My last attempt bore fruit (sour). She was in her vegetable garden, hoeing, a protective smock over her dress. At the sound of the back door slamming—I’d done it on purpose—she looked around in surprise. “Alex,” she said. The sound of her voice infuriated me, releasing my rant. (Not bad A.B.)
“Okay!” I started. (Not a notable beginning, but I really wasn’t thinking straight.) “God damn it!” (Better.) “You can throw me out because I offended you! You can make me go back to that lousy cottage! You can do all that! But did you have to torture me?! Have to attack me like that?! Look at me!” I tore open my shirt, showing her the discolored gouges on my chest. I jerked down my pants. “Look at my [can’t say it, rhymes with ‘sock’]! This is what you did to me! I’m covered with these! With bites! Are you happy?! Have you gotten even with me now?”
She didn’t say a word, her face without expression. I waited, but she remained silent. I thought of pulling up my pants, then decided, angrily, to let her look at my battered organ. I left my shirt open, too.
Finally, her dead silence irked me. Irked? Come on, Black, you can come up with a better verb than that. Try … “made me see red.” Fury really does that.
“Come on! React!” I ordered, ignoring the cracking sound of my voice. “Talk to me!” I should have said “speak,” but my tongue—and brain—was not controlled by grammar. “Talk to me!” I repeated.
She didn’t speak. She wept.
That caught me off guard. That I had never anticipated—or expected. Because her weeping was so sudden, so uncontrolled. Her sobs were violent, her cheeks quickly soaked with tears. I had never seen such unrestrained emotion from her, and it shocked me. I stood impaled between being stunned and trying, with decreasing success, to hold on to my anger.
She couldn’t speak. Any attempt to do so was swallowed by great sobs that racked her body so severely, she had trouble standing. I could tell that she was trying to speak but constantly failing. All I could do was stand there with my pants down, staring at her obviously brokenhearted state.
“Alex,” she managed to say at last. “Alex.” Faintly. Brokenly. Just audibly.
Then she managed more, struggling with the effort, unable to control her sobbing.
“How could you?” was all she was able to say between the spasmodic sobs. (Oh, boy. A. Black) And again. “How could you?” she asked.
Then she was lost in her weeping, unable to breathe, almost choking with her sobs, moaning—in pain, it sounded like. Embarrassed now (bare assed as well, I feel compelled to rhyme), I began to pull up my trousers. Magda, still weeping uncontrollably, shook her head and waved her right hand at me as though abjuring me to leave my trousers be. Not knowing what she meant, I left them down, well aware of the fact that I must have looked absurd, almost comical. “Magda, I don’t think—,” I started. She shook her head again, giving me the impression that she didn’t want me to say another word.
Finally, she regained her voice, albeit stricken with pain—and, to my amazement—remorse.
“How could you believe that of me?” she asked, she begged. “How could you believe I’d do such things? To you? The father of our child?”
Chapter Nineteen
Good God. The first two words to emerge from my smitten head. Our child? Somehow that seemed to alter everything. Where had fury gone? What rant was remaining? None. I stared at her in stricken muteness.
Then I said—I muttered, “Our child?”
“Alex,” she said. Was that a smile despite the tears? “We’ve … coupled quite a number of times. Without protection of any kind. Does it surprise you that I finally became with child?” (I believe the word “pregnant” wasn’t in common use back then.)
“Well—” My brain was, by now, completely flustered. “You—” No words took shape. Then, suddenly, the retort sprang. “If you knew that you were—carrying my child, how could you attack me that way?”
“Alex,” she said, her voice losing strength again. “What makes you think that I … attacked you?” The word, apparently, much pained her.
“Well, who else could do it?” I demanded. “Who else has that kind of power?”
She only gazed at me. As though she knew that the answer was already mine.
I guess I slipped up. I should have pursued the angry questioning. Instead, I asked (naïvely, I suspect), “They have such power?”
“And more,” said Magda.
Holy Christ, I thought. Now everything was being thrown back in my face.
“But the exhaustion,” I said, close to protesting now. “The loss of memory. The coldness. The horrible voices. I’d done everything I could to protect me. The primrose pieces around my bed, my pallet. The cast-iron pan. The ashes in the windows. All to stop them. Nothing worked! How could it be faeries, Magda?! How could it be?!”
“Not faeries, Alex,” Magda said. “Just one.”
Oh God, I thought. She almost had me convinced.
But I forged on. Trying desperately to vindicate Ruthana. “Two nights straight?” I persisted, “That hideous old woman doing this to me?!” I pointed forcefully to my beleaguered groin.
Her next words threw me totally.
“Take off your clothes,” she said.
I was unable to reply, my mouth hanging open. Then I managed to rage, “I’m in no condition!”
“Alex,” she cut me off. “I’m not suggesting lovemaking. I want to put some salve on your wounds.”
“Oh,” I said stupidly. Teenagedly. I simply knew no better at the moment.
Thus, obediently, probably sheepishly, I took off all my clothes, assisted by Magda, and stretched out, naked as a battered jaybird, on the kitchen table while Magda retrieved a small jar from a cabinet and undid the cap. “Now,” she said. The way she said it—so businesslike—made me think for a moment or two that the salve-spreading was somehow a dreadful encore to the attacks.
Then as the whitish cream—more than a gelatinous salve—was spread across my chest by Magda’s gentle fingers, I felt the pain diminishing noticeably. And when she applied it to my genitals, my know-nothing organ responded—as it usually did—with no discernment whatever regarding what had happened to it. Magda repressed a smile. “I thought you said you were in no condition to—?” she said. I was in no mood to be teased. “It’s just a reflex,” I mumbled. It sounded absurd.
“Of course,” she said. “I know that.”
Several seconds of silence as she continued rubbing, very carefully, all the bruises and deep scratches on me, front and back. I have to say that cream certainly did the job.
At last, she said, “That hideous old woman is called The Old Hag, a spirit in English folklore.”
“Magda,” I said, irritable despite my awareness of the fact that I was pretty helpless lying in the altogether on the kitchen table like that. “She was not a spirit. Look at me! Did a spirit do this?!” I gestured feebly at my maltreated groin.
Patiently, she answered, “Do you believe that spirits are unable to take on flesh and bone?”
“Flesh and bone?” I doubted. “A spirit?”
“Yes, Alex. Yes,” she said. Then, “Shall I show you books describing it? Photographs?”
“Well…” Grumpy now. I lapsed into a dissatisfied silence. Then a retort became my countering. “And you’re saying that Ruthana (I didn’t hesitate to use her name now) did all that to me?”
Her argument against the point was not expected. Nor well received.
“Consider, Alex. She allowed you to—no, lured you to her—even though the little people are extremely loath to permit such a meeting. She conversed with you amiably. Then, when you were convinced that all was well—while she was naked, no less.”
That shook me. Had I told her? I couldn’t recall. “Of course she was,” Magda continued, turning the knife a little more. “She had to be. To allure you. Can’t you see that?”
“No,” I muttered. Unsubstantiated by conviction.
“I think you do,” said Magda. �
��Anyway, just when you were most comfortable, she told you that her brother—her awful brother—was coming. And she staged a flight before her brother—and helped you escape.”
“That’s right,” I explained, lamely. “If she wanted to hurt me, why help me escape from her brother?”
“Who you never saw,” Magda stated. “You have no way of knowing if he really exists.”
“Well…” No retort to that. I didn’t know. Gilly truly might not exist.
“Oh, God,” I murmured. “She seemed so sweet, Magda. She said she loved me.” There, it was out. Magda would have made a good detective, wringing—or finessing—an involuntary confession from the felon in custody.
“I’m sure she did,” was all she said.
“I still don’t know why she let me go,” I told her.
“That is peculiar,” Magda replied. “I’ve never heard of that before. Another example of attempted faerie trickery, I suppose. Or she’s too young and hasn’t refined trickery yet. She may have expected you to return. When you didn’t…” She let that hang.
“And you think she has the power to—,” I began.
“I know she has the power,” Magda said firmly. “You can’t underestimate what they can do. Causing ‘things’ to happen from a distance is the least of them. I’m certain she’s old enough for that.”
“I was sure—no, I wasn’t sure, I suspected that it was you, Magda,” I said.
Her face fell. I can describe it no other way. “If you really believe that, Alex,” she started.
“Magda, I’m not sure what I believe anymore.” That was true enough. My brain was a jumble of possibilities—and confusions.
“If you do believe that I did all these terrible things, you have to leave again,” she said.
“And be attacked again?” I said. I was sure she knew I was kidding.
She smiled. “You’re done, get off the table,” she said.
I sat up. “Actually, that old hag wasn’t too bad looking,” I said.
“Oh, shut up.” Repressing another smile, she whacked me on the bottom.
So there it was. Resolution. At any rate, some kind of resolution. I still found it, bone-deep, difficult to believe that Ruthana had been guilty of those terrifying attacks, but on the other hand (no question why Pisces is labeled the trash bin of the zodiac; my brain was certainly a trash bin of doubts), Magda had convinced me (almost) that it wasn’t her. It was clearly true enough that I had no conception of how powerful the faeries were. If there really was a Gilly, he had accomplished his two pursuits in first-class fashion, scaring the living bejesus out of me on both occasions. I still had vivid memories of the elephant (they couldn’t have been real elephants, could they?) charge through the bamboo forest behind me. And Magda actually saved me from that! One more golden star for her. Dear God. Was I perplexed. In every way. I was a mental wreck. “Determination,” try to be my name!
It wasn’t.
* * *
To make a long story short (corny! A. Black), I remained with Magda. The witch. I shouldn’t say that. She was a wicce. That’s different. At least I always assumed it was. I should say Magda, the mother of my impending child. That really bollixed up my brain. Me a daddy? At eighteen? What next? A family of twelve? The prospect did me in. If Magda got pregnant that easy! How old was she? No younger than my mother, surely. Could my mother have had a baby at this age? The idea was appalling. The thought of her coupling with the Captain was enough to turn my stomach. What would he have done, assigned her a certified length of time to give shore leave to his navy-regulated sperm? Jesus Christ, the imaging was too revolting! I already had enough problems on my mind.
So I remained with Magda. In a mixture of trust and mistrust. I believed her, yet I didn’t believe her. Everything she said seemed (there’s that word again) indisputable. And yet, forever lingering in my psyche was the memory of that sweet-faced faerie named Ruthana. I knew that she seemed to possess powers (an A. Black combo; acceptable) I had no concept of.
Where was I? Yes, my inability to deny Magda’s words, yet my equal inability to deny the sweetness of Ruthana. So where did that leave me? On a rocking seesaw. On a wire, dangling above certainty and its opposite. In truth, I loved them both.
No, it was a love divided between Magda and my faerie charmer. One was the love of a son for his mother, albeit complicated by the fact that we were also lovers.
My love for Ruthana was—let’s call it—totally romantic. With all the flaws that word implies. Blinded vision. Illogical mentation. Ignorant bliss; the phrase is quite apt. I knew, when I considered what I still felt about Ruthana that I was being totally—probably absurdly—unrealistic. But what does an eighteen-year-old know about true reality?
I had, still, to learn.
All right, then, the love of a son for his mother. His beautiful, voluptuous, passionate mother. It was simple for a dull-witted teenager to feel love for a gorgeous mom. She treated me, as well, with all the care of a loving parent. So much so that, I confess, as weeks rolled by, I thought less of Ruthana all the time.
For then.
Magda cooked for me, baked for me. Absolutely scrumptious meals. Delicious cakes. Overwhelming biscuits. Do I make my point?
She kept me in clean clothes. Took me into Gatford to buy me new outfits. Once, anyway. The experience was so unpleasant that it pained and aggravated both of us. The looks. The poorly guarded smirks. The behind-the-hand mutters. Stupid yokels. All very irritating and disturbing. Especially to me. I gathered that Magda was not unfamiliar with such insulting treatment. If she had once been a welcome citizen of Gatford, now she was not. Now she was decidedly unwelcome. Poor Magda. I say that in her behalf—for that period of time. Now …
From there on, she kept my clothes as clean and neat as practical. When they began to look their age and fray, she reworked Edward’s clothes. Fortunately, he and I were constructed similarly, so any alterations were minimal.
And we conversed. As the weeks turned into one month, then two. We conversed more each day. Magda “opened up,” as they say—as much mentally as physically. (Sorry about that.) She told me she was “not legitimate,” as they, also, say; the dumbbells. She was the “love child” of Tollef Nielsen—Norwegian-English. She grew up in Central England. Her father was kind to her, her mother otherwise. The absolute opposite of my rearing, I told her. She became intrigued with Wicca when she was in pre-college school. She never went to college. Thrown out of the house (figuratively speaking), she moved off on her own, ending up in Gatford, met Jerry Variel, and married him, gave birth to Edward. I’ve already told you the rest. Her interest in Wicca rebloomed, providing her need for comfort, which brings you to the present. The present of then, not now. Does that make sense? Let’s hope so.
* * *
More on our daily conversations.
I described—as best I could—the night attacks on me. The physical exhaustion. The mental washout. The inability to move. The shadows. The voices. The hag assault.
“And I put out every protection Joe told me to use,” I insisted. “The flower buds—what was left of them. The cast-iron skillet. The nail in my pocket. The bottled ashes in the windows and air opening on the second floor. But none of them worked. That’s why I—” I broke off, unable to say it.
“Why you thought I did it,” Magda finished for me.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Alex,” she said, “darling. What you don’t understand is this: All right, I admit it’s curious that your protections didn’t help. That’s a separate matter. But your description of what you went through was very little [little? I thought, reacting angrily] to what you would have experienced from a genuine witch attack. Are you listening?”
“Yes,” I said, not convincingly.
“You look as though your mind is elsewhere,” she said.
Touché, I thought. Trapped. My mind was elsewhere. Caught in a limbo between attention and doubting. What exactly was she saying? “I’m sorry,”
I muttered.
“What I’m saying,” she went on (was she sponging up my thoughts now?), “is that, if it had been me—and you know now why it could not have been.” I know? came the thought. Well, yes. I did. The baby. “The attack effects would have been far more severe. You would have been more than immobilized and hearing voices—that’s faerie stuff. (Faerie stuff? I questioned.) Your abdominal pains—I assume you had them—would have been so intense, they would have made you scream in agony. Your neck would have suffered terrible, painful spasms. Your kidneys would suffer. You would be experiencing an epileptic fit, your legs and arms convulsing helplessly. You would have felt some invisible force pressing down on your chest, you would have become convinced that you were going to die. Your bedroom—or whatever you call it—would have been filled with a hideous stench, so awful that, combined with the weight on your chest, you would have been certain that you were unable to breathe. All that time, you would have heard loud footsteps in your room and yet been unable to see anything, although you would have been sure that something was in the room with you. Then you would have been conscious of some invisible entity leaning over you, whispering terrible obscenities in your ear. Your little faerie protections would be useless.”
“Even with a cat?” I asked. Why I felt inclined to josh at that moment, I had no idea.
Magda smiled. A sympathetic smile. I guess she knew better than I did. My joshing was not an attempt to lighten the moment but no more than nervous reaction. “Even with a cat.” She allowed my words to contain some acceptable point.
“Do you understand what I just told you?” she asked then.
Did I have a sensible response? “Yes,” I said, “except for two things: Can a faerie do all these things? And, if they do have such power, are all the protections Joe told me about of no effect at all?”
“I think that the little people—some of them, anyway—may have far more black magic power than I’ve given them credit for.” Magda said, “This girl—what’s her name? [You know her name! my mind exploded.] Oh, yes, Ruthana. She must have been extremely drawn to you. No wonder. Faeries are known to be fascinated with human beings. They love to learn all about us. So, when you didn’t go back to her…”
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