Half-Witch

by John Schoffstall

  Through it, Lizbet could see nothing but sky. Uh-oh.

  “Strix!” Lizbet shouted. “Sit beside me! Face backward! Grab one oar! Pull as hard as you can! We need to go faster!”

  “Why?” Strix seated herself on the thwart beside Lizbet.

  “Because we’re coming up on a drop, and I’d rather fly than fall! But don’t pull so hard you lose your arm again.”

  Straining and grunting at their oars, the girls pulled for all they were worth. The skiff sped over the filthy tide. Lizbet squinted as pink daylight swept over her. Looking up, she saw the end of the sewer pipe pass above her head. With all her strength, she gave one last pull on her oar, and they flew into empty space.

  Chapter 16

  For one dizzy, breathless moment the skiff was airborne. Then they were falling. Lizbet got out one shriek before the skiff hit water in a splash that sent vile glops of sewage spewing everywhere.

  When she caught her breath, Lizbet looked about. The skiff spun around on a fast-flowing river. Taking the other oar from Strix, Lizbet struggled to orient them to the current. The sewer emerged high above the riverbank, between the columns of a marble temple. On both sides of the opening, where a waterfall of sewage cascaded into the river, a statue of a goblin woman emptied a ewer with one hand, while she held her nose with the other. Downriver, reeds and grasses grew in jungle-like abundance on both banks. And farther to the east—

  A fortress rose into the pink and blue dawn sky. Twisty, wavy towers, buttresses like soaring wings. Windows, too many to count, pierced every wall, so that the entire building looked like latticework.

  Spinning windmills sprouted from the building’s towers. Lizbet could hear their steady thum-thum even at a distance. Square sails like a four-masted schooner’s fluttered from one roof, triangular sails like those on a Mussulman dhow fluttered on another. Hundreds of banners, scarlet, purple, pink, azure, all furled and flapped in a ceaseless wind. The entire building seemed to be in movement.

  The river was carrying them straight toward it.

  “That has to be the stronghold of the Pope of Storms,” Lizbet said.

  Strix nodded. “This is where we’re supposed to turn back and go in the opposite direction. We’d better land now and start walking back before we get any closer.”

  But . . . Lizbet thought. “A pope would have knowledge of everything in his domain,” she said. “Wouldn’t he? If anyone knows where the Margrave’s book is, he would. We have to ask him.”

  “You’re not really going to dare the wrath of the Pope of Storms?” Strix said.

  “I don’t even know who the ‘Pope of Storms’ is. Do you?”

  “Mrs. Woodcot knew of him,” Strix said. She frowned. She looked more serious and less bratty than usual. That worried Lizbet. “He is a witch lord, powerful, subtle, and ancient.”

  “Is he good, or evil?”

  Strix rolled her eyes. “Haven’t you learned anything about witches by now?”

  “All right. Forget ‘good’ or ‘evil.’ Do you think he’ll be helpful, or dangerous?”

  “All witches are dangerous,” Strix said. “No witch is ever helpful.”

  “Mrs. Woodcot is helpful. She sent you to help me.”

  Strix squeezed her lips tightly together and looked down into the water.

  Lizbet was distracted by a sudden commotion from upstream, like a yell followed by a splash. “What was that?” she said. She turned to see, but the current had already carried them downstream, and Lizbet could no longer see the sewer mouth. She listened, but heard nothing more.

  Lizbet wanted to have Strix along. The thought of leaving Strix behind made her feel uncomfortable and lonely. She knew that she could goad Strix to come with her. If she wanted. All she had to say was something like “If you’re afraid to come with me . . . ,” and Strix would come. Because Strix could not admit weakness.

  But Lizbet wouldn’t do that. Not anymore. Not after all they’d been through. It wasn’t fair to Strix. It wasn’t what a friend would do.

  “I’m still going to the Pope of Storms,” Lizbet said. “I really want to have you with me. You don’t have to come, if you don’t want.”

  “I’ll come with you,” Strix said. “I have to.”

  They beached the skiff on a mud flat amid dense reeds, took off their boots and socks, hiked up their skirts, and waded through the deep squishy mud toward solid shore. The “reeds,” when Lizbet looked at them closely, were actually rolled-up newspapers, copper lightning rods filmed with verdigris, and mildewed leather buggy whips. The mud was plain old mud, though, and felt delicious between the toes. Lizbet stopped for moment, to enjoy it. “Maybe it’s just that I’m really tired, or we’re about to do something dangerous and I’m looking for an excuse to stop for a moment, but have you ever noticed how nice mud feels between the toes?” she said to Strix.

  Strix shrugged. “Feels like mud to me,” she said. “It’s okay, I guess. Maybe it’s your legs.”

  “My legs?”

  “They’re mostly oak and birch. I’m sure they love soaking up the nice mucky mud. Like all plant life.”

  Lizbet could almost feel the moisture and richness of the river mud soaking into her legs, feeding their vegetable tissues. She felt stronger already, and less tired. She spread her arms and lifted her face to the sky. “I could just stand here forever,” she declared.

  “If you don’t start moving soon,” Strix said. “Your legs will put down roots, and you will be there forever.”

  “Eeee!” Lizbet yelled. She sprinted through the mud as fast as she could go, beating Strix to the riverbank.

  Strix came up behind her, laughing.

  “It’s complicated being a—I mean, having witch legs,” Lizbet said accusingly. “You should warn me.”

  From the top of the riverbank, Lizbet could see the edge of the goblin town to the west, clusters of tumbledown buildings clinging to high ground above the river. To the east, no more than a quarter mile away, the stronghold of the Pope of Storms fluttered its banners and spun its windmills. But who was that between them and the stronghold?

  On flat ground in front of the stronghold, a grove of cages, stocks, gibbets, and gallows had been erected. Each held a prisoner. As they came closer, Lizbet noticed that one of the prisoners resembled Toadwipe. Another had a head like a goat, only with long, curling tusks and a dozen horns pointing in all directions. Others looked like half-starved naked women. Others were even worse.

  As they approached, the first prisoner Lizbet and Strix passed was an immense maggot, as thick as Lizbet’s middle, but with the face of a prosperous middle-aged man with puffy sideburns and an extravagant mustache. It wore a smart black silk bow tie and pince-nez. It was confined in a cage of iron slats, in which it constantly crawled up and down, to and fro, restlessly weaving figures-of-eight with its body. As Lizbet and Strix approached, it started to chatter, without pausing its endless crawling.

  “Hello ladies or girls I should say how are you sweet things today I wonder if I might trouble you to undo the latch on this cage where I have been confined cruelly on account of perjurious accusations or you could at least put in a good word with the proprietor of this establishment who is in gravest danger of destruction if my mistreatment ever comes to the notice of His Infernal Majesty whom I serve eternally with perfect love and boundless energy although my views are flexible and I could serve your Christian God instead if it please you to release me—”

  Lizbet and Strix passed by the cage. Despite its seeming solid, Lizbet gave it a generous berth. The slats rang as the creature inside banged against them.

  “—only do not forsake me and leave me here in vile confinement and betray your Christian charity which commends your mercy to miserable persecuted wretches such as myself or you risk losing the love of your God and the delights of Heaven and instead being condemned to the furnaces of H
ell where devils will cut your pretty white flesh with knives and burn you with pitch!” Frothy white spittle flew from its mouth.

  Behind them, Lizbet could hear it continuing to curse her. She tried to ignore it. “These are devils?” she asked.

  “That’s what they are,” Strix said. “Lesser sorts.”

  “That one is pretty much what I expected a devil to be like.”

  “Not very nice, is he?”

  “Half-mad, I’d call him. But Strix, don’t you like devils? You’re a witch, after all. They say witches consort with devils. At black masses and such. There’s supposed to be revelry. Mad pipes and timbrels. Reckless dancing. And”—Lizbet felt her cheeks growing warm—“licentiousness.”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “All a fib?”

  “I’ve never been. Mrs. Woodcot says it’s something like that. Afterwards, she comes home and has a sinking spell, takes to her bed for a week, and makes me fetch her root tea and casserole of baby’s fingers to restore her strength.”

  Lizbet said, “I just don’t see how you could bear to be licentious with a man-headed maggot who is out of his wits. Or with something that looks like a giant boiled crayfish.” The crayfish may have overheard her. From inside the stocks that restrained it, it clacked its scarlet pincers and waggled its antennae. “Even if you ignore the sinfulness of it, I wouldn’t think it would be much fun.”

  “You can’t judge someone by their appearance,” Strix said.

  “Even if they have the head of a goat?”

  “I am a free-thinker,” Strix said.

  “But if they’re a devil,” Lizbet persisted, “they’re not very nice inside either. You’ve said so yourself. A couple of times.”

  “It’s what you do if you’re a witch. They say . . .” Strix paused for the tiniest fraction of a second. “They say you get used to it.”

  “Oh, Strix.”

  “What?”

  “Poor Strix . . .” Lizbet took Strix’s hand and squeezed it.

  “‘Poor Strix’ nothing! Is that pity? I don’t want your pity! I might . . .” That pause again. “I might enjoy carnal relations with a giant boiled crayfish. You never know.”

  “I don’t want to happen to you what happened to Mme. Minglefinger.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Strix said. She squeezed Lizbet’s hand tightly. “You don’t have worry about me.”

  They passed a naked woman dangling from a gallows. She was so thin that her ribs stuck out of her chest like sprung barrel staves. Her mop of hair was bright orange. Her left hip bore a large black stain. “Hello, girls,” she called out as Lizbet and Strix approached. “Might I have a word with you?” Her voice was a throaty purr, perhaps made harsher than intended by the action of the rope noose around her throat. “Would either of you have a pair of tweezers I might borrow for a moment? My eyebrows are like wild animals.” Her eyelids fluttered.

  “Who is this?” Lizbet asked.

  “This is a Temptress,” Strix said.

  “She doesn’t look very tempting to me,” Lizbet whispered in Strix’s ear. “She looks half-starved.”

  “I heard that,” the Temptress said. “You aren’t very tempting yourself, sweetie, spattered with sewage, with a face like skim milk and a figure like a fence post.” Lizbet flushed.

  “She’s not supposed to tempt you,” Strix said. “She tempts holy men, mostly. Eremites. Prophets. The odd parish priest. What happened to your hip, hon? Did someone throw an inkpot at you again?”

  “Mind your own business,” the Temptress said.

  “Who confined all of you devils out here?” Strix asked. “Was it the Pope of Storms?”

  “Find out for yourself,” the Temptress snapped.

  “You know,” Lizbet said as they walked on, “you might get more cooperation if you were a little nicer.”

  “It hurts to be nice,” Strix said. “It gives me a stomachache.”

  “You should take a bicarbonate of soda,” Lizbet said.

  The stronghold of the Pope of Storms, close up, was less a building than a cluster of slender towers jammed into each other like the cells in a honeycomb. Each tapered sharply, coming to a point hundreds of feet above. There were scarcely any real walls. Each tower was a skeleton of stone, its ribs adorned with bits of broken glass and pottery. Although, on account of the hundreds of flags and pennants fluttering from every prominence, and the streaming drapes blowing out of every window, Lizbet could make out the underlying building only in glimpses.

  A wide moat surrounded it all. Lizbet was beginning to worry about how they were going to cross it, when a drawbridge descended in front of them.

  Lizbet thought drawbridges were usually supported by chains or ropes. This drawbridge came down on gray beating goose wings. The drawbridge itself was made of tiny twigs glued together with mud.

  “It looks like a bird’s nest,” Lizbet said.

  “The Pope of Storms is in love with all things of the air,” Strix said.

  “It doesn’t look very strong. Do you think it’s safe to cross?”

  Strix put her hands on her hips. “You’re the one who insisted that we barge into the stronghold of a mighty witch lord. I’m happy to turn around anytime.”

  “I never said anything about barging. But . . . all right. Let’s go.” Lizbet grabbed Strix’s hand and pulled her along behind.

  “Anyway, it’s not the drawbridge you should worry about,” Strix said. “It’s what comes next. This drawbridge obviously came down just for us. It’s always dangerous when someone else has plans for you, but you don’t have plans for them.”

  The drawbridge bounced a little as they stepped onto it, and loosened twigs fell off into the moat below. Lizbet peeked over the edge.

  The moat was crawling with crocodiles. They cut serpiginous paths through the water, only their noses and eyes visible. They made throaty roars when they yawned, and you could see every one of their scores of teeth. Their teeth looked like paring knives and broken bottles. Their scales were hunks of smashed crockery and shattered wine glasses.

  Lizbet and Strix had scarcely gone a few steps when the gray goose wings came to life again, flapping noisily, and the drawbridge began to tilt up. Open air appeared between the drawbridge and the bank.

  “Which way?” Strix yelled. “It’s not to late to jump back!”

  “I’m not going back!” Lizbet yelled. “Come on!” She pulled Strix forward. As the drawbridge tilted higher, they started to slip, and finally lost their footing, skidding the last few yards on their backsides. They arrived at the stronghold’s gates in a dusty heap of Lizbet, Strix, and a pile of twigs and mud.

  A man strutted out to meet them. No, it was a bird. No, it was a man.

  His frame was tall and spare, his hair white and closely cropped. His nose was so long it almost curled around into his mouth. He appeared to be wearing a brown morning suit with a white ruffed collar, but when Lizbet looked closely, suit and collar proved to be feathers.

  A second man hopped up behind him, only half as tall as the first man, and plumper, with a tiny nose and bright eyes. He was dressed in a brown and white striped frock coat, red cravat, and feathery breeches. Actually, he was feathers all over too. “Welcome!” he cried. His voice was a cheerful chirp.

  “Are they?” the first man croaked sourly.

  “Of course! They are expected!”

  “Catarrh is expected in the spring, and the ague in winter, but neither is welcome.”

  “We aren’t catarrh or ague,” Lizbet said. She pulled herself to her feet and brushed herself off. “We are a girl and a witch.”

  “I might have a touch of the ague,” Strix volunteered. “From the cold river.”

  Lizbet glanced back and forth between the two men. She curtsied, and tried to remember the proper way to speak to a Holy Father. “Do I
have the pleasure of addressing His Witchy Holiness, The Pope of Storms?”

  The smaller man chuckled. “No, neither of us is anything of the sort,” he said. “But your mistake is charming in its innocence.”

  “The Pope will undoubtedly have you hung for it,” the taller man said.

  “This is Griffon, I am Cupido,” the smaller man said. “Come with us. Let’s not keep the Pope waiting!” He turned and made off through the entranceway with a hopping, skipping gait. Griffon followed, stiff-legged, tilting from side to side as he walked.

  Inside the stronghold was like the outside. Every wall, every surface was pierced with windows and archways, and Lizbet could see bits of the morning sky if she looked up. Clouds of steam and fog blew constantly down the corridor, teasing Lizbet’s hair and fluttering her skirt.

  Lizbet followed Cupido and Griffon somewhat hesitantly. “The Pope of Storms wouldn’t really hang us, would he?” she said.

  “He might chop off your head instead,” Griffon said dolefully.

  “Ignore him,” Cupido chirped. “You have nothing to worry about. The Pope is a mild and genial fellow.”

  “Except when he’s on a murderous rampage,” Griffon said.

  “I was wondering why he has so many devils held prisoner?” Lizbet asked.

  “They were molesting the good citizens of Slattern,” Cupido said. “That’s the goblin town, up the hill to the west? The goblins are the vassals and thralls of the Pope of Storms. He takes his responsibilities to them seriously. No misbehavior in the Realm of Storms! As soon as there was trouble, he rounded up the devils and confined them, lickety-split. Curious thing, the devils. They never used to be a problem. Lately they’ve become bolder.”

  “Maybe it’s because God has been deposed from His throne, and devils are running the universe?” Lizbet said.

  “Is that so?” Cupido said. “I don’t follow politics.”

  They marched down and then up several flights of stairs, coming at last to a wide and airy chamber two stories high. Gusty winds howled down its length. Lizbet’s hair fluttered out behind her, and her skirt stuck to her legs. The wind stung her eyes, and she had to squeeze them almost closed. Drops of rain pelted her face. The scent of ozone made her sneeze.