The Soul Consortium

by Simon West-Bulford

  “No. Merely a science that has yet to be understood.”

  I stand and grab the back of my chair, pushing it between us. “Get behind me, Satan. I’ll not listen to witchcraft.”

  “Satan?” Keitus stands too, and though he is much shorter than me, I feel smaller than an insect when he looks at me. “If Satan were real he would surely cower if I called his name.”

  Thinking only of escape, I spin around, set my sights on the open doorway behind me. I don’t know if Keitus is making a move to stop me, but I lunge forward and break into a run, fearing his yellow nails tearing at my back, imagining him exploding into a blood-eyed demon, devouring the room behind me, surging outward to fill the house like a poisonous cloud. A scream escapes me as I stagger through the door, catching my shoulder against the frame.

  In my peripheral vision I see him still standing in the same place, watching me as I flee, with no obvious intention to stop me. Somewhere in a rational corner of my mind, I’m aware that he has done nothing to warrant my panic, but the dark, primitive part of my instincts justifies my terror as I stumble into one of his statues and scream again.

  Flailing, clawing forward, I am almost at the next door that will take me to the exit hallway when my left hand momentarily connects with something hard and hot, the handle of Keitus Vieta’s cane. Lightning-blue sparks rip the air when it falls, and as I crash to the floor I hear the crack of wood against stone and see the cane spinning away from me. The jewel in its handle is shimmering, sending wave after wave of heat over my head. Several of the mannequins topple in the wake of the violence like mummified victims caught in a blast of volcanic fury. As pain burns through my palm, I look at my hand to see the branding of the artist’s jewel on my skin—a glistening circle where the flesh has been burnt away.

  With nothing but the natural compulsion to survive driving me on, I crawl into the hallway, pull myself up against the final door, open it, and career into the empty street to land on my back.

  My breathing, hoarse and desperate, almost drowns out new noises in my head—noises that sound like a jeering rabble crowding in from all sides. I stare up into the night sky faced with the fathomless heavens sprinkled with stars. God must be watching me. He knows I am here, knows I have resisted the dark, knows the terror that consumes my soul as I lie on the cold cobbles.

  “Though I walk … through the shadow of the valley of death … I shall fear no evil, for thou art with me.” I close my eyes, trying to shut out the howling of my thoughts as a hundred confused voices fight to be heard. “Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.”

  I scream as the image of Keitus Vieta’s cane, rippling with power, slams to the forefront of my mind. Eyes open to dismiss the power of that thought, I tilt my head forward and look at the doorway of the small man’s house. There he is, hunched and black, but he is not coming for me. Instead he is slowly closing the door. And as it clicks shut I cry out to God, begging for my salvation, pulling at my hair to silence the cacophony of voices.

  One voice sounds above the rest, but it is not the answer of my Savior. “Witch!” says Mama. “I spit on the day my womb conceived you, and I wish a demon’s fate on your soul. You, of all my children, are my biggest disappointment and in no small way.”

  FIVE

  It took the entire night to reclaim my composure, but whether my sanity has been regained, I cannot say. By the grace of God, I have seen the sunrise through the window of my empty house and have not been driven from my faith. The Lord rescued me from the street, and through my dazed wanderings back to my door, He protected me from harm. The riots did not meet me again, nor did Keitus Vieta come to find me as I feared he might.

  The horror of my escape has lessened, and although I struggle to recall the exact events, the raw and weeping circle on the palm of my hand serves as a painful reminder that it was no delusion. And the voices have diminished too. That or I have already learned how to filter them from my conscious thoughts.

  But you will never silence me, Dominique.

  I’ll not listen to Mama’s voice. God will restore me, I know. But until He does, I must resist the trickery of the devil. It cannot be Mama who haunts my thoughts—she sits at the feet of Jesus now.

  Jesus? You don’t know Him, and He doesn’t know you. When it’s your turn to die, you’ll be thrown to your father the devil and burn in his lake of fire.

  “No! Mama, please don’t say such things. I loved you.”

  But I never loved you. You were always a millstone about my neck—the daughter who brought shame to our household; the daughter who cherished sinful thoughts; the daughter who envied her sister; the daughter who lusted after her own brothers.

  “None of that is true. Get behind me, Satan!”

  How dare you call me that.

  “I’m so sorry, Mama … I’m so sorry.”

  All I can do is weep. Let the devil have his way with me for now. I must endure my suffering until restoration comes, however long that may take. How I wish Enrique had come home to comfort me. I keep hoping I will see his familiar swagger along the street, but in my heart I know it will be weeks until my fiancé returns.

  I move away from the window, slump down at the table, and rest my cheek against the wood. The cool surface is a balm to my thumping head, but I know the relief will not last long. Whether it is the prolonged sobbing that brought on this ache or the accident in the artist’s house, I have no clue, but I suspect it will grow worse if I do not eat or drink something soon.

  With my arms stretched out across the table, I allow my tears to soak into the aged timber and try to ignore the numbing cold air. The flames in the fireplace have long been snuffed out, and I don’t have the inclination to light it again; somehow it would not seem right for the house to feel warm when the atmosphere has become so deathly. I take a deep, shuddering breath, stifle the next wave of tears, and close my eyes. Perhaps sleep, if it finds me, will allow me some peace.

  A bold knock on the door startles me. My eyes open, but I do not move. Another knock and still I do not stir.

  Idle bitch! Answer it! Answer it! Mama’s voice screams.

  “Leave me alone!”

  “Dom? Are you all right? Open the door. It’s Livio.”

  I push myself upright, gather my thoughts. “Livio?”

  “Yes. Open the door. Are you still moping over Mama?”

  I go to the door and open it.

  Wrapped in his long winter coat and scarf, my brother barges past me, bringing a cold gale into the house with him. Hugging his arms around himself, he glances about the kitchen, then his gaze settles on the fireplace. “What’s this? No fire? Why are you sitting in such a chill?”

  “I—”

  “Never mind. Get some coals on, and put some broth on too. I’m ravenous and frozen to the marrow.” Livio sits on a stool at the table, waving a hand in the air and looking out the window. “I find it almost impossible to believe that we could be assaulted by such foul weather. It’s a wonder that so many people went out in the snow to start rioting, don’t you think?”

  And now he looks at me, eyebrows raised, expecting an answer. It is good to hear his voice and to see his face. Livio, with his no-nonsense attitude, has always been a rock for me to cling to in times of trouble, although sometimes, like now, I fear he would rather shrug me off than offer comfort. I suppose it is to my benefit that he acts this way, and naturally, he is a busy man with many appointments to keep, so he cannot afford to spend time on matters of little importance.

  True words, Daughter. He has made something of his life. You have done nothing with yours.

  “Well?” Livio asks. “Are you going to light the fire?”

  “Yes, of course,” I say, and I wince from the renewed pain in my head as I move toward the fire to add coals from the sack.

  “Wait.” Livio holds out a hand and squints at my face. “Is that … blood?”

  I touch my cheek, then study my fingers. Dried blood flakes against my fingertips, and I
feel there again, flinching at the bruise that has bloomed.

  “Whatever have you been doing? And what’s that on your hand? A burn? Come here. Let me see.”

  That’s right. Go to your brother. Deceive him with your petty pains and leech the sympathy from him. Bleed the rest of your family dry now that you’re done poisoning me.

  “Poison you? No! I wouldn’t ever—”

  “What?” Livio looks up at me as he holds my palm ready to inspect it. “Poison me? What are you talking about?”

  The pain. The torture of Mama’s accusations. Livio’s blunt questions. I try to hold it all in, try to control my failing nerves, but it is too much for me.

  “Has someone attacked you? Did you fall in the snow and hurt your head? Why are you crying? It really doesn’t appear to be that bad, just a superficial—”

  “Mama, she … I … Keitus Vieta took her and I—”

  Livio’s face stiffens. “You know about Vieta?”

  “I’m sorry. I just—”

  “How?”

  “The two men that came for Mama, they told me his name, so I went to see him.”

  “You did what?” Livio stands. He towers over me with balled fists, and for a terrible moment I think he will lash out, but he turns from me and glares into the fireplace. “What did you tell him?”

  I wipe the tears from my eyes and stare at the floorboards, watching misty clouds of my breath puff outward. I didn’t realize how fast I was breathing. And I cannot understand why my brother is so angry.

  Because he lied to the old man. He told him that you had consented to sell me. Your brother is afraid he will have to return the money he has already promised his debtors … And it will be your fault, Dominique. Mama’s scornful words cut into me like icy talons.

  “Well, Sister? What did you tell him?”

  “You have debts? I thought you were rich.”

  He turns, and with his deep brown eyes twitching as he moves slowly to sit on the stool again, I know Mama’s words are true.

  “How much do you owe?” I ask. “Do Fran and Arrigo know?”

  “Who told you?” Fear dominates his frowning face. “Mama told me.”

  “Mama? But she didn’t—”

  “She knows now.”

  Yes, yes! I know many things about him now. There are others here too, and they know all about him. They tell me things. They even know about his affair with the duchess.

  “The duchess?” It flies from my mouth before I even realize.

  Livio shakes his head in disbelief. Even in the cold, sweat beads across his brow. “What is this? How could you know?”

  Again the tears well up within me, and I so desperately need my brother’s comfort. I show him my trembling palm, words ready to babble from my lips, and his wide, terrified eyes look at the burnt disc of raw flesh.

  “Keitus Vieta,” I whimper as if the name were a curse. “The cane, his … the sculptures … witchcraft.”

  “Witchcraft?” His eyes change again, as if I have given him all the answers he needs. “Witchcraft indeed. So Vieta has found a new apprentice.”

  I sink to my knees, the throbbing in my skull reaching a bone-splitting crescendo as Mama rips my mind with a piercing cackle. “Please help me. Don’t leave me.”

  Livio nods, stands again, and goes to the door. “Repeat nothing of what has been spoken in this house today, and I will get help. I hope you will learn from this lesson. Fool with the devil and your hands will get burnt.”

  He steals one more glance at my palm, then leaves.

  SIX

  Several hours come and go before I see anyone else. I cannot eat, drink, or sleep because of the throbbing in my head, but as the time passes, I listen to the voices running back and forth through the corridors of my mind. Mama’s screeching accusations remain constantly at the fore, never lacking in venom.

  But as I learn to focus my thoughts and untangle the many threads and tones of speech, I hear dozens of other men, women, and children, discovering all of them to be deceased and able to converse with one another, as though my soul has become a great, dark purgatory in which they can linger in debate.

  So many confused souls wander my mind confessing their woes. Most came to a tragic and sudden end, but some pull at the strings of my heart more than others. There is a small orphaned boy named Renee who managed to travel all the way from France only to become frail from exposure and die by the jaws of wild animals on the cold hills just outside our town. A Spanish soldier shot by accident during a training exercise just a day after he announced his engagement to a woman named Bessie who lived not far from my own street. And many villagers who were crushed in the rioting over the last few days.

  There is also Duke Lexington, the English nobleman who married in Rome and traveled here on business only to discover that his wife was having an affair with Livio. He committed suicide several weeks ago, but through Keitus Vieta’s terrible witchcraft, his lost spirit is able to pass on this information to Mama using me as a channel.

  I wonder what I have done to deserve such a curse.

  At dusk the door opens without ceremony. Half awake and tremulous with fatigue, I say nothing when Livio, Arrigo, and Fran bustle inside, carrying an assortment of items. Fran immediately busies herself preparing vegetables and stewing meat whilst Arrigo goes to the fireplace to start a fire and build up the coals. Livio, an expression of wary incredulity toughening his gaze, takes his position opposite me with his chin resting on interlaced fingers, examining me as though I might jump up at any moment, frothing at the mouth and spouting blasphemies.

  I suppose he is right to be cautious—I have, after all, been tainted.

  You know how much I despise him, Dominique, says the duke. Tell him! And go tell the priesthood. They must know of his terrible disgrace.

  Speak nothing more of his affair, Mama tells me. You have done enough damage already. My eldest has always been my favorite. If you ruin him I will torment you in the next life as well as this one.

  No, says the Duke, justice must be served.

  With the two voices vying for recognition, I allow them their fight. I am too weary to speak or acknowledge either of them.

  “You’ll be warm soon enough, Dom,” Arrigo says, fanning a new flame on the coals, “and Fran will have some hearty stew ready for you in no time.”

  “Thank you,” I whisper, feeling a new warmth and strength, not from the newly stoked fire but from the rescuing presence of my brothers and sister.

  “Livio,” Fran barks, “stop staring at your sister and find a blanket to put around her until the house is warm.”

  Without removing his gaze from me, Livio stands, then walks toward the stairs. “Watch her,” he says before disappearing to the bedrooms.

  “So, Dom.” Arrigo sits in Livio’s seat with his arms folded and a smirk hinting on his lips. “Livio tells us you’ve been learning a few tricks from that creepy artist in the old market house. Is that right?”

  Arrigo’s lightness of spirit might be another medicine to aid my recovery, so I try to smile. “Not willingly and through no fault of my own. Keitus Vieta is a strange man, and I believe I may have unwittingly fallen victim to his witchcraft.”

  “So he is a witch then?”

  “I can think of no other way to explain what I saw and felt or the things he said to me.”

  “Told you, Fran,” Arrigo says. “I told you that man was a witch. There’s something not right about him.”

  “Nonsense!” Fran turns, pointing a meat knife at Arrigo. “She’s playing for attention. The biggest mystery here is why Livio has fallen for her deceit. I credited him with at least a seed of intelligence.”

  “If you don’t believe her, why did you agree to our little … party this evening?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? We have to find out how she knows all of our brother’s dirty secrets.”

  And she’s scared you’ll know hers too, says a voice from the back of my mind.

  “You don�
��t have to talk about me as if I’m not here.”

  Fran looks at me, and I meet her gaze. She seems surprised at my sudden boldness.

  Somehow I sense there are more important things to worry about than accepting my sister’s judgement. Or perhaps the pain behind my eyes is sapping my humility. “I’m not lying. Something happened to me at Keitus Vieta’s house, something … devilish. I know things now.”

  For the first time in her life, Fran looks away first, then turns back to slicing meat. “That remains to be seen.”

  Silence prevails for a few more moments before Arrigo, looking apprehensively from me to Fran, slaps the table. “Well! If it’s any consolation, Dom, I’m reliably informed that Mr. Vieta’s lease on that property is ending soon. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the fellow turned up here just so he could watch the riots.”

  Arrigo’s comment is welcome, but a sudden escalation of pain prevents me from answering. I barely notice Livio coming back down the stairs carrying a large woolen blanket. He lays it carefully about my shoulders.

  You adulterous bastard, Livio. That was the duke, and with his voice projecting such malice in my head, I jerk my head up as though a puppeteer yanked a cord fastened to my scalp. There must have been murder in my eyes for one terrible moment, because Livio stumbles backward, sending a chair clattering to the floor. It is all I can do to press my eyes shut and hold my mouth from uttering the spite of the dead as they try to use my tongue.

  Did she love you, Livio?

  “Did she love you as much as I hate you?” And then I scream, not knowing whether the voices I hear are my own or those of the dead.

  “Dominique! What are you—?”

  Adulterer! Adulterer!

  As if the duke’s rage has carved a path through my head for the others to flood through, a tumultuous gabble of panic, fear, and misery surges forth. My lips, a feeble dam holding it all back, shiver as I claw at the table, fighting for control.

  Hold your tongue!

  Let us out!

  “Let us out!” And I can hold them no longer. A thunderous crack like a fissure ripping my skull sends a bolt of pain through me, and I lurch forward vomiting bile onto the table as my head smashes into the wood. It could be the devil himself tearing a hole in my mind to release his hordes on my waking thoughts, for I cannot stop the contortion of my limbs, and the nearness of the voices comes with such violence, rushing in sudden unison, I am aware of little else but the babbling of my lips.