by S E England
Something was coming…
There can be no shadows if there is no light, her mother had said. Look again…what do you see?
There were no shadows on the walls now. No light at all.
Then into her mind, clear and sharp, came the face of her bearded uncle chewing the cud. She frowned and banished the thought. Then, whoosh, she was inside his head, experiencing the rush he had cornering a tearful child, as he thrust himself on him, feeding off the terror and the shame, pulling down the young boy’s shorts while the child sobbed with shame…
Her mind blacked with hatred. And in that instant, everything in her stomach vaulted up to her mouth. Flying over to the bed, she pulled out the chamber pot and projectile vomited, heaving until there was nothing left but acid before slumping to the floor in a cold sweat. Visions and sickness. This was taking hold exactly as her mother had forecast. Waves of colic gripped her intestines, and bile rose in her throat. Head pounding, she reached for a handkerchief and dabbed at her face, swiping away the tears.
Give us work…give us work…
Moonlight now streamed once more into the room, and this time there were visible movements from within the furniture-shaped shadows. They rose like oil slicks, oozing over the walls and across the floor like giant garden slugs.
Lenka, give us work… Lenka… Lenka…
She sank onto the bed, whimpering as the slithers congealed around her feet in a tar-black pool… Perhaps she was mad after all?
Give us work…give us work…
Wave after wave of sickly colic seized her stomach, and a feverish damp glistened on her skin. Shivering, she slapped her arm as something stung, sharp as a red-hot thumbtack. A fiery pox mark had appeared, followed by another and another. Tears smarted behind her eyes.
Lenka, Lenka, I can take all of this away from you…
“I don’t want this. I don’t want it.”
I am all about you, am part of you already or else how would I know your thoughts – your most intimate thoughts?
Into her mind flashed the explosively passionate moments with Oskar, and despite her fear and her pain, heat rose inside, flaming her cheeks.
We are inseparable, you and I. Do you know how long I have been with you? For a thousand years or more… I can take away all your grief, terror and pain…all you have to do is say yes!
An almighty contraction gripped her intestines; nerve pain screamed down one side of her head. It was getting worse – a dozen more pox marks had broken out all over her arms…
“Yes! I will give you work,” she gasped, panicking. “Let Uncle Guido suffer instead of me if that is what you are saying…but please, make this fever stop!”
Immediately the pain siphoned away, the marks vanished and the black shapes receded in a hiss of recoil.
“Show me, then,” she whispered. “Show me what to do. I am ready.”
***
Chapter Nineteen
Uncle Guido and Aunt Heide were still downstairs. Lenka inched open the bedroom door and peered down the corridor to their bedroom. Every board in this house creaked. How to get there without being heard?
She took a deep breath, deciding to trust that all would be well, and stepped out onto the landing. It was a chilly evening, and the wind gusted around the house, rafters groaning, the sound of Aunt Heide clattering plates in the kitchen below. Where was he, though? Smoking a pipe in the study? Yes, that was where he was.
She took another step. Then another and another. This had to be quick. To be caught in their bedroom, or even outside the door, would without doubt elicit severe punishment. Aunt Heide would do nothing to save her, either. The woman was weak. It was imperative to be cunning, to anticipate every move, every outcome.
Stealthily she pushed open their bedroom door and peered inside. Pearly moonlight streaked across a brass bed covered with starch-white sheets exactly as pictured. A dark oak dresser and chest of drawers stood against the far wall by an inset closet. Her glance flicked to the dressing table. Aunt Heide’s hairbrush lay on a silver tray along with a pot of cream and a tortoiseshell hand mirror, but there was nothing of his. What about a robe or coat? Ah, of course – darting over to the bed, she pulled back the top sheet. His nightcap! And inside it were several gingery hairs. At the sound of a voice, she curled them into her palm and exited as swiftly as she’d entered, scooting back across the landing without a single board making a creak.
Back in her own room, she rooted for a piece of writing paper and sat at the small desk with the excuse of writing home should she be disturbed. Conscious now of a dual life, of a silky, cunning presence streaming through her veins, she found herself waiting for a response, pen poised.
Show me! Show me!
Nothing came but a vague and hazy notion that words of intent should be scrawled onto the paper and then burned. But what could she say to make this work?
She frowned, waiting, trying hard to think of the right words. But they would not come. Frowning, she dipped the nib into the inkwell and began to doodle… As before when the floorboards were bound to creak, she had trusted and they had not. She must trust again and let the one inside channel through. Doodle after doodle…until her thoughts began to blur at the edges…and her hand, as if it were no longer her own, picked up a fresh sheet of paper and began to wrap the hairs from Guido’s nightcap into its folds.
Then, and only then, did the pen begin to scrawl. And as she inscribed her uncle’s name on the packet of hairs, his image burned brightly, searing onto her mind. Every working of his jaw as he chewed and chewed, every flick of his tongue over those wet red lips, and every lascivious gaze falling onto the cherubic body of an innocent child ramped up the loathing.
Words in a tongue not her own fell from her lips: “Nema Olam a son arebil des menoitatnet ni sacundi son en te. Sirtson subiotibed sumittimid son te tucis, artson atibed sibon ettimid te. Eidoh sibon…”
Onto the small envelope, under his name she drew a circle, filled it with an inverted pentagram, and painted in the very centre a black sun with rays around it, all the while picturing him in great detail, seeing the demons gathering around him, imagining the shudders as he sat downstairs in the study, smoking his pipe, aware now of a cold breeze on the back of his neck. With the package now complete, she took a hairpin and repeatedly stabbed it, picturing Guido doubling over with pain. Every stick of the pin was dealt with conviction and intent. “As this hair so receives blows and pain, so may its master receive blows and pain.”
When the working was done, she held it to the flame. “This is my Will!”
Within seconds of finishing, footsteps creaked rapidly along the floorboards on the landing. A rap came at the door, and Guido walked straight in without asking. He sniffed the air. “Something is burning?”
Smiling inside, Lenka languidly glanced over her shoulder. “Forgive me, Uncle, I was working so hard on a letter to my parents, I had not noticed. I must have scorched my sleeve on the candle.”
“You should be more careful, Lenka. How can we trust you if you are careless in such matters? It is time for you to put out your light and go to sleep.”
“Yes, goodnight, Uncle.”
He closed the door. “Goodnight.”
He had been checking on her. He had some inkling she was not as pious and demure as he would like. No, there was something rebellious and dangerous about his niece, and it unsettled him. She smiled more widely now, feeling well – tingling, in fact, with good health.
So now we will see, she thought, if I really am a sorceress.
***
Chapter Twenty
The following evening, Aunt Heide walked Lenka to the university, not ten minutes from where they lived. It had gained a reputation of considerable standing, and rumour had it great personages attended. She had heard royalty at one time.
“I do not understand how your mother acquired this place for you,” Aunt Heide went on. “It is for the most elite, and here are you – just a village girl.”
/> Lenka shrugged. She did not know either.
“Your parents, they must have put together good money for their only child – money that should have been used for a wedding. I do not know what they are thinking.”
“Yes, Aunt Heide. I do not know either, I must say.”
On arriving at the gates, Heide kissed her on one cheek in an uncharacteristic display of affection. “Nevertheless, I wish you good luck in your studies. Perhaps your mother wishes you to become a teacher in the village?”
“I think so,” Lenka nodded, keeping her eyes averted. “I am sure you are right.”
“Well, then. I shall expect you home by nine o’clock. Have someone walk you to the door. You should not be out alone.”
Aunt Heide watched until Lenka had walked all the way down the drive to the university building, her footsteps echoing dully on the rain-spattered stones. Ahead, an arched doorway had been left ajar, and seized by a flutter of excitement, she stepped eagerly over the threshold, forgetting to turn and wave.
The corridor, lit by an oil lamp on a small hall table, was oak panelled and lined with portraits of alumni. From a room at the back came a murmur of voices, and tentatively now, she headed in that direction. Expecting it to be full of students, she peered shyly around the door. In fact, there were only two people in there: a tall dark-haired man, slightly stooped, who had his back to her, and a younger man with whom he was engaged in avid conversation. She caught the gist of it in the few seconds before the dark-haired man swung around and saw her.
“Yes, yes, the Kriyasakh has produced external, perceptible, and phenomenal results by its inherent energy—”
“Any idea will manifest itself externally if one’s attention and will is deeply concentrated upon it—”
“Ah!”
Their eyes met. And the first thought that struck her, with considerable impact, was how startlingly handsome Herr Blum was. The second, that he was the same man who had infiltrated her mind.
She stood paralysed with shock.
He bowed. “Fräulein Heller? Good evening, I am Herr Blum, your tutor.”
His golden-brown eyes danced, the jet hair and pointed fox-like features alive with mischief. He was quite old, she thought, at least thirty. And experienced… Instantly she received a vision of them both with limbs entwined. He was holding back her hair, pushing into her… A rush of heat suffused her cheeks.
“How do you do, Herr Blum? Thank you for accepting me as a pupil.”
“My absolute pleasure, Fräulein Heller.”
The younger man he’d been talking to was regarding her intently. As her glance fell on him, he began to quickly pack up some papers.
“This is Asp, a senior pupil here at the university.”
She nodded politely. The room was astounding, like nothing she had ever seen. Full-length gold brocade curtains hung in luxurious folds, two deep leather sofas were positioned either side of a crackling fire, and atop an ornate wooden sideboard, two cut-glass tumblers had been set out beside a full decanter. A mahogany coffee table between the sofas was strewn with leather-bound books, and a stag’s head watched over the scene from above the mantelpiece. Lenka slipped off her satchel. This was not a schoolroom.
Herr Blum observed her, still wearing that curious air of amusement.
A curt nod of dismissal passed from him to the other man.
“This is like a gentleman’s club, ja?” said the one called Asp. He knocked back the remainder of his drink, turned back to face Herr Blum and bowed, placing his right hand onto his chest with the two middle fingers tucked in and the thumb underneath. “I bid you goodnight, Heinrich.”
Then, with a mocking bow in her direction, he smiled. “Fräulein Heller!”
After the younger man departed and the main door had clicked shut behind him, the thought occurred to her that they were completely alone in the building, yet she felt no alarm at the impropriety, only intense curiosity.
“Please, take a seat.”
She perched on the edge of one of the leather sofas.
“Drink?”
“No, thank you. Are there no other pupils?”
“No.”
“I have one-to-one tuition with you? For English and French?”
He laughed, sinking comfortably onto the opposite sofa, his eyes never leaving hers for a second.
The moment was profound. Flames swirled around the dimly lit walls, and the aroma of whisky and tobacco laced the air, along with something else…musk…herbs…
He crossed a long leg over one knee. “You will need some English and French, of course. Do you have any languages other than German? Czechoslovakian?”
“Yes, both.”
He acknowledged this with a small incline of his head, a smile hovering at the edge of his lips. “Serbian? Hungarian?”
“No.”
“Latin?”
“A little.”
“May I call you Lenka?”
Startled, still uncomfortably hot in the face, she nodded.
“Lenka, you cannot be surprised if I tell you that you are here for a reason and it is not particularly to learn English and French. You are a peasant girl, a farmer’s daughter, are you not, and only just turned sixteen? Yet here you are, unchaperoned, with a private university tutor in Ingolstadt.” He waved a well-manicured hand at the opulence of the room. “A university renowned for its excellence and, um…filthy rich splendour. So, tell me why you think you are here?”
I am part of you…I can take away all your grief, loneliness and pain…
“I think I might take that drink after all, Herr Blum.”
When he stood, the movement was as gracefully fluid as that of a dancer. And when a moment later he leaned over her shoulder to place a glass of burgundy wine in her hand, the musky smell of him – of sandalwood, cedar and spice – lingered. It was all over him, all over his skin…
Her hand shook a little as she took the proffered glass. Why the hell did she have to be dressed in a schoolgirl pinafore and stout shoes? Indeed, she did look like a peasant from Bohemia, a child peasant with silly coiled braids. She stared at his shoes, at the soft, polished black leather.
“Drink,” he said. “It will relax you.”
She took a long gulp and then another, the desire to take down her hair and rip off the starched pinafore quite overpowering. She struggled with her sense of self. Until recently in life, she’d always enjoyed the upper hand. “All right, I think I am here because…”
Never speak of who you are or what you know!
“It’s all right, you can trust me. Your mother told you there would be someone here who would take you to the next level, yes?”
Her eyes grew wide. She took another deep drink, hoping her hands weren’t visibly trembling. “And this is you?”
“It is.”
“And you want me to say what I am and what I can do? Yet people like me, with my abilities, have been imprisoned and put to death – it is more than my life is worth. This could be a trick—”
“Trust me. It is the reason you are here.”
“I don’t understand. At a university? Who are you?”
He shook his head. “Tell me, have you have had the gift of second sight all your life?”
“Yes.”
“Go on, I would like to hear more.”
“I…um…” She swirled the plum-coloured liquid around and around, uncomfortably aware of the crackle and rush of the fire, of the heat in her veins, of his intense scrutiny. What was she to do?
She took another gulp, after which the answer came out in a rush, “Well, yes, I’ve always had it. It could be fun, you know, guessing what was going to happen to people? I knew what they were thinking and how they were feeling. Sometimes I did mischievous things like putting thoughts into their heads or sending them a bad dream. It’s hard to explain if you don’t—”
He yawned. “Common tricks. Many a gypsy fortune-teller will tell you quite accurately what is on your mind. What I would like
to know is what happened when you turned sixteen, after your grandmother passed?”
She downed the rest of the liquor. Her cheeks blazed. “What do you mean? What do you know about that?”
“More than you can imagine. Now tell me what happened at the, um…funeral?”
“It sounds as though you know already, Herr Blum?”
“Do not play games with me, Lenka.”
The alteration in tone caught her unaware, and she turned her face away to stare into the fire. “Well, it was not so long ago; it’s still very fresh in my mind.”
“I am sure it must have been very upsetting.” He leaned over and topped up her glass. “Drink, drink… Take your time, but it is very important you tell me exactly what happened. You see, I really do want to know.”
The axis of the room shifted, and her words sounded syrupy and slurred to her own ears. “Baba Olga was dying, so my mother and I travelled to Mooswald where she and the family had camped. When we arrived, it was almost too late.”
“But she did speak to you?”
“Oh yes. I was told she had a powerful gift of sorcery and that it must be passed on to me. My grandmother had been destroyed by the force of the energy, by the dark spirits attached to her, and died a terrible death. Well, the thing is, Baba Olga thought I was my mother. My mother had pushed me forwards instead of herself – she tricked me, Herr Blum. And so, Baba Olga gave the poppet and the legacy to me.”
“You must have been mad as all hell.”
“Yes, oh yes, I was.”
“Were you initiated that evening?” The manner in which he asked the question was nonchalant, but his eyes burned into hers.
“Yes, but they drugged me, so I don’t remember it very well.” The terrible night surged into her head as if a door had opened wide and pulled her through it.