by Cleo Cordell
Bending close, Karolan searched for the signs of life in the girl. There was the faintest movement of a pulse in the side of her neck. Lifting the thin arm he exposed the hard black swelling of the blaine which bulged from her armpit. The blaine was an ugly thing, like the back of some submerged beetle. The skin covering it was stretched and shiny. This was the site of the infection. Without hesitation he bent down, covering the swelling with his mouth. Biting hard, he pierced the skin. A rush of tainted matter flowed onto his tongue. His gorge rose at the thick, gamey taste of it, but he sucked hard, draining the pus and swallowing it.
The woman writhed, churning under him, too weak to scream, but still fighting. A thin noise, like the sound of a terrified rabbit, bubbled up in her throat. Karolan felt a flicker of hope. She had a strong will to live. Good. She was going to need every last measure of that tenacity. Handling her as gently as possible he stripped off her ruined shift. Then he held her down easily, while he repeated the process of draining the other swellings at the armpit and groin. Choking on the foul taste he drew back to survey his work. A trickle of stinking black pus ran down one thigh. The bite marks in the blaines leaked sluggish dark blood.
As he bent to lick away the pus and to spread his caustic saliva on her raw wounds, his cheek brushed against the scant fleece of her pubic hair. Even through the stench of sickness, the staleness of dried blood and sperm, he caught the personal odour of her sex. Her own scent was fresh, sweetly musky, clean. He combed the soft fair curls with his fingertips, brushing away the flecks of filth that coated them, smoothing the hair back over her neat slit. Poor abused little wench.
The rush of tenderness and desire he felt was shocking in its intensity, all the more so for being inappropriate. He had never experienced anything like it. He felt aroused and excited, hopeful too, yet somehow guilty and full of compassion for her. It was guilt and compassion which was new to him. Trembling he pushed the emotions away, submerging them beneath his sense of purpose. Every shred of his concentration, all his acquired skills might not be enough to save her. He could not afford any distractions. There would be time enough to examine his own thoughts later.
The punctures he had made in the blaines, and then cauterized, were closing up. He had drained the main sites of infection and she was still alive – if only just. There was no more time for preparations. He must act on instinct alone. Scooping her up, he carried her towards the trapdoor. The Fetch was waiting in the laboratorium, no longer sulking but eager for the part it must play. Even as he worked, laying the girl on top of his work bench, assembling the vials and jars he would need, Karolan began emptying his mind, performing the mental rituals which would prepare him for the ordeal to come.
This work held danger for him. In the past he had almost been drawn down into the darkness along with his victim. The death force exerted a powerful pull on the unwary. Without the help of the Fetch, a creature who could cross the barriers between the material and astral worlds, there would be no hope of saving the woman. As soon as he had administered the potion containing the mixture of poisons, the Fetch must enter the woman’s body, holding her together body and soul, until the ‘seed’ could do its work of transmutation.
The crucial matter now was to obtain the girl’s permission for the possession. Without that, the Fetch would be unable to do more than skitter around outside her skin, weaving in and out through her aura. It was imperative for the success of the process for the Fetch to enter her completely, melding at the physical level of bone and blood, possessing her essential etheric body. The only way that might be accomplished was to trick the girl into agreeing to the unholy coupling. As I was tricked, Karolan thought wryly, all those long years ago.
He picked up a glass vial, swirling it around to mix up the contents. The potion contained henbane, belladonna, mandragora and a number of rare tropical poisons. Tipping up the girl’s head, he poured the liquid between her lips. She gagged, choking, but swallowed a little. It was enough. He sensed the slowing down of her heartbeat, the deep, steady beating of her pulse. She was no longer trembling on the brink of death, but held somewhere between in a dimension that traversed the two states. For a brief time the poisons would regulate the tides of her body.
‘Now,’ Karolan said urgently to the Fetch. ‘Do whatever you must.’
‘As you wish, Master,’ the Fetch purred, flecks of gold and silver dancing in the smoky realms of its form.
Karolan watched the spirit, sensing rather than seeing it transform itself into a column of light. Somehow it knew what shape to assume to appeal to a given individual. It always knew. Even in the beginning, with himself, it knew how to seduce him. Later, when jointly they performed the countless abortive rituals, it exhibited the knack of appearing as a pleasing image to each individual. Sometimes it made itself gentle, sometimes wise, sometimes beautiful and seductive. At other times it appeared as a fiery messenger. How wise it had become in the ways of humankind. Long association with himself had made it ever more wily, its hunger more sharp-edged.
Karolan felt a vague sense of alarm as the Fetch approached the girl, its softly glowing arms held wide. The benevolent features, formed of planes of light and shadow, shifted into a tender smile. How innocent, how saintly, were the deep-set eyes. ‘Take care with this one,’ he found himself saying. ‘She is special. I sense it.’
‘Yes, Master,’ the Fetch said, its voice sibilant, fawning. ‘When did I not do your bidding? Trust in me. Want her too do I.’
Karolan could hardly suppress a shudder. What did the Fetch know or care of trust? Even now he found it disquieting to see the love and fascination which the spirit felt for human flesh. Part of him was revolted by its hunger, its constant bargaining and offers of sexual favours. It had a dreadful, gnawing need to experience the world of matter. Its whole existence was centred on its desire to become corporeal. But Karolan did not judge it too harshly. He could never forget that he owed his life – whatever it had become – to the Fetch.
Now this girl must be wooed by trickery to give away part of what made her human. The bargain was that she gave something of her living flesh to the Fetch and it gave her part of its spirit back. That was the price of longevity, but she would not know that she had made the transaction until it was too late to change anything. Would she hate him, Karolan mused, once she knew what she had gained – and lost? For she would never be able to enjoy physical love with another human; not without taking a life. It was already too late for regrets or compassion. This way she had a chance to live. Later she would either thank him or curse him.
Karolan looked down at the pale, small-featured face with its look of shuttered pain. Her long fair hair was bunched under her, cushioning her fragile skull. Her deep eyelids were fretted with purple veins. He remembered that her eyes were blue. Saxon colouring. It was unusual to see it in its purest form. Long ago he had been fair of hair, blue eyed, his colouring causing much comment amongst his olive-skinned Norman kin. It was a pity that the girl must lose her yellow hair and blue eyes.
He watched her intently, concentrating on the play of emotions across her face. What pretty dreams and images was the Fetch imprinting on her mind? The girl’s wasted features relaxed. Her lips moved. One of her hands twitched, as if she would reach out, but she had not the strength to lift her arm. Although she made no sound, she shaped the word. Yes.
It was enough. The Fetch entered her. She screamed and threw back her head, her throat stretching, the cords standing out on her neck. A golden flush spread over her skin as if she had been lit with candles from the inside. Karolan clenched his hands into fists. He hardly dared to breathe. The final process had begun. Picking up the alembic vessel, he tipped out the scrap of reddish waxy substance, kneading the ‘seed’ between finger and thumb. Grasping the girl’s jaw he placed the ‘seed’ on her tongue.
‘Do your work within this form Celestial Child,’ he said aloud, while in his mind he repeated the words of power and protective mantras. ‘Do your work a
nd give this young woman the gift of longevity.’ Then he gripped her hands, joining his mind with hers, careful to keep himself above the level of the dark chasm which was waiting, waiting, to drag them all down into oblivion.
Garnetta was aware only of heat and pain. Pain within her, burrowing into her vitals. It was unbearable, as if she was being disassembled. A long way off a woman was moaning. Her throat ached abominably. Sound rattled up through her dry lips. It is me who screams. Was this Purgatory then? She must be burning in the flames, consumed for her sins, whilst demons tore at her flesh with hot pincers. She saw her sisters stretched on the rack of the pestilence, their eyes wide open. Black filth caking their mouths. Her father writhed on fouled sheets, choking to death with a look of bewilderment on his mild, sad face. The white monks of Holy Penitence preached the truth then. Death was this endless torment, this reliving of pain and sorrow, over and over again for all eternity.
A light pierced the darkness; a tall column, beautiful and bringing with it a feeling of calm and deliverance. Within the light she saw a human form. An angel. She reached out towards the noble face, hands extended in supplication. In her head was a voice. It was soft, so soothing, but strong too. She could not resist the pull of it. Do you repent? Will you let me in? Only let me in and I shall grant you forgiveness and bring peace to your troubled soul.
Her lips moved. ‘Yes. Oh, yes.’ Tears started from her eyes. Peace was what she craved. Blessed peace. An end to suffering. Just to sleep for ever and forget. God, who had forsaken her, was pledging to deliver her from this torment. She opened herself, body and heart to His angelic messenger.
At once she felt a great pressure. There was a hot tingling over her entire body. More pain as something slipped over her tongue, burned a path down her throat. Her skull felt as if it would burst open. Something pressed against her skin from the inside. Her eyes bulged. There was a coiling in her veins, squirming threads spread down her throat, into her stomach. The same invasive touch entered her between the legs, seeking out her bowels and bladder. Her womb pulsed and bucked as it too was plundered. The horror of it was too much to bear. Everything turned black.
Some time later, a long time, she surfaced from the pit. There was a presence beside her. A tall shape, which brought with it a scent of something subtle and mysterious. She smelt spikenard and musk. Gentle hands wiped her hot face with cool, wet cloths that smelt of herbs. For a moment the nightmare vision of the death pit rushed in on her. The memory of agony pushed at the edges of her consciousness, but it all seemed so far away. The tall figure spoke. A deep, male voice soothed away her terrors. It was a beautiful voice, smooth and cultured with the barest trace of an accent. The tones of it fell on her like something tangible, bringing peace in its wake. She relaxed again, slept for long hours, surfacing into a sort of waking-dream, where the world had narrowed to the comfort of a warm chamber and a soft dry bed.
She was unaware of time passing while she tossed and turned in the grip of a fever. Days and nights slipped past in a fog of disorder. The whole surface of her skin ached, even the roots of her hair felt sensitive. If she was hurting, that meant that she was alive. Everything became clear. Pain and suffering were states of being. Death was the void – an icy blackness where all feeling, all vitality was leached away. From far away a bright light beckoned to her. In the heart of the light was a crimson glow. It pulsed and throbbed with vibrancy. She went slowly towards the light, half in fear, half in longing. The crimson glow grew brighter, surrounded her. She knew finally, that death had rejected her.
It was night when she first opened her eyes to find herself in a chamber. The darkness flickered, pricked by candle-light, warmed by a fire in the wall hearth. There was the sound of logs crackling, the scent of apple-wood burning. Rushes whispered as someone walked across the chamber. Too weak to do more than turn her head she saw a shadow pass before the hearth. The now familiar dark figure bent over her. She saw the man’s face clearly for the first time. The firelight made the beautiful, angular face into a mummer’s mask. His eyes were deep-set, strange looking, the irises grey and reflective like metal.
Garnetta coughed. Her throat felt as if someone had poured sand into it. ‘Water. I beg you,’ she croaked, her tongue cleaving to the roof of her mouth.
The figure bent close to lift her head and place the rim of a goblet against her lips. His doublet was of mulberry velvet. A tress of his long black hair fell forward, brushing against her hand. She gulped at the fluid as it trickled between her lips. The drink tasted of herbs and wine and left a bitter aftertaste. Her mind was still fuzzy. It seemed that the man had a halo of light around his dark head. She realized that it was the light from the fire in the background which had formed the illusion. He removed her hand from the goblet and began studying her wrist and forearm.
Garnetta’s attention was drawn by the movement. She felt a sudden urge to laugh. Her mind was playing tricks. It could not be her hand he held. There were long strips of dead skin hanging from it, like streamers of the thinnest grey bark. Her wrist and hand looked thin, white as milk. The nails too were pale, mere slivers like blanched almonds. No, not her hand or arm. It was an illusion. When he laid her back down, she sank gratefully onto the pillows. Even that small exertion exhausted her. Then his eyes looked directly into hers. She gave a shiver of alarm. There was something unfathomable in that steady gaze.
‘Who . . . who are you?’ she murmured.
‘Lord Rakka. You can call me Karolan. Rest now,’ he said in the gentle persuasive way she had come to recognize. His voice had a deep brown timbre. In a strange way she thought that she felt the words as well as heard them.
‘Where am I?’ she whispered.
‘Safe. You are safe,’ Karolan said. ‘Do not be afraid. You have been very ill, you need to rest.’
It seemed again that the voice moved inside her head. It was gentle and like warmed honey, but it would not be denied. Sleep now. Obediently, she slept.
Early morning. A week later. Garnetta opened her eyes and almost closed them again in surprise.
Colours, so bright they almost hurt, flooded her vision. A scene swam in and out of focus. She concentrated hard, feeling an odd shifting movement inside herself as if someone had twitched a curtain. Her vision settled. She realized that she was staring up at a painted ceiling. The scene was a depiction of the Creation, but there was something out of kilter about it.
The trees, plants, and animals were beautifully wrought, each of them richly gilded. In the centre of the painting was a tree, its golden boughs hung with strange fruits. On the end of each branch sat a raven. Under the tree a naked man and woman held hands. Garnetta blushed at the immodesty of the depiction. The woman’s breasts were crowned with prominent, rosy nipples. There was a luxuriant thatch of hair between her legs. Likewise the man’s genitals were depicted graphically. She had never seen such a painting. Even in the visions of hell, on the placards of the white monks, the naked bodies were pale, sexless, devoid of all body hair. But she could not find this painting obscene, it glowed with sensuality, with a generous love of all life.
Looking more closely she saw the serpent which was coiled around the woman’s shoulders, but it was the man who held the snake’s head and was kissing it on the mouth. Garnetta was fascinated. The more she studied each detail, the more shocking the painting became. She looked for the figure of the Creator, usually prominent in religious paintings. Ah, there. Surely that was the figure of the living God. The tall slim figure in the background looked as if he was part of the scene and yet not master of it. The God figure had a beautiful face and long, glossy black hair. He had both male and female attributes. His beauty was blinding, disquieting. There was a presence at his side, a shadow, something of smoke and coiling air.
Garnetta looked away, deeply shocked by the heresy contained within the painting. But she was also disturbed by the fact that she felt herself responding to the warped sensuality of the God figure. There was something so compelling a
bout the forbidden images that she could not help but look back at them. Who could have been moved to adorn a dwelling place with such a disturbing and daring work? And by what arrogance had he ordered himself depicted as God?
When she dragged her attention back to herself, she found that she was in a richly appointed bedchamber. A diffuse light, along with a breeze scented with snow, poured in from the window opposite the bed. A fire of logs burnt in an enormous hearth which took up most of one wall. The walls themselves were curved and built of stone. Tapestries of silk, richly woven, sewn with jewels and circles of metal adorned the walls. Similar curtains hung around three sides of the bed.
Whatever this place was, it was no monastery. The tall dark man, her nurse and protector, must be a rich man indeed. As the daughter of a mercer, she had lived in relative comfort within the town, but she had never been inside a dwelling which had an imposing wall fireplace and a woollen carpet as well as floor rushes. Garnetta pushed herself into a sitting position. Immediately she became aware of something different about herself. Her head felt light and small. She put up her hands and felt the soft stubble where once there had been a mass of silky hair. It was common practice to crop the heads of those in the grip of fever, but for a moment she was dismayed. Father loved her hair. It was like her mother’s. Then she remembered.
Her father was dead, along with Jessica and Sellice. Nothing would be the same again. She had nothing left. No one to cherish. There was a pain in her chest when she thought of those she loved lying in the death pit, crushed and forgotten under the piled bodies. They must have prayers said for them, candles lit in the church of St Bertrina. She would attend to that first thing when she left this place. Then she must go back to the shop in Mercer’s Yard to salvage what was left of the business.