she see through your eyes—or you hers?”
“Not yet. This fruit is still strange to us. We do not comprehend what our sorcery has engendered. When we meet, we will be whole, and all will be made clear.”
Fern felt a sudden surge within her, beyond knowledge, beyond reason, as if all her instincts cried out with a single message. She said: “Then I will take you to her!” Turning to Luc, she added: “Give me that knife.”
“The thing is insane,” he said. “A disembodied head hanging on a tree, and it—she—wants to rule the world.”
“All the Gifted are mad,” said Fern. “I told you that.”
“And you?”
“Getting there.” She took the knife, approached the head.
“You cannot touch us,” it said. “We are protected.” There was such malevolent satisfaction in the face that Luc stepped back, suddenly wary, directing the flashlight in a swift circuit around them. Maybe it was a trick of the shadows, but to their left where the foliage was thickest a shudder seemed to run through the leaves. He gripped the skewer tight in his other hand.
“There is no spell here,” Fern said, reaching up toward the stem. And even as she spoke, she knew there was something wrong. This fruit, of all things, would have been shielded. She hesitated, half turned—
She had a brief vision of the darkness itself rising up and springing upon her—she heard the head give a cry of evil triumph. Then her skull struck the ground, and she blanked out.
In the basement in Soho, they waited. Now that the circle was closed the room had shrunk back to its normal proportions. Ragginbone lit more candles, Moonspittle switched on the electric light. Gaynor found herself studying the prints on the wall, but when she saw them close up she wished she hadn’t. Will unstoppered a glass retort containing a liquid the color of urine and sniffed, concluding hopefully that it was whiskey. “Can we drink this?” he asked. “I’ll bring you another bottle tomorrow.”
Moonspittle’s boot-button gaze squinted beadily at him. “Tomorrow,” he said, “we may be dead. Thanks to the witch.”
“All the more reason to drink it now,” said Will.
They drank out of chipped cups, sat down, stood up. Talked little. Mogwit continued to prowl, his patchy fur sticking out from his body as if he had received a violent electric shock. “If you had any sense,” Will remarked, “you’d get out.”
“He’ll stay with me,” Moonspittle said indignantly. “He’s my familiar.”
“No sense,” said Ragginbone.
Gaynor suggested timidly: “Shouldn’t we have weapons?”
“Against Morgus?” Ragginbone shrugged.
“I’ve got a knife,” Will said. He drew out of his jacket something like a hunting knife but black, both haft and hilt. When it moved through the air Gaynor thought she could hear the faint sigh of molecules being sliced in half.
“What do you expect to accomplish with that?” said Ragginbone, at his most inscrutable.
“It will cut through both iron and magic,” Will insisted.
Moonspittle eyed it apprehensively. “There is a darkness on it that is more than sorcery. Or less.”
“Maybe,” said Will, “but it’s mine. I know: I stole it.”
They fell into silence. The rumor of the city night sounded far away. Gaynor thought the books on the shelves seemed to squeeze together as if to make their spines less visible, and wished she could do the same. A cockroach scurried out of a crevice, thought better of it, and scurried back in again. Time passed. Gaynor almost began to hope that Morgus would not come.
They had left the basement door slightly ajar, and the first they heard of an arrival was the stifled rattle of a bell that no longer rang. There was a pause, then came a series of thuds on the front door, as if from a heavy fist. Gaynor imagined the whole building shook. She said quickly: “Surely she can’t come in? If we don’t invite her, she can’t come in?”
“This is a shop,” said Ragginbone, “even if it’s always closed. The taboo doesn’t apply. In any case, Morgus will have ordinary human henchmen to whom such laws mean nothing.”
There was the sound of breaking glass, the squeal of bolts, the rasp of a chain. Someone was forcing their way through Moonspittle’s multiple security devices, smashing what they could not undo. Moonspittle shrieked: “No! No!” and doubled into a crouch behind a chair, his head tucked down like a hedgehog in a ball, shaking all over.
Will indicated the basement door, but Ragginbone only frowned. “No point.” And then came the footsteps striding through the shop, reaching the top of the stair. The tap-tapping footsteps of high-heeled shoes. They began to descend the stair, slowly—it was narrow and hazardous—but without faltering. Will drew his knife for a second, then changed his mind, sliding it back into the sheath inside his jacket. Gaynor’s heart was beating so hard she felt physically sick. Under the weathering of centuries, Ragginbone’s face was pale. Mogwit leaped clumsily onto the back of a chair, his claws raking great troughs in the upholstery. The heel taps ceased and they knew she was there, behind the door, beyond the light. Even the cat froze.
“Uvalé!”
The door slammed back against the wall. A gale screamed through the room, snuffing the candles; the electric light flickered and went out. Morgus stood in the doorway, outlined in wereglow, her Medusa locks crackling with live energy, her night-black stare scanning the shadows. She cried: “Morcadis!” and her extended fingers cast a lance of radiance that roamed across the faces of the occupants. Ragginbone. Will. The disappearing tail of Mogwit. The humped shoulder of Moonspittle. Last of all, it found Gayno
r. “The friend,” she said, and her tone softened, but it was not pleasant. “Little Gwennifer. Where is she? Where is Fernanda Morcadis?”
“Your sister has gone,” Gaynor said, and was surprised to find her voice steady.
“My . . . sister?”
“She went with the boat,” said Gaynor. Desperately, she drew on her knowledge of legend, on the words of Nimwë. “They took my king. Have you forgotten?” She had no idea how the others were reacting to her improvisation and she did not dare to look; her only hope was to divert Morgus. The witch queen was wearing the clothes she evidently considered suitable to her status: a twenty-first-century evening dress of some silky material, in the deep purple of vintage wine. Her high heels were probably Prada. To Gaynor, the costume appeared incongruous, and somehow this gave her courage.
“I will never forget,” said Morgus. “What of it? Morgun died long ago. I seek Morcadis. She was here—they told me she was here—”
“She was here,” Gaynor echoed. “She has grown in power, since her death.”
“My twin died: that was final. Morcadis—”
“Death has many kingdoms, but only one portal,” Gaynor said. She thought it was a line she must have read somewhere.
“Enough! You were never bright, Gwennifer, but dabbling in magic has made you witless—or are you trying to deceive me? That would indeed be folly. Speak! Or I will split your brain in two and pick out your thoughts with red-hot pincers. Where is Morcadis?”