Widdershins

by Alexander, Alex

  The witch moved between the dead man and the Witchhunter and leaned in in the hope to look into his eyes. But the Witchhunter wouldn’t look at her. He looked anywhere but. So she grabbed his face by its chin and wrenched it up so she could peer into his swollen, blood encrusted eyes.

  ‘Such a pity. So weak. So helpless.’

  The Witchhunter spat his bloody spittle at her face, but it fell short and landed on her shoulder. She grinned, and turned her head to appreciate it; and he looked past her, to the keys dangling at Greg’s waist.

  ‘Oh, did you hear that?’ she said, pulling away and putting her hand to her ear. Niclas hadn’t heard anything, but he hoped it was someone who had come to save them.

  It wasn’t.

  ‘It’s the Whisperer. Yes, I heard the Whisperer. The Whisperer whispers.’

  Cassandra remembered something. She thought hard about it. The Whisperer. The one who whispers. It was written in the Zolnomicon but when she tried to remember, she found she couldn’t.

  The witch rambled on.

  ‘Ah yes! The Whisperer whispers! He whispers to us now. Can you hear him? Do you hear the messenger of Kaos? Can you hear his whispers?’ She moved from one part of the room to another, listening to the walls and ceiling as if there was something there too quiet for the others to hear. Then she rushed over to the Witchhunter and cackled right into his ear. Then she ran her slippery tongue over her lips, brought them closer, so they touched his lobe and whispered something to him.

  ‘I’m going to kill you,’ the Witchhunter whispered back, loud enough for the children to hear.

  ‘Oh?’ said the witch, stepping back. ‘You’ve had your chance, I’m afraid. But I saw it coming. Because I can see more than eyes can see. The Whisperer sees for me, and he whispers sweet whispers to me. He told me you’d come. He said you’d bring gifts. Oh, when I heard the news I was so ecstatic, I got this old set of stocks just for you – well, Greg got it, I couldn’t possibly carry it, haven’t got the strength in me these days. But never mind that – the point is – I said to Greg, I said, “he’ll have so much fun in this,” and you are right? You’re having the best time, aren’t you? We’re all having such a wonderful tea party, aren’t we? And to think! We don’t even have any cake.’

  No one dared speak.

  ‘No? No one enjoying themselves?’ the witch gave a last grin at each of the children, then turned her smile into a sour glare. ‘Fun bunch.’

  She rummaged through the pouch at the front of her dress. Out came a hammer, which she threw aside, a pair of pliers, which she displayed to Cassandra, a mouldy piece of bread, which she tried to sneak back in, and a box of matches which made her shake with excitement.

  ‘It’s almost time for rituals. We need the candles to be lit. Greg, candles.’ The matches landed on the floor beside Greg, who bent down to collect them and set about lighting each wick in the room.

  ‘Excuse me…’ the Princess started.

  The witch pounced on her cage and set Pollux off barking.

  ‘Woof! Woof! Woof!’ the witch barked back, rattling the bars. ‘Oh do shut up you silly mutt. Yes my dear?’

  ‘I just want to know what you’re planning to do with us, that’s all.’

  ‘Yes? You would wouldn’t you? I guess we’ll have to see which of you the Whisperer wants the most… Take your time Gregory the moons last forever I hear.’

  The witch seemed to have two voices and two faces as if two personalities were tightly wrapped around one another within her. Cassandra guessed the snappier, angrier voice was the true voice.

  Greg moved quicker, lighting the candles twice as fast.

  Now there was some more light, it drew Niclas’ attention to the chalk circle and the black candles surrounding it, and the slab of stone that lay at the centre. It was a similar design to the ones Balthazar had asked him to chalk out on the floorboards of the Queen’s Garter. There was something else too. Within it, a long, bronze needle with a thick, engraved end. It looked like a snake with a tongue that narrowed into a blade. It was more a dagger than a sewing needle.

  ‘Let’s see who’s the ripest, shall we?’ The witch snatched up the blade and closed in on Cassandra. She tried to scurry out of reach, but Pollux was there, jaws drooling.

  The witch reached through the bars, grabbed the girl’s neck and pulled her face to the cold steel. Then, to the Princess’ horror, she brought the needle to her hand, then her thumb, and pricked it.

  ‘OW!’

  ‘Good blood this. Very red. Much haemoglobin,’ said the witch, carrying the crimson droplet to a bowl of water. She let it fall in.

  Then she was at Niclas’ cage.

  ‘Come here, boy – come on – don’t be shy.’

  Niclas didn’t want to move, and wouldn’t have if Castor hadn’t have barked.

  ‘Hand,’ demanded the witch.

  He stuck it through the bars and closed his eyes, hoping that she’d do no worse than what she’d done to the Princess. And she didn’t. She took a delicate prick at his thumb and carried the blood carefully, on the tip of the blade, across the room and into the bowl.

  Then she stood watching as the two bloods spread like smoke in water.

  ‘Hmm,’ she pondered. ‘That’s most astonishing, two lives from two sides and who do we find has the thicker thread? Not what I expected at all, I have to say.’

  The two children caught eyes, selfishly hoping against one another.

  The witch fixed her glare on Niclas.

  ‘Wot? Wot does it mean. Wot does that mean?’

  ‘Ah, boy, you are most lucky. Most lucky. Alas our little tea party here has come to an end. Now you must serve your purpose.’

  Greg lit the last candle and moved to the boy’s cage to open it. Castor growled Niclas out the door and into the dead man’s cold, bony hands. They manoeuvred him into the circle and onto the stone slab and pushed down on Niclas’ shoulders until he collapsed.

  The witch reached into her dress pocket and made a series of thoughtful expressions until her fingers found what she was searching for. An empty glass vial. She twisted off its ornate silver stopper.

  ‘The Whisperer, who is that?’ said Cassandra, abruptly.

  The witch turned to notice her. ‘Never you mind child. Your time will come to meet him.’

  ‘I’ve read it you know, the Zolnomicon. Not all of it, but a lot. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Some sort of alchemy.’

  ‘The Zolnomicon?’ said the witch, pausing thoughtfully. ‘Never heard of it.’

  ‘But you’re a witch, aren’t you? You know things… You understand the universe better than anyone else… You’re probably very smart. I wish I was smart like you. I want to know more. Would you teach me? I’m bright, logically educated. I can–’

  ‘Hush, hush… Want to learn do you?’ said the witch. ‘It takes years, girl, lifetimes to master any of the craft. It’s not like catering – it’s not a career – more of a life choice.’

  ‘I’m ready. Believe me, I’m ready! Would you have me as your student?’

  ‘There are no students. There aren’t teachers. There’s no school for it… Ha! Imagine that. Hogwash!’

  ‘Then how?’ asked Cassandra, ‘how did you learn?’

  The witch reflected on this. She stroked the Witchhunter’s face as if he were part of the room’s decor and brooded for a moment. Then quickened, and slammed the blade to rest in the woodwork – inches from his throat. She picked up an unusual purple flower, and, caressing it, moved to Cassandra’s cage, frightening the girl away as she drew nearer.

  ‘Stories. I do love a good story. I long for the nostalgia that clings to them.’

  Niclas had been watching Greg feed Castor a dead rat. The dog chewed it as if it were made of rubber and then, when it came to swallow, the sticky masticated carcass fell out of its throat and onto the floor, where it was eaten again and then again, getting sloppier with each cycle. It was such a disgusting sight, that it was all he could look
at.

  But now he was back, and the witch was talking, and Cassandra was listening, and the needle was within his reach.

  ‘It is said that when the time is right, it chooses you,’ the witch began. ‘That the Whisperer sends for you, sets you down a path. That time came for me many moon crossings ago. I was wife to a man. You wouldn’t know this. Too young perhaps. But I was in love once. Have you ever known what it is to love?’

  Cassandra hinted with her eyes, trying to get Niclas’ attention, trying to nudge him towards the blade.

  The witch tried to follow her stare.

  ‘NO!’ said Cassandra, drawing her back. ‘I mean… no… I can’t say…’

  ‘Oh. Well if you did, you’d know. It’s something you don’t forget. Mine was called… John, or Joseph… Or was it Jack? It began with J, but… Ah, it doesn’t matter. He was a caring man. Very caring. He cared for me… and I cared for him. Then, one moon season he fell sick. A disease of the body. I tried everything to save him. Everything. I even found the things I wasn’t meant to find. The herbs, the candles, the chants. The path of the tree peoples and those in faraway lands. I read every page of every text, tried every ointment, every medicine. Alas, he died. One day his heart stopped. Just like that. Alive one second, dead the next, and not a goodbye to be had between us. But, I was not afraid, I was not disheartened. Lots of the ways to save him, could only be tried once he was in the in-between. That’s how I found his thread and stitched him back together – piece by piece, until he was my lovely, lovely Jason again.’

  Cassandra looked at the standing corpse in the corner of the room.

  ‘Is he…,’ she said, watching as Greg’s organs pulsed and oozed beneath his ribs. She dared not speak it, in case it be true.

  And…

  …out of the corner of her eye…

  …she saw Niclas snatch the needle, unseen.

  ‘No,’ said the witch. ‘That was long ago. Long, long, long ago. Greg here is the latest in a long series of… progress… he and his dogs that is.’

  ‘What happened to…?’

  ‘My fella?’

  ‘…’

  ‘Oh, we had some problems. Some differences. Life together soon became unbearable and I had to divorce the so and so. I learned an important lesson about men and dead things. Men are useless. And the dead don’t get the same souls. The same habits maybe… but not the same souls.’

  Cassandra watched Greg feeding Pollux the same chewed up rat Castor had moments before been trying to eat. The creature-man patted the dog affectionately on the head as if they had known each other for years.

  ‘They get the same brain chemistry,’ said the witch. ‘But they’re not the same people. You’ll be surprised how much difference a life thread makes.’

  ‘A life thread?’

  ‘A life thread. We are all but the Zol. And there is nothing but the Zol. And within the blanket of the Zol are threads stitched and woven here and there and everywhere. Threads of essence. Threads of the Zol. Threads of you and me. Each of us has one running through us, stitching us to this tapestry. You can take one’s thread and wind it through another, if you know what to do.’

  ‘So… he has… another person’s thread inside him?’

  ‘Not exactly. It’s a difficult practice, extracting the threads of others. The young are preferred. But you can take from all. Greg here has the stitchings of a hundred different threads within him. Who knows, a bit of Jacob might be in there too…’

  ‘Why is he… rotting?’

  ‘You can’t fix people, dear. Only keep them here. Put a stop to the eternal clock, their entropy. His body doesn’t know it’s dead, so it works. But it doesn’t know it’s alive, so it has no reason to sort itself out.’

  ‘So, he’s… dead?’

  ‘Betwixt and between. The dead who breathe.’

  Whilst the witch had been speaking, Niclas had found a place to hide the blade against his clothes. And now she had her back to him.

  The Witchhunter had been watching the whole thing and gave him the same look he had given in the rat city. That throw away nows-our-chance look.

  ‘Enough, enough… we must continue… the eternal clock is running away and the power of the midnight sun will soon wane…’

  It was now or never. Niclas had to strike.

  He went for it.

  The needle cut through the air, its tip homing in on the witch’s spine like an arrowhead. But it did not find it’s intended target. Because as if she had known, as if she had always known, she lifted her hand and caught his wrist, stopping it dead in the air.

  She shook it from his grasp and slapped him with her other hand.

  And then the dead man was on him, ripping him away.

  ‘Feisty one aren’t you,’ said the witch.

  Niclas tried to fight back, punching at the dead man’s intestines and kidneys. He didn’t mind the sticky, wet residue that came off onto his fists, he had to stop them, he had to do something. But he’d had his chance. As though he were just a fly, pitching on dead meat, Greg carried him unperturbed to the circle, where he dropped him down and tightened the chain. He bolted the end of this chain to a ring pull on the floor. It was so tight now that Niclas couldn’t move from the ring of candles without breaking his neck.

  Cassandra tried to act normal, disappointment twitching in the corner of her eye.

  The Witchhunter wasn’t disappointed. He had seen what the boy had done.

  Missed the stab.

  Punched the zombie.

  Snatched the keys.

  ‘What a troublesome two you are,’ said the witch, turning her attention back to Cassandra. ‘Want to learn do you? Think you can fool me do you? Think I’m stupid do you?’

  ‘I’ll have you hung! I’ll have you tortured and hung! I’m the future Queen of the Empire!’

  ‘Enough of your wail you hideous girl.’

  The witch turned to the dog in Cassandra’s cage.

  ‘One more word from this little rabbit and you have my permission to gouge out her throat!’

  What was more terrifying than these words was Pollux’s understanding of them, and the smile that seemed to stretch across his diseased face.

  ‘Lie on your back, Niclas,’ said the witch.

  Niclas didn’t lie down. Or at least, he thought he didn’t, but his body seemed out of his control and he lay without the slightest resistance.

  ‘Let’s see some flesh, shall we?’

  The witch slipped the needle, which was now back, clasped firmly in her hand, vertically up his abdomen, cutting away only the fabric of his tunic so easily it was as if the steel were made of fire.

  The grey Academy tunic fell away and his stomach and chest were revealed.

  They were pounding like a startled animal.

  The knife hovered about his skin like a spider spinning a web. It dithered here, then there, up and down, side to side, round and round, dancing, prancing, searching for a place to bite.

  ‘Do you know the best place to make the incision,’ said the witch to the Princess. ‘…No? neither do I.’

  Then the crazed woman slipped into a serpent chant and began to draw on the boy’s stomach with the needle’s tip. It didn’t cut. It tickled. But that didn’t make him feel any better about it. A wrong move from him or a right move from her and his belly would open, spilling whatever was left of his last meal out before him.

  He lifted his head to look down his chest.

  The tickling sensation was starting to itch, now burn.

  Was she cutting into him?

  Was this what it felt like, to be sheared open on a stone slab, like a cold cadaver on the anatomist’s operating table?

  No, not yet.

  She was drawing strange patterns across his stomach and chest. A trail of glowing blue flesh was left behind the blade. It was searing his skin. Particles of his body were blowing up like embers above a fire. A soft, blue, flickering light.

  He started to shake left to r
ight. Or at least he tried. He had barely enough strength in him to wiggle his little finger.

  ‘Stop!’ he cried out. ‘Please don’t, miss!’

  But the witch, though physically present, was somewhere else entirely. Her voice was a chanting whisper, her body was moving mechanically, and her eyes were solid black marbles of obsidian stone. The kind of black that makes ordinary black look like a shade of grey.

  His head shot back and his mouth sprang open.

  He resisted at first, clamping his jaw shut, but an overwhelming force seemed to be prying it apart. The more he fought it, the stronger it became and soon his mouth stretched wide open.

  He tried to scream.

  It felt like his tongue was a hundred feet long and was being reeled up from the bellows deep inside him. And indeed something was being reeled up from within, but it wasn’t his tongue. He could see it now. A blue and ghostly nimbus, that rose higher and higher out of his mouth and spread out in the air above as if it did not know gravity.

  Cassandra saw it too and shrieked at the sight of it. It was utterly terrifying but also the most unnaturally beautiful thing she had ever seen.

  The Witchhunter saw it too, and he rocked in his stocks, trying with all his might to break free of them.

  Niclas was fading. He was turning pale and his pupils were shrinking into two tiny specs of black. The more of the blue that came out of him, the more he hollowed out and sank into his bones.

  The witch reached for her silver topped glass vial. She pulled out the stopper once more. She raised it up to meet the blue cloud above and all around her.

  Then the dogs turned vicious…

  They began to bark and howl against their master’s command. Greg smacked at the cages, but they wouldn’t shut up. Their noise became unignorable and soon the witch couldn’t hold her chant.

  The ritual collapsed…

  …and the blue essence spiralled back into Niclas’ throat, like water down a plug hole.

  His pupils popped back to their usual size and the colour in his face returned. He took a deep, gasping breath.

  The witch too awoke back in the room; the burning writing fading from the boy’s flesh, and the candles flickering from blue back to amber.