“No wonder,” he said.
I’d been about to thank him for the groceries, my better self aware of his kindness, but his remark closed that door. No wonder? What the bloody hell did that mean?
We went outside and, as if to verify my words, I took in several deep breaths.
“Well, what brings you here?” I asked, not pleasantly. “Outside of bringing me food. And speaking of that, how did you know I was back?” Harsh interrogation. I should have known better.
“Bill Bantry passed you a couple days ago,” Joe told me. “He said you were tugging a heavy bag. So I assumed you were back.”
He answered my questions in such a patient manner that I felt a pang of genuine guilt and managed a halfhearted smile. “Oh,” I said.
“So what is it that’s making you sick?” he asked. So much as a real father (as opposed to the Captain) would ask in concern that my guilt was multiplied.
“I wish I knew, Joe.” I answered, “I was attacked, I guess is the word, last night when I was trying to sleep.”
“What happened?” he asked. I could tell, from his expression, that he really was concerned for me; the reaction warmed me. Didn’t alleviate the feeling of sickness but helped immeasurably my state of mind. I had an ally, it occurred to me, warming me further.
So I told him everything, from the memory loss, to the deep cold exhaustion, to the voices, to the sensation that I was being watched.
“You couldn’t remember things,” Joe said when I had finished my account.
“Not only couldn’t remember anything, I couldn’t even think; my mind was blank.”
Joe regarded me in studied silence (good combo; sorry), then said, quietly, “Sounds like faeries to me.”
“Oh, come on, Joe,” I said. “All that?”
“Yes,” was his simple reply.
“But she couldn’t—,” I commenced, then stopped. Could I tell him about Ruthana?
“She?” he asked, reminding me of Magda’s query.
I hesitated, then had to remind myself that Joe was my ally, wanted only to help.
So I told him about my meeting with Ruthana.
“She led me from the woods, Joe.” I semi-protested, “She said she loves me.”
“Did you go back?” he asked.
“There wasn’t time,” I said.
“Did she expect you to?”
“Joe, how should I know?” I was demanding now.
“Alex,” he said (it was the first time he had called me that), “who else would know?”
Magda, my mind replied. But I didn’t want to drag her into this. I already had suspicions, which my conscious mind would not permit to enter. “All right, maybe I should know, but I don’t. Why do you bring it up?”
“Because the fact that you haven’t gone back could have angered her,” Joe said.
“And make her attack me like that?” I charged.
“She’s a faerie, Alex, not a human being. It isn’t possible to know how they think or act. And they do have powers. At a distance.” His last, emphatic words cut off my protest.
“But she was so sweet, Joe,” I said, adding hurriedly, “and she saved my life from her brother.”
“What brother?” Joe inquired.
“His name is Gilly,” I told him.
“Have you ever seen him?” Joe asked. Now he was saying the same thing as Magda. And it was true. I’d never seen Gilly; his existence was only a description by Ruthana. Now I was really confused. And deeply disturbed. (You know, A.B.) It had become more and more evident that the attack came not from Magda (my unadmitted suspicion) but that beautiful, ethereal creature Ruthana. I felt even sicker admitting it, but now I had no choice.
“Faeries don’t think the same way we do,” Joe told me. “We never can tell what they think. Or what they’ll do.”
“Joe,” I said; I was pleading now. “If she meant to do me harm, why didn’t she do it when I was with her? Why do it the way she did?”
“Alex,” first name again, warming but disturbing me further. “She could have made a mistake, or she did it as a game. We just don’t know how they’re likely to behave. That’s why we stay away from them. Why we avoid the woods. Didn’t I tell you not to go in the woods?” Now his parental concern had edged into scolding, and it made me horripilate. (Oh, there’s a word lifted from The Synonym Finder, not my brain.)
“Yes, you did,” I admitted despite the bristling (the word I should have used). I stared at him. “Now what?” I asked.
Chapter Eighteen
Now what? consisted of suggestions by Joe Lightfoot re methods by which to ward off faerie night attacks.
Suggestion 1: Prepare a bowl—four to five inches in diameter—by covering its bottom with a few inches of sand. On top of that, place several white sage leaves and set fire to their ends or edges. Once the flame has caught, blow them out and leave the leaves (bad prose—A. Black) to smoke. This smoke, said Joe, is what’s referred to as smudging. Pass the smoke around your head and body a number of times, then around the room in question.
The only drawback—when I asked Joe where we get white sage leaves, he didn’t know. “You could grow some,” he said.
“Great, Joe!” I cried, “Think I can grow some by tonight?”
He winced; the only time I’d ever seen him wince. “Maybe … mother of essence,” he suggested, “black tourmaline.”
“I’ll run right out and get some,” I snarled. I was losing all patience. This was serious business. I’d been terrified. I needed help here. The thought raced across my mind that Magda would be of more assistance. I chose not to follow that path.
“All right, let’s see what else there is.” Joe said, “I’m sorry about the white sage; that was stupid of me.”
He sounded so honestly repentant that immediate guilt took hold. He was only trying to help.
“You might try burning ragwort, but the smell would knock you out.”
“Anything else, Joe?” I inquired, bristling again.
“Well, yes, spoiled milk will sicken them. They love fresh milk, but spoiled—you have lots of that.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I responded. I thought we were.
“No,” said Joe, demolishing that. “You’ll need something better. You want to consider a spell?”
“What’s that?” It sounded more promising than spoiled milk, anyway.
“It’s a little complicated,” Joe explained. “First of all, you have to know exactly what your goal is. Well, you do. To protect yourself against attacks. Isn’t that right?”
“Well, of course,” I agreed testily. “What else are we talking about?”
“Right,” said Joe. “That’s for sure, then. Next, you gather candles, stones, or whatever else you need. I can run into town and get those for you. Next decide what words you want to use. Write down whatever key ones you want to repeat, you know what they are.”
I do? My mind conjectured. Well, yes, without a doubt, I knew. Stop the damn attacks. Oh, Magda, I thought, I could really use some Wicca magic right now. No, my mind resisted. Not yet. I sensed that the realization was more tolerantly inclined but let it slide. The healing ritual had truly been impressive to me. It lingered in my memory.
These thoughts disabled my brain to Joe’s instructions as he rambled on. Step 5: If I desired the help of a special deity, I should decide on Him—or Her. I may need to write out special prayers and memorize them. Step 6: Be sure you clearly visualize your goal. If you want to make use of a particular faerie, decide which one it will be. Ruthana? I thought. Absurd if she was directing the attacks in the first place. Gilly? Yeah, that was a super idea. Step 7: Decide where you want to cast the spell. When is not considered, of course. The attacks must be averted tonight.
When it suddenly swept over me what this entire suggestion was, I threw up my hands in grated submission. “Joe! Enough!” I cried, “I can’t remember all that!”
He succumbed to silence and stared at me. (A triple comb
o! Arthur Black would go nuts.) Finally, with a faint submissive smile (another one God damn it!), he said, “Well, yes, I guess it is too much on such short notice. We’ll have to come up with something simple.” (Something simple, Arthur Black would be nonplussed.) “You can try hand clapping or whistling—faeries hate sharp noises.”
“Yes?” I said, “What else?”
“You can throw primrose blossoms around your bed,” Joe said.
“That’s right,” I enthused. “Magda did that, and it stopped Gilly’s chase.”
“You still believe there really is a Gilly,” Joe said.
“Yes, I do.” I had to affirm myself somewhere along the line. “Anything else?” I persisted.
“You have a cast-iron skillet,” Joe reminded me. “Put it near your bed. Or in your bed. And here—” He felt around in his right pocket and took out something, which he handed to me. An iron nail. “Stay dressed and keep it in your right pocket as I did; only the right. It makes a barrier around you. If you had a scythe, you could hang it over your doorway. Iron is the faeries’ worst enemy.”
Now we were really getting somewhere, my mind gloried. Why didn’t he start out this way? Why with the ridiculous white sage, spell suggestions? (I’ll ignore the triple [!] combo.)
“Thank you, Joe,” I said. “I really appreciate this.”
“Glad to help,” Joe replied. “Oh, yes, you can also put ashes—you have a fireplace [I did but had never used it] into bottles or small bags and place them in the windows. Faeries don’t like the smell of ashes. If you have a mirror, put it near your bed. Faeries hate mirrors. They prefer to see their reflections in pools of water. Too bad you haven’t got a cat. They chase away faeries.”
Good God, I thought. Joe Lightfoot was a regular font of knowledge regarding faerie dissuasion. God bless the man. What would I have done without him?
Was it my fault that I didn’t realize he was completely wrong?
* * *
I spent the afternoon preparing.
First of all, the primrose blossoms. I’d seen how well they worked. Unfortunately, I had no such blossoms. I’d thrown away what I had. Magda had a garden of them, but I was hardly going to knock on her door and ask if I could borrow some. I had a few scraps in my jacket, and these I distributed around my pallet, feeling an utter fool as I did. How could these pathetic scraps of blossoms turn away an attack? Looking down at them on the floor, I scowled. Darkly.
I tried the iron skillet next. I was going to nail it to the wall above my pallet, actually the underside of the roof. I had no hammer, though. Joe hadn’t offered to leave one. Whether he didn’t think I’d need one or never thought of it, I don’t know. At any rate, all I had in the way of nails was the one Joe had given me. I don’t think I could have nailed the damn thing up, anyway. The surface of the “ceiling” was more tile than wood. So I put the skillet on top of the pallet. It looked ridiculous there. How in God’s name could I sleep on that? I couldn’t. I put it on the floor next to the pallet. It looked absurd sitting on the floor, amidst those primrose scraps. I felt an utter fool again.
I’d decided to sleep fully dressed with my jacket on, the nail in the right side pocket as Joe had suggested. It would have been a lot more practical to rent a room at the Gateford House. Why didn’t I? To save money? No, that would be dumb. The reason I didn’t was more far-fetched but seemed a stronger idea. If and when the attack began (as I was sure it would), I’d appeal aloud to Ruthana. At that point, I pretty well believed what Joe had said. That it was a definite faerie attack. If so, who would be more likely the cause of it? Hard to accept, of course, she was so unbelievably sweet. Still … Someone was behind it. Gilly? Not hard to accept. Magda? That alarming possibility in my brain again. She’d put me from her house. She loved me, then felt betrayed when I told her about Ruthana. She had the means. But so did Ruthana. I remembered thinking that, in fact, I had no concept of just how powerful she really was. And she’d said she loved me. Did she also feel betrayed because I hadn’t gone back to her immediately? My brain was in turmoil. Ruthana? Gilly? Magda? Yoiks!
I had no idea, so continued with my preparations—which seemed, to me, increasingly insane. I was a Brooklyn boy, after all. I’d seen action in the trenches. I’d done well in school—the only reason Captain You Know Who endured my presence in his house. Wherever that happened to be, he was transferred on occasion. What I’m trying to say is that I had (I believe) a level head. So all this lunatic stuff was anathema to my common sense–oriented brain. It was not reality but insanity. Yet I could not deny that all of it was happening. It was and I had to accept it. Throw that in a mix in a logical brain, and what do you get? Immense confusion. Which is precisely the state I was in.
But, regardless of this—a jumble of aggravation, reluctant belief, and, undeniably, dread, I continued with the preparations. Putting ashes from the fireplace into empty jars Joe left me. Installation of same in the windows and air opening in the attic. I thought of searching for a cat, but there wasn’t time; it was already getting to be late afternoon. Soon it would be dark.
What then?
* * *
It was not fatigue but a sudden cessation of energy; somehow, I could tell the difference. The sensation of fatigue the previous night was not abrupt. It came on gradually. This was quick. In an instant. I was drained of strength. Almost numb with weakness. Was that someone touching me? Or was it bumping? I sensed the presence of someone nearby. Or something.
Watching me.
I began to see—or imagine I saw—shapes of dreadful shadows on the wall. Monsters of all variety. Formless creatures. Giant bugs.
I tried to clap my hands or whistle, but I couldn’t summon the ability to do either. I just lay there “like a bump on a log,” as my mother used to say. Why was I recalling that now? Ruthana! My mind cried, please stop!
It didn’t stop. It got worse. Now I wasn’t a bump on a log. I was a log. Useless, hopeless, weighing a ton, only my eyes—and terrified brain—still mobile. Shadows on the wall. Awful shadows. Menacing shadows. Ghastly shadows.
Then the voices began again.
A chorus of them. Rasping, rattling voices a cappella. “Die now! Suffer! Flesh be gone! Eyeballs eaten!” (For a stupid moment, I imagined all the war rats gathered together, wearing church robes, hosanna-caroling about their diets in the trenches.) Then good sense—actually, I was closer to being senseless at that moment—prevailed and I knew, again, that I was under psychic siege. Ruthana! I pleaded. Stop!
Instead of stopping, something much more hideous occurred.
A bloodcurdling scream seemed to gouge the air. My jumping eyes beheld a sight that, to this day, remains branded on my memory.
An ancient crone—a hag, I later learned—was rushing across the room at me, a look of maniacal glee on her face—which was half bone, half rotting flesh. Her dress was shredded rags, reveling her scrawny, sagging breasts, which flapped as she ran. Endlessly, from her mouth—she had no perceptible lips—the shrieking howl continued. Now I saw that her skin and—God Almighty!—her teeth were green! Not the green of plants or tree leaves. More the green of fungus—or of pond slime. In spite of my frozen state, I felt my stomach rumble and the taste of bile in my throat.
Then the hag had reached me and, with an unnatural leap, was on top of me, the scream going on, an expression on her foul face now one of lustful delight. I felt her bony fingers tearing at my pants. She began to kiss me torridly, her breath in my mouth (her tongue was cold and jagged) like a wind from an ancient sewer. I felt sick to my stomach again, felt a trail of vomit down my chin.
At which point, the hideous creature clutched at my organ—which, somehow, stupidly or controlled by psychic force (I downright refuse to believe I’d become aroused) had erected. At which the hag, cackling victoriously, thrust her skeletal loins onto mine and (well, use the word!) raped me. More than once. Until I wept and begged over and over, Ruthana, why?!
Then, in a second, all was ended. I cou
ld feel again. Nothing but a disabled stomach, total nausea. Severe grating pain in my genitals. Deep scratches on my chest.
And, for some reason, an enormous rage. Joe Lightfoot was stupid, he was wrong! His protections—none of which worked—were laughable. If anything had happened one could laugh at, which it hadn’t.
Ruthana? All that? Never! It had not been her. It could not have been. It was someone else. It had to be.
The witch Magda.
* * *
I raced across the wide lawn to her house, never once considering the possibility that something would be blocking my way or stopping me; I was too incensed for such consideration. I had to see Magda. Not another thought or anxiety crossed my mind.
Reaching the front door, I twisted its knob and shoved the door open. “Magda!” I shouted.
There was no reply, so I charged through the main room, shouting “Magda!” again. Still no response. “Dammit, Magda!” I raged, “Don’t try to hide from me!” Why I’d think of such a thing I couldn’t tell you. I was prepared for anything, I guess. Rage suffused me. I could hardly see straight. I rushed on, yelling her name repeatedly, even (stupid me) threateningly.
Into her bedroom. No one there. The gargantuan bed did not look menacing or, God knew, inviting. I yelled her name again, in case she was occupied in her private bath. No reply. “God damn it!” I snarled. This was taking too long. My prepared rant—I’d practiced it mutteringly on my long run from the Cottage—was already diminishing. I had to let it out soon. “Magda!” I was virtually screaming it by then.
Into her study. Nothing. I considered, for a wild second, getting out her sickening manuscript and tearing it into pieces. No time for that, though. I had my fury to unleash. “Magda!” I shouted yet again. My voice cracked. I was losing it. No, I thought, enraged. I had things to say to her. Say? Not strong enough, by half. Rant. Rave. Explode. That’s how I felt. “Magda,” I growled, teeth gritting.
I ran into the kitchen. No one. “Well, where the hell are you?” I grumbled. I shoved over the voluminous chair, pleased yet guilty at the sound of cracking wood.
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