Half-Witch

by John Schoffstall

  “I guess it means that Hell is going to rule the universe?” Lizbet said uncertainly.

  “It means that we are going rule the universe. You and I.”

  Lizbet tried to absorb this.

  “I . . . I don’t think I want to rule the universe,” she said finally. But in the vast immensity of the sky and the world all around, her words seemed faint and frail.

  “We have an opportunity before us such as no mortal has had before, since the time of Adam in the Garden,” Wolftrow said. “The greatest of kings has abandoned His throne. Now is the time to act, with decision and speed. All may be ours.”

  “God didn’t abandon his throne, exactly,” Lizbet said. “The devils won their war against Him. They rule in Heaven.”

  Wolftrow’s voice was triumphant. “And you are the master of devils, Lizbet!” He clenched his fist. “Now that I am a man in full once again, there is none who can withstand me in battle. None can withstand your spiritual powers. If we join forces, how can we not prevail? Together, we will go forth and conquer the East, the West, and seize the throne of Heaven itself!”

  Captivated by his fierce gaze, half hypnotized by his voice, Lizbet understood why a hundred thousand men had followed him over the Montagnes to their deaths. In that moment, she wanted to believe him. To go with him. To fight by his side, to share his victories. To be Queen of this world, and of Hell, and of Heaven.

  She opened her mouth to say “Yes.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!” Strix yelled.

  Strix’s voice broke the spell. Lizbet shook herself. What was she thinking? “My father!” she said to Wolftrow. “All I want is my father back. I don’t want any of the rest. You can do what you want, and go conquering anything you like. But please, please, release my father from prison.”

  “Who was that?” Wolftrow said. His gaze darted about the roof. “Who’s there?”

  Strix emerged from the shadows. She leveled a tawny finger at Wolftrow. “You never meant to let her father go, did you?” she said.

  With a vigor and speed that belied his age, Wolftrow leaped for her. Strix, however, having been defenestrated once before, was ready for him. She knit herself into the shadows, ducked under Wolftrow’s arm, and left him grasping air.

  “You said you’d let my father go,” Lizbet pleaded. “Please do it. I’ve done everything you asked.”

  “You and your father will rule kingdoms over the Montagnes,” Wolftrow said, breathing heavily. “You will rule the very planets and stars in their spheres. But first, you must promise you will help me.”

  “Lizbet,” Strix said from the shadows, “touch him.”

  “What?”

  “Try to touch him.” Wolftrow lunged toward her voice, but Strix was watching, and evaded him.

  What was Strix talking about? Lizbet approached the Margrave and put out her hand. Wolftrow flinched and took a step back.

  “You see!” Strix said triumphantly. “Two times he was about to touch you, and he couldn’t. Lizbet, I think he’s a devil. That’s the whole problem. He’s been a devil all along. Banish him!”

  A devil?

  “I am not a devil,” Wolftrow said. “I am your margrave.” His voice was sharp. “Do not lay hands on me. Do not commit high treason.”

  Treason.

  The word hung in the air.

  “I can’t,” Lizbet said. She shook her head helplessly. “I can’t.”

  “Lizbet!” Strix pleaded. “He’s never going to release your father. He’s going to keep teasing you on forever! If there is one tiny bit of treachery or rebellion in your soul, this is the moment for it! Banish him!”

  But there wasn’t. Lizbet quailed. “I have no rebellion,” she said. “I have no treachery.”

  “I often come to this rooftop,” Wolftrow said. “To be alone. To think and reflect. I find a solitude here that steadies and focuses the thoughts.”

  He moved toward the cupola, and the stairway down. “I leave you here, then, in that splendid solitude, to do the same. When you have thought and reflected fully, I believe you will see the wisdom in my plan and embrace the glorious destiny that awaits if you join forces with me. I am willing to give you all the time you need. Whether it be hours, days, weeks, or years.”

  Each word rang like a bell tolling doom. Wolftrow was imprisoning her here, on the roof of the Palace.

  On trembling and unwilling legs, Lizbet forced herself toward Wolftrow. She tried to lift her arms to seize him, but her arms would not obey her. Her knees gave way, and she sank to the rooftop. She could not assault her lord. Lizbet had no rebellion in her, or treachery, or rage.

  But for the first time, she wanted these things. She needed them, and accepted that need. Her need was consecrated by her struggle and suffering over the past two months.

  “Strix,” she pleaded. “It’s time. Help me. Change me. Use the Outlaw’s vices. Make me a rebel. Make me a traitor. Strix! Make me the monster I need to be!”

  But where was the stuff that Strix had harvested from the Outlaw? It was in the bandoleer that Strix had carried over the Montagnes, and Lizbet had carried back again. But Strix was not wearing it. Lizbet was not wearing it. Lizbet had left it lying on the floor of the blacksmith shop, days ago, not thinking she would need it again.

  So there was nothing Strix could do. Lizbet had made her decision too late. “Strix!” she wailed. “The Outlaw’s vices. I’ve lost them.”

  “Then take mine instead!” Strix yelled.

  She emerged from the shadows in front of Lizbet. Her eyes were wide, her teeth bared. With both hands, in one motion, Strix ripped open her dress, baring her breast. As Lizbet watched in horror, Strix dug all ten fingers into the center of her chest and tore herself open.

  She reached her hand inside, between her puffing yellow morel lungs, and drew out a fistful of slithering, bilious Treachery, and scarlet Rebellion. With a rising scream like a war-cry, Strix drew back her fist and smashed it forward into Lizbet’s chest.

  For a moment they stood, nearly motionless, Lizbet’s chest impaled on Strix’s arm.

  The pain was blinding. Tears seeped from Lizbet’s half-closed eyes. She felt Strix’s fingers working within her.

  The Margrave was upon them. He grabbed Strix and tried to pull her away. Lizbet raised one leg and kicked him in the stomach. He fell backward with an astonished grunt. His clothing smoked where Lizbet’s foot had touched him.

  Strix withdrew her hand. Blood covered it. Blood dribbled down Lizbet’s chest and soaked her clothing.

  Wrath filled Lizbet, and pride, and vengeance, blotting out all other thoughts. She hated the Margrave. Nothing else mattered. Screaming without words, she bore down upon him as he lay on the rooftop, grabbed him by the front of his robes, and hauled him to his feet with more strength than she had thought herself capable of. His clothing burst into flames in her fists. Wolftrow screeched and tried to bat at the flames. “Please, no, stop, oh, please, not me,” he babbled.

  “Begone!” Lizbet commanded. “Take thee to Hell, foul fiend!”

  Stammering, tears pouring from his eyes, the Margrave pleaded for mercy.

  “Tarry not! Flee! Away!”

  “No, no, please, it burns,” Wolftrow pleaded.

  After a minute, Lizbet cried in frustration, “It’s not working! I’m burning him, but he’s not being banished.”

  “I’m not a devil!” Wolftrow cried. “Oh, please, it burns, please stop!”

  Lizbet released him. He crumpled to the rooftop tiles, sobbing.

  Strix said, “Maybe he’s not a devil after all. Maybe he’s just a man who acts like a devil.”

  Wolftrow rolled about on the rooftop, blubbering and batting at his smoldering clothing.

  Lizbet walked up to him and aimed a solid kick at his chest. She wondered how many ribs she could break.
Strix grabbed her from behind, and hauled her back. “Lizbet,” she said, “stop. It’s over. You don’t need to do that.”

  “But I want to,” Lizbet said.

  “But still don’t. It’s not like you.”

  Lizbet thought about this. “It is now,” she said, aiming another kick, at Wolftrow’s head this time.

  Strix, with difficulty, pulled her away before she knocked out the Margrave’s brains with her oak and iron foot.

  Chapter 26

  Draw the long sword from my stone

  Like in Avalon.

  Drag me like a captive

  Through the streets of Babylon.

  Pray to me at dawnlight,

  Like in Jenne-Jeno,

  Paint my face with lapis like

  An actor in Edo.

  Murder me like Marlowe,

  Whose blood did London stain,

  I’ll be your starry oracle

  On Salisbury Plain.

  I am the whitest of the brown,

  The darkest of the fair.

  At farthest Sekai no Hate,

  Come and meet me there!

  —a rhyme of Strix

  They made quite a sight, coming down the Palace stairs. In the lead, Margrave Hengest Wolftrow staggered, his face pale and drained, his clothing in rags, wisps of smoke still rising from him. The nauseous stink of burned silk and singed fur accompanied him. Behind Wolftrow came Lizbet, her face twisted by rage, an open wound in her bare chest, her clothing soaked in blood. Last was Strix, her own brown chest torn open, yellow lungs puffing out the front with each breath. She apologized cheerfully to people they passed. “Sorry about the mess,” she said. “I know we must look alarming. We’re having rather a bad day. If you feel lightheaded, please sit and put your head down. Sorry, sorry!”

  When guards approached them at the entrance hall, Lizbet screamed, “Stay back! One step nearer, and I will send your Margrave to Hell with my divine power!” She grabbed Wolftrow by the back. Flames roared up to the ceiling. The guards fell back in panic. The Margrave screamed in pain.

  “What have I done?” Strix muttered, shaking her head.

  From the Palace, it was a quarter mile walk down the boulevard to the Houses of Correction. Palace courtiers, clerks, guards, and passersby on the street collected behind, and followed at a distance, whispering and pointing. Bellows the officer was among them, and the boy guard from the gate.

  At the prison, a gaoler unlocked the iron doors at the Margrave’s command. “Bring out Gerhard Lenz!” Lizbet ordered him.

  When Gerhard stumbled through the doorway, he squinted against the sudden sunlight, shaded his eyes, and sneezed.

  “Father?” Lizbet said.

  “Lizbet?” Gerhard’s voice was a hoarse croak.

  How old he seemed! How stooped, and small, and ineffectual. Was this petty criminal and hoaxer the reason she had crossed the Montagnes, suffered terrible injuries, and narrowly escaped death again and again? Lizbet’s lip curled.

  Gerhard’s eyes widened when he saw the wound in Lizbet’s chest. His fingers reached to touch it, then retreated. “What happened, dear heart?” he asked. “You are terribly injured. Will you . . . ?”

  “Will I what?” Lizbet said coldly.

  “Will you die?”

  Intoxicated by rage, Lizbet had hardly noticed her wound. Now that she was beginning to calm down, the pain was rapidly returning. Each breath sent agony stabbing through her. Blood continued to drip off her dress and fall between her feet. Her head spun. She sat down heavily on the hard flagstone walk in front of the prison. “I don’t know,” she said. She looked up at Strix. “Will I?”

  “I won’t let you,” Strix said. It was the last thing Lizbet heard before she fainted.

  Lizbet awoke staring upward into the pale blue and pink of a late afternoon sky. Her chest felt full, and heavy, but the pain was gone. Not daring to look, she reached down to touch her chest, not knowing what she would find. Her fingers went clink on her chest. Clink?

  She strained her neck to look down at herself. Overlapping iron plates and leather straps encased her. She was horrified. So horrified she broke out into laughter.

  Lizbet pried herself up on her elbows. The low western sun shone full on her face. Dark moving shapes crossed it. Larger than birds, but too far away to make out.

  Strix sat on the ground nearby, as did Gerhard. The Margrave lay flat on his back, staring upward, still breathing heavily. A circle of townspeople stood around them at a distance. Lizbet found Strix’s hand and squeezed it. “Thanks,” she said. She pinged a fingernail on her chest. “What is this?”

  The flying shapes against sun were larger. They were coming closer.

  “Oh,” Strix said, “I patched you up with whatever I could find. Papers and clothing, someone’s armor, a watch, belts, bootlaces.” She waved her arm to indicate the crowd around them. “They all helped. Everyone gave something.” She raised her hands and made clapping motions in the air. The crowd cheered faintly from the distance. “They really like you. From your having put down the devils and all. They want you to be margrave. Or margravine. Or something.”

  “They don’t care about Gerhard and the mice?”

  “The mice are long past. That was just Hengest lying, of course.”

  “Still, I don’t think I want to be argrave,” Lizbet said. “Did you take out your vices you put into me? Rebellion, and Treachery? I don’t feel that way anymore.” She frowned. “Or only a little.”

  Strix nodded. “I took out Christ’s divinity too. Ow.” She inspected her hand. “I think I burned my fingers on it.”

  “Oh, Strix, poor Strix. Thank you.”

  Lizbet shaded her eyes. As they approached, the flying shapes resolved into immense scallop shells that sailed down the sky. Each was drawn by a team of dolphins in harness that leaped through the clouds as if they were crashing waves. Each shell bore a charioteer at the reins. The leading shell glittered pink and gold. Its charioteer was the smallest.

  “It was awful having those things inside,” Lizbet said. “I hated the Margrave. I hated myself. I hated the whole world. I wanted to hit everyone.” She frowned. “Do you . . . do you really feel like that? All the time?”

  “I only want to hit everyone sometimes,” Strix said. “I just have to not do it.” She shrugged. “Just because you feel like doing something, doesn’t mean you have to do it.”

  “Are you sure you got every last bit?” Lizbet shrugged her shoulders and stretched her chest. It creaked, and the armor plates rang against each other. “I think I can still feel something I don’t like. Something biting and restless, that wants to fight for no reason.”

  “I got it all,” Strix said. “But while it’s in you, it changes you. That can’t be helped. Everything you do molds you, and squeezes you into its shape. Your heart always has the imprint of everything you’ve done, everything you’ve been.” Her voice was pained. “Lizbet, I’m sorry, but you needed it. If only for just then.”

  Yes, she had needed it. And if Strix could live with such stuff in her heart all the time, Lizbet could figure out how to live with no more than the memory of it. However she felt, she didn’t have to be rebellious or treacherous or angry. At least not most of the time.

  From the heights of the sky, the armada of dolphin-drawn shells and riders descended. Holding the reins in the pink shell was a figure also entirely dressed in pink. A woman. A tiny woman.

  Lizbet rose, went to Gerhard, and threw her arms around him. A little while ago, in her rage and rebellion, she had seen her father as a small, weak, crooked failure of a man. She still had to admit that he was all those things. But now she also saw him as she once had: a man inept but well-meaning, a father capable of warmth and generosity, who genuinely loved his daughter. All these things about Gerhard were true, the good with the bad.


  The armada of shell-riders settled to earth, the great gray dolphins flopping onto the ground like legless dogs, rolling about in their harnesses and whistling musically to each other. The tiny lady in pink stepped delicately from her glittering shell. Her high-heeled boots seemed barely to bend the blades of grass she trod on. The other shell-riders were all bears and badgers who walked on their hind legs. They wore strappy leather armor. Each bore crossed swords on his back, or a bow and a quiver of arrows. They vaulted from their shells and arranged themselves around the lady in pink in the manner of an honor guard.

  The lady could have been no more than four feet tall, but her body was voluptuous: a woman’s, not a child’s. Her pink dress clung to her form. Her shockingly short skirt fluttered about her hips. Her hair was so pale it was almost white, her eyes large, her ears pointed. Her smile was friendly, but knowing.

  The pink lady and her badger-and-bear guards surrounded Wolftrow, where he lay on the ground. “Hengest,” she said “Rise.” Grunting, Wolftrow struggled to his feet. For a Margrave, he cut a miserable-looking figure, sooty as a chimney-sweep, clad in half-burned rags. His chin and shoulders slumped, his immense hands hung limp and defeated. “Your Highness,” he said. His voice was a hoarse groan. He tried to bow, but staggered, and nearly fell.

  “What happened here?” the pink lady said sharply. “Who did this to you?”

  “It was her,” Wolftrow said. He wagged his finger at Lizbet. “It was all her fault.” The pink lady looked at Lizbet pointedly.

  “I banished the devils from Abalia,” Lizbet said. “I thought the Margrave was a devil, and tried to banish him.”

  The pink lady laughed, a carefree and musical sound. “He is only a mortal,” she said. “You cannot banish him. However, you have certainly succeeded in making a mess of him. Hengest! Into my coach. I bid you come to court and dance attendance on your empress for a while. You have been useful in the past, despite your silly intrigues against me. Perhaps I can find some purpose for you in your mortal years that remain. But who will rule Abalia in your place? I seek a lad, neither a scholar nor a dunce, untroubled by imagination or ambition, who longs for a life of unappreciated drudgery. Something like an educated turnip.” Her gaze searched the surrounding crowd. She pointed with an imperious finger. “You, there! Boy. Come to me.”