When he had finished his wine, the minister pushed back his chair, brought out a length of plaited horsehair with bits of red yarn threaded through, and fashioned a large noose. When the body came by again, he tossed the horsehair noose over the stump of the neck and across the shoulders, and pulled the line tight so that the arms were bound fast to the sides. Then he wrapped the thin rope around a few times more, tied it with a knot, and returned to his seat.
"Mr. Haele," said the minister, with an affable smile, "I believe you were about to carve the beef."
But just as the farmer again lifted his carving knife in order to oblige, there was a series of thuds, like something rattling down the sides of the chimney. A head with a wild shock of dark hair bounced on the hearth-stones, flew up in the air, and landed square in the middle of the table, where it lay on the linen cloth, gobbling and cursing most horribly.
"This," said Mr. Fenn, at last losing his temper, "passes all bounds." And leaping up out of his seat, he thrust his hand into his pocket again, brought out a handful of grave dust, and threw it full in the face of the ghost. At once, the head snapped its mouth shut and was utterly quiet.
The minister caught up the head, holding it by its lank, dark, maggoty hair, and said some words over it.
"You are mine to command now," said Mr. Fenn, "whose ever you were before. I charge you to speak, and speak only the truth. Who was it that sent you here?"
"Cyneric Magnusson," said the fisherman's ghost. "May his name be ever cursed."
"So it shall be," said the minister. And he carried the head over to the stove, plunged it into the pot of steaming water, and replaced the lid.
***
Naturally enough, Cyneric Magnusson was not a popular figure in the parish after that. Torgun Haele never deigned to speak to him again, and as for other folk . . . what they had to say to him, Cyneric did not wish to hear. In the end, he was forced to move away, all the way to the other side of the island—where the folks were queer anyway, as everyone knows, and probably not like to take any further activities of that sort seriously amiss.
As for the minister and Torgun Haele: Mr. Fenn made his proposal in good time and in good form, and Torgun promptly accepted him. They settled down in a little house behind the church, until such time as Torgun should inherit the farm, where they proceeded to raise a fine, hopeful family of six clever sons. They were all of them little men, ginger-haired like their father, and two of them took holy orders . . . but none of them were sorcerers.
This fact, the people of Bruwikk attributed to the influence of their mother. Whether Torgun had married Mr. Fenn because he was so powerful as to lay the chimney ghost, or in spite of it, no one ever knew, but she was famed as a practical woman and a good housekeeper and had been heard to vow that she would never again permit such an awful disturbance at the dinner table in any house where she ruled as mistress.
Originally published in Weird Tales from Shakespeare, edited by Katharine Kerr, "Titania" has no direct connection to the Mask and Dagger novels; it does not even take place in that same world. In fact, it takes place in ours. Yet it would not exist at all had I not written Goblin Moon. Kevin Andrew Murphy "introduced" me to that fascinating historical figure Doctor James Graham, and to his famous—or infamous—invention the Celestial Bed, because he saw some resemblance to my own Doctor Mirabolo and his Temple of Healing. I was delighted with the information.
But once again I had an idea that I loved and no story to go with it, not until Kit asked me to contribute a story to her anthology. Suddenly I had the thought that Titania and Oberon were just the sort of characters to weave romantic intrigues around such a remarkable device (here invented by another Shakespearean character, rather than by Doctor Graham), but in order to bring the characters and the invention together it was necessary to move the story from Shakespeare's Athens to England in the 18th century, something I was not in the least reluctant to do.
TITANIA OR THE CELESTIAL BED
Titania sat in her dainty boudoir, sipping chocolate from a newborn rose. It was not, of course, a natural rose, but a china cup fashioned to resemble that flower, the porcelain tinted a delicate pink. Another day, Titania might have rejoiced in its beauty, in the apparent absurdity of drinking scalding chocolate from anything so frail as a blossoming rose—like most fairies, she had an abiding passion for innocent deceptions and gauzy illusions, for anything painted, gilded, fragile and false—but today she was feeling so wretched and angry that even the elegant cup and its matching chocolate pot failed to delight her.
She was unhappy because she had just received a letter from her cousin Oonagh, describing a chance meeting with the perfidious Oberon and a certain wanton hussy of a redheaded mortal, with whom he was conducting a violent love affair.
Titania put the cup and the letter aside, on a little alabaster pedestal table beside her couch. She found her lacy handkerchief, applied it to her dainty nose, and blew as hard as she could. This was not the first time that her wandering spouse had betrayed her trust . . . nor, to be fair (and Titania was always scrupulously fair), had the infidelity been on one side only . . . but it was certainly the most painful, public, and humiliating. And while divorce was clearly out of the question, for reasons both political and private, the estrangement this time was likely to be permanent.
And yet, Titania asked herself, winding a scented and powdered curl about a slender finger, is it entirely Oberon's fault if life is growing the tiniest bit stale?
No longer creatures of wood and field, over the last century-and-a-half Titania and her ilk had abandoned a carefree pastoral existence in favor of something called "town polish." No longer to shelter 'neath the leafy bough, but in imposing mansions of classical design. No longer to dress in rustic green and country scarlet, but in pastel satins and rich brocades; embroidered waistcoats and whalebone stays; ribbons, satin patches, and imported laces. No longer to whisk 'round the world in the twinkling of the eye, but to rattle through the cobblestone streets of London in pumpkin-shell coaches and filigree carriages. At the beginning, it had all been deliciously exciting, but now . . . a certain dissatisfaction was setting in, a sense there must be something yet more thrilling the world had to offer, though Titania knew no more than anyone what that something might be.
"We live too long," she said with a sigh, feeling suddenly weary and old. It was true that the glass in her bedchamber assured her each morning that her face was still lovely, her complexion perfect, her figure light and pleasing. But it sometimes seemed to Titania that her more-than-mortal beauty was growing a little thin and tarnished, and whenever she gazed at her own reflection, caught a glimpse of her hands and arms in the midst of some graceful gesture, she was increasingly aware of the hollow birdlike bones moving beneath the skin.
"And perhaps . . . perhaps perfect fidelity is too much to ask when one has been married for hundreds and hundreds of years. But if we are doomed to be fickle and faithless, then why are we not equipped with harder hearts? I am sure that I feel this as keenly as any mortal could."
Even as she spoke, there came a light scratching at the boudoir door. Titania folded the letter and slipped it under a velvet cushion. The door swung open and in walked Gregory Peaseblossom, who crossed the room with a heavy step and deposited himself on a gilded chair beside Titania's couch. The chair creaked alarmingly under his weight.
"I take it," said Titania, arranging the spider lace on her shoulders, moving restlessly among the cushions, "that Phoebe remains just as haughty and cruel as ever?"
Gregory nodded his head. "I sometimes think she is cruelest when she means to be kind."
At nineteen, young Peaseblossom was remarkably bulky for a "taken" child (and how he managed to put on flesh on a changeling's diet of nectar and dewdrops was a continuing mystery) but his features were good, his manners easy and agreeable, and Titania suspected that ordinary mortals might even admire his muscular physique—which showed to particular advantage, just at the moment, in a coat o
f cerulean blue, a striped waistcoat, and tight mouse-colored breeches. "She gives every indication that she is sincerely attached to me, but says that she can never be my wife so long as I remain so regrettably ignorant, so distressingly frivolous.
"I think she would really like to marry me," he added wistfully. "And I believe I am neither a fribble nor a light-minded fool, but just as sober and rational as most men. Only her father, you know, is Sir Philip Merriweather, the mathematician, and I think Phoebe considers it her duty to marry a man who is much like her father."
Titania sighed and gave him her hand. Though her passions were deep and intense, they were also ephemeral; it was easy for her to forget her own problems and take an immediate interest in his. "I suppose as Phoebe's godmother I ought to applaud her sense of duty. But I must say, when it comes to husbands, that a warm and a loyal heart is highly desirable—far more important than a penetrating mind. I think the day may come when Phoebe bitterly regrets rejecting your offer."
"If that is so . . ." said Gregory. He ducked his head, blushed a deep shade of crimson, and pretended to study the butterfly buckles on his stout black shoes. "I would never suggest such a thing if she did not already like me, because then it would be utterly wicked . . . but is there not some way, some fairy charm or love spell, that would make Phoebe love me just the tiniest bit more than she does right now? Then she might follow her own inclination, instead of her sense of duty."
He lowered his voice. "I have heard of a little purple western flower, the juice of which—"
"No," said Titania. "No fairy charms or love spells. I do not know how it is, but things of that nature never seem to work as they are intended and only make circumstances more horrid and complicated than they were before."
Gregory released her hand with a soft groan. "If you cannot aid me, with all your wisdom and power, then—"
"I have not said that I could not help you," Titania chided him gently. In fact, she was determined to assist this changeling child of hers if a way could possibly be found. "Only that it may be necessary for me to devise some new and novel means."
She sat in thought for several minutes, then came to a sudden decision. "Send in my maid, and tell my coachman to bring 'round my chariot within the hour," said Titania. "I am going to pay a call on the Weird Sisters."
***
The three witches lived at Windhill Court, a most desirable address. Because the fashion for blasted heaths and bearded women had long since passed—and town villas, manicured gardens, and powdered wigs were all the rage—they had bowed before the winds of popular opinion, by occupying a narrow house made of bricks, receiving afternoon visitors in a badly furnished parlor on the second floor, and adopting the ancient and respectable surname of Drummond. But old habits die hard, and Titania continued to think of them as the Weird Sisters.
She arrived on their doorstep very prettily attired in pearly satin and a hat adorned with silver cobwebs and opalescent dragonflies, and was promptly ushered into the untidy sitting room, where tea was about to be served.
"I really wish that we might help you," said the elder Miss Drummond, over the cracked and dingy teacups. "But I am afraid that love potions and spells are out of our line—they are inclined to be tricky and also rather dangerous. We always specialized in visions and prophecy. Rather a pity that we did, now that I come to consider it, for there is little demand for fortunetelling these days, and we look in a fair way to go out of business."
Sybil, the youngest sister, adjusted her wig. In spite of their attempts to appear respectable, the Misses Drummond retained a certain elemental, wind-blown appearance. "We are seriously considering a return to Scotland; London has declined so dreadfully, ever since the turn of the eighteenth century.
"They call this the Age of Reason, and everyone professes an absolute passion for rational Science," she continued bitterly. "But this Science of theirs, so far as I can tell, is nothing more than good old-fashioned Natural Philosophy, which used to be the province of alchemists and sorcerers. As I was saying only the other day, to Doctor—" Miss Sybil cut off her sentence with a tiny gasp, and all three sisters exchanged a significant glance.
"You were saying only the other day . . . ?" Titania prompted her politely.
"What Sybil was saying the other day is of no consequence." Miss Cassandra Drummond entered the conversation for the first time. "But what we are about to tell you may be of great assistance. You are acquainted, no doubt, with our old, old friend, the wizard Prospero?"
"I know that gentleman by reputation only," said Titania, accepting a plate of broken sugar biscuits. "That is . . . I believe we were once properly introduced, but I do not precisely recall the occasion. I had heard, however, that he renounced his study of Magic."
"Very true," said Miss Sybil. "But his passion for knowledge was not diminished, and he has now become one of these modern Scientists. He has opened a rather unusual establishment, devoted to medicine and animal magnetism, at a country house in Kent. Cassandra, dear, where did you put that advertisement?"
Cassandra rummaged in her work basket, among the balls of knotted yarn and the tangled embroidery silks (dislodging a nest of baby mice as she did so), and produced a large roll of foolscap paper, which she handed over to Titania.
Titania unrolled the handbill and examined the contents:
TEMPLUM AESCULAPIO SACRUM
(proclaimed the handbill)
THE RENOWNED DOCTOR PROSPERO
IS NOW WELCOMING VISITORS TO THE
TEMPLE OF LOVE AND HEALING
MINERAL BATHS AND MAGNETICAL WATERS
to soothe all bodily ills
PAGEANTS, PROCESSIONS, MUSICAL PERFORMANCES, AND OTHER ENTERTAINMENTS
Featuring the fair VESTINA, Goddess of Health
THE DRAUGHT OF VENUS
A concoction of Rare and Potent Ingredients, Guaranteed to Reanimate Affection, Increase Passion, Restore Virility, and Produce Children of Unparalleled Intelligence and Beauty
also
The Latest and Most Remarkable Scientific Appurtenances
including
THE GRAND CELESTIAL BED
Equipped with 1500 pounds of Artificial Lodestones and Designed to Impart the most
Powerful Vibratory, Undulating,
Fervent, Pleasurable, and Penetrating Influences to the Fortunate Occupants
There was a great deal more, but Titania had already seen enough to interest her. "I believe," she said, "that a consultation with Doctor Prospero might prove highly beneficial."
***
When Titania returned home, she spent an hour at her little Chinese lacquer writing desk. She dispatched two letters, written on scented notepaper: one to Doctor Prospero, informing him of her impending visit, the second to Phoebe, explaining that she, Titania, was about to embark on a journey into the country for the sake of her health, and would Phoebe be kind enough to accompany her?
After a few instructions to her maid, Titania sent for young Peaseblossom and told him what was afoot.
In the morning, her coach was waiting at the door. Under ordinary circumstances, faced with a journey of such duration, Titania might have turned herself into an owl and flown to Doctor Prospero's, or used some spell to whisk her instantly to the desired location—she doubted, however, that either mode of transportation would recommend itself to Phoebe, and she could hardly send the girl alone in the carriage with the servants and the luggage.
"Do not begin your own journey before ten o'clock," she cautioned Gregory as he helped her into the coach. "It would be disastrous if you should overtake us on the road, for then Phoebe might guess what scheme we are hatching."
Such was the cynical age they lived in, so reluctant were Titania's neighbors to believe in the existence of fairies, that few outside her immediate household guessed her true identity. Indeed, Phoebe knew her only as a wealthy lady of indeterminate age and eccentric habits. Which was a great help under the present circumstances.
"For who could
imagine that the Queen of the Fairies had any use for doctors, mineral baths, or magnetical waters?" Titania asked, just before Gregory closed the door. "But what could possibly be more natural than an elderly godmother—no matter how youthfully well-preserved—paying a visit to a fashionable watering place?"
When the coach had gone, rumbling off in the direction of the house where Phoebe lived with her father, Gregory took out his pocket watch and flipped open the cover. It was an unusual timepiece, fashioned to resemble a large black beetle, and it marked the hours with perfect accuracy. "Time for a bit of breakfast," said young Peaseblossom.
The truth was, he felt queasy with excitement (his beloved Phoebe must soon be his!), but he thought that a sip of nectar—perhaps with a plate of sirloin and eggs on the side—would settle his stomach admirably.
He left the house promptly at ten. At noon, an unexpected visitor appeared on the doorstep, a willowy figure in black velvet and snowy point lace, who knocked on the wooden panels with a curious cane: three silver serpents intertwined, each with staring ruby eyes. He was informed by the servant who answered the door that Madam had gone to the country with Gregory Peaseblossom, to consult Doctor Prospero at the Temple of Love. No one knew when the lady would return, but she was expected to make a lengthy visit.
"Indeed?" said the gentleman, with a raised eyebrow and a tight smile. "Then I will call again at a more suitable time."
When the door shut with an audible thump, the doorstep was already empty.
But miles away, at his country house, Doctor Prospero was astonished to receive an elegant visitor, who arrived in a cloud of sulfurous black smoke and declared that he would be staying for at least a fortnight.
***
As the coach rattled and jolted down country roads, Titania soon grew weary of Phoebe's company. Though the girl was as pretty and delicate as a china shepherdess, she had very limited interests. She knew little of music, painting, or poetry, cared nothing for gossip, fashion, or the theater. But she could (and unfortunately did) speak long and learnedly of Euclid and Pythagoras—as well as a very odd theory advanced by her father and his friend Reverend Stukeley about the great stone circle on Salisbury Plain.
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