The Book of Shadows (36 page)

Some commentary now, none of which I can distinguish. And so:

It is———'s turn to speak. She is old and worn. She sports a Breton scarf of finely worked lace. The sisters listen respectfully. “What has worked best for me, in late years,” says she, regarding divination, “is this: aconite, two drops of poppu juice—no more than two drops!—foxglove, poplar leaves, and cinquefoil, all married in a base of beeswax, and almond oil.” Talk now, the topic of which is this: how best to procure two drops of poppu juice! (Q: What
is
poppu juice?)

Lest she be doubted, the Breton witch reminds all present that it was she who “saw” the death by drowning of
la famille Gremillion
some days before it occurred; what's more, it was she who “witnessed” recent and weird events in Quimper involving two cows and a daft dairy farmer. She sits, triumphant.

———counters with
her
ointment: “Deadly nightshade, henbane, wild celery, parsley, and a fistful of thornapple ground with an alabaster pestle; all in a base of hog's lard.” Discussion now, which I cannot record. Instead, I am imagining———'s cuffs of Brussels lace trailing through a bowl of boiling hog's lard! There is something about this witch I do not like. (Is she from the Lowlands? I wonder. It is possible, for I have overheard her say that last night's coach ride took some seven hours.) I am glad now that she sits.

Oh, but
who
is this? A grimy, malodorous creature comes center-circle. (It is whispered that this one lives in the hollow of a tree, deep in the Bois de Boulogne. Is that possible?) She offers this, re: divination:

Recipe the first: hemlock, aconite, poplar leaves, and soot, stirred into the boiled fat of…of a dead baby.

Wild censure from the circle.

The witch demurs that never has she
killed
a baby for this purpose; no, she harvests the tiny corpses from the cemetery of the Infant Asylum of St. Adolphus, where the sexton, for three sous, turns a blind eye to her and her shovel. Again she is abused. ———raises an amulet against this witch, who spits, who damns her supposed sisters. Some laugh, others curse her in turn. She calls her sisters hypocrites, says they've all trafficked in corpses. (Could this be true?) She returns to her seat; now, maligned, she says she will not share her most effective recipe, learned from none other than La Voisin.

Silence now. That name has stilled the witches. (Q: Who is La Voisin?)

Téotocchi assuages this witch of the woods. She
must
tell. For my benefit. “It is why we have come,” says she, “why we risk gathering.” As Summoner, I must hear it for the Record. The foul one resists. She sits with her withered arms crossed over the concavity of her chest. Her drawn and too pale face resembles nothing if not the skull and crossbones of a pirate's standard! (How I want these hags out of my house! How I want this night to end!)…Finally, the Witch of the Bois stands. It seems no witch here will disobey Téotocchi.

“This,” she says, “
this
no one knows.” The sisters scorn her; still, they listen raptly. She repeats herself, teasingly, and adds, quickly, dismissively, “No, no, no. I cannot tell it. It is too strong…it is untried; not ready for the Record.” Again she sits.

The sisters are piqued…. Pleas and insults. Entreaties, threats. Rules of the esbat are cited. Still the witch sits, silent. She will not, she
cannot
share something so strong, so dangerous, so…

But of course she does.

“This,” says she, finally, retaking the circle, “was taught to
my
Soror Mystica by hers, who'd heard it from a disciple of La Voisin.” Again, that name stirs the sorority. La Voisin…haven't I heard the name before? I have, I'm sure of it, but just who is….? I look to Téotocchi, and it's she who explains:

“La Voisin,” she says, “was the witch of the Marquise de Montespan, mistress of Louis XIV. For the Marquise she said many Black Masses, read many rites.” Reluctantly, T. adds that La Voisin favored the blood of children in her recipes; indeed, she is said to have mixed it with her wine, even bathed in it. At her trial, it was reputed she'd sacrificed more than two thousand children. In 1680, with all her noble patrons exiled or jailed, La Voisin was burned along with thirty-six of her disciples.

The sister resumes: “La Voisin had a papyrus, Egyptian, from the third century, seen by very few—and this papyrus bore this recipe, these instructions: make a salve of water and the ground flowers of the Greek bean, which,” she says, her voice a hush, “can be bought from a garland seller. Add to it what you will. Seal this flower paste in a container for twenty days exactly, leaving it undisturbed, untouched, in a dark place, at the end of which time, the opened container will reveal”—this I
cannot
believe!—“a phallus and testicles.” Smirking, and derisive speech from the circled sisters. Téotocchi quiets them. “Reseal the container and set it aside for twice as long—forty days; no less, no more—and open it to find the same contents blood-covered. This blood is strong beyond measure, and is to be kept on glass in a black, covered pot.” She pauses. “When daubed above and below the eyes, this blood will give dreams to answer any question.”

———sits. She bows her head, closes her eyes. The skin of her hands, which lie in the folds of her filthy apron, is cracked and dirty, dark as bark.

The sisters start to comment. Téotocchi quiets them, asking of the Sharer has she ever tried this recipe. “I have not,” says she, “but I knew well a Sister who did. Twice she tried it, with success. But the third time she was struck blind; and she was dead of the Blood before two nights had passed.” Now she lets it be known that she has said all she will say.

I beg another recess. During it I will ask T. to name the witches.

 

Marithé speaks now. She is clad in saffron and black, a black woolen scarf wound around her long, slender neck. She resembles Hermance, beside whom she sits; she too speaks the French of Paris. She talks of candles; and as she pulls a store from her bag she lists their attributes.

Marithé says one should burn a blessed white candle for spiritual strength, or to break a curse. (Q: Is a blessed candle merely one stolen from a church precinct?) Yellow candles endow the burner with charm and powers of persuasion. Green candles heal, further good luck and fertility. Pink candles allow the witch to alter the course of love and friendship. Sex and health are enhanced by the burning of red candles. Courage comes from the burning of orange ones. Purple reverses a curse. Gold: to intuit. Black: to sow discord and sadness. Blue: to heighten awareness, achieve peace, protect one's sleep, and induce prophetic dreams.

No witch dissents. Marithé (I like her) has taken up the candles and brought them to me, a gift. Wrapped in white cloth and tied with silver ribbon, they sit beneath my chair.

“Next,” calls Téotocchi. (N.B.: There is little joy in this for these witches. Above my head the mantel clock ticks, ticks, ticks…)

Luchina, my Maiden—the least senior sister, who is to keep the Record if for some reason I cannot—will speak of amulets. She is Italian, and has traveled north with Téotocchi and Nicolo. Luchina's French is good. Her voice is wonderfully mellifluous, and her words elide with grace, as those of the Parisian sisters do not. (That voice…There is something so familiar…Yes! It is she! The star soprano. I
knew
it!)

Luchina wears an amulet herself, on a fine, frilled blouse of black silk. It is a large, bejeweled udjat, or Egyptian eye. She says it brings good health, comfort, and protection to the wearer. I had not noticed the amulet earlier, when first I saw Luchina; I'd been drawn instead to her deep green eyes (she alone of all the sisters has shown me
l'oeil de crapaud
). I noticed too her long braid, black as her silks; and her skin, so perfectly pale. She is beautiful, this Luchina. (Luchina is not the name she uses on stage, of course; and I will not,
cannot
compromise her by stating her true name here. “It is prohibited, such disclosure,” warns T. in a whisper, seeing that I recognize my Maiden.)

“The word ‘amulet,'” says Téotocchi, speaking to the assembly, though for my benefit alone—the others are bored; some sit awkwardly in their chairs, turning this way and that to take in the salon's art, sculpture, et cetera; some pick at the last of the food—“comes from the Latin
amoletum,
a ‘means of defense.' The Egyptians were fond of amulets, crafting frogs to enhance fertility, and scarab beetles to ensure resurrection and passage to the Afterlife.” It is Luchina who adds, “And of course there is the Egyptian ankh, representing the union of the male staff and the female loop; this was said to bestow everlasting life and…”

…Luchina comes to me now and…

…She has given me an ankh! An amulet all my own! She drew it from her horsehide bag. It is quite heavy. Could it be
true
gold? Its loop is as wide as my palm, and the staff is set with—
impossible
!—sapphires! If not sapphires then another stone equally shiny and blue. (Luchina's smile says it is gold, these
are
sapphires!) The ankh hangs on a golden chain. She sets the hasp behind my neck. She seals the gift with a kiss on each cheek.

What to say? I smile and say nothing. I do not
know
what to say. Already Luchina has returned to her seat and Zelie stands center-circle, ready to share; she will speak of Black Masses—specifically, the Mass of St. Secaire, read to curse one's enemy to death by slow, wasting illness.

This amulet is so
heavy
on my chest. It has settled just over my heart, which leapt at Luchina's kiss…. I
feel
this golden thing. I swear I feel it! Like Zelie's caduceus, given to me in the garden, this too seems somehow
alive
.

A recess is announced, blessedly. I must search out the soprano, and thank her.

I
T WAS
indeed she: the soprano I'd seen—in Naples? was it the Teatro di San Carlo?—in Paisiello's
La Molinara
. It was over the last of the eel that I got my Maiden to admit as much; she'd hoped to hold to her alternate identity (far safer, even among the sisters).

“And you,” I ventured, “…your esbat?”

“It did not go so well,” said Luchina. “Téo introduced me into a coven of all Spanish witches, and they can be rather…how shall I say it?”

“You needn't.” So Téo, as she called her, was Luchina's Soror Mystica as well? Interesting. (Would I have been more or less jealous if this Neapolitan had not been so beautiful, so talented?) “It did not go well?” I parroted.

“It did not. That is why Téo has introduced you into a more varied sorority.”

“
Varied
is the word, indeed,” said I, and we laughed. Luchina complimented my home, my efforts as hostess—“Mortifying,” I demurred. “If only I'd
known
.”—and we shared fast accounts of our travels. Luchina had not yet gone to Russia, but had plans to do so within the year. I offered letters of introduction; she—and I was not offended—declined: she already had one from Paisiello, who had composed
La serva padrona
and
La finta amante
under the Czarina's patronage. I gave my impression of the French and Neapolitan Queens. Luchina told of her recent successes in Lisbon and Venice. When asked about my beginnings, I turned the question back on the questioner—the first law of social intercourse—and learned that young Luchina, motherless, of course, had been sent by her father, a dealer in precious gems and a primo basso himself, to study with the great Marchese in Florence; it was he who arranged her debut at sixteen, after which she soon progressed to prima donna roles in operas by Cimarosa, Piccinni, and her beloved Paisiello. “So distinguished a career;” said I, rather grandly, “and you not yet into your vocal prime!” “No, no,” said Luchina, “it is
you
whose accomplishments humble every artist.” “
Mais non!
You flatter, and I must return the compliment and say—” Our mutual adoration was interrupted by Téotocchi, who came to announce the end of recess and ask, mysteriously, of Luchina, “Are you ready, my dear?” My eyes went wide as T. proceeded to cup Luchina's heavy breasts, and lean in to kiss her crimson lips.

We retook the circle, my Maiden and I, but not before I gifted her with the tiny Canaletto she had admired in the foyer. I liked Luchina immensely, but events would preclude our…
Eh bien,
on with it. There commenced then a ritual that was as unexpected as it was, in the end, satisfying.

“Nico!” shouted T., thus summoning her boy in from the cold yard, where he'd been standing at the glass doors, arms wrapped tightly around himself, stamping his booted feet against the bone-deep chill. So distracted was I by all that had happened, I'd not thought to offer my friend a blanket or shawl; indeed, I'd forgotten he'd even come.

Nicolo entered the salon now to a shrill and inelegant chorus of catcalls and whistles. Several sisters took liberties with him as he passed—it was old Sofia, I think, whose knobby hand appraised the muscled weight of his buttocks. “Off with it all, son!” said she. “He'll make the Maiden dance, indeed,” said another. “It is the Beast with Two Backs we'll see dance!” added a third, and so on until finally I understood:

Nicolo had been brought to take the Maiden, Luchina. I'd read of such rituals; and now, I, stunned, watched, as a quite calm Luchina was prepared for what would ensue.

Cream- and pearl-colored pillows with black piping were pulled from my settee and chairs, piled center-circle. Luchina stripped down to naught but her scarlet stockings, fastened by black leather garters; in her hand was a bean-filled phallus crafted of the same leather, so large I'd not known it for what it was when first I saw it. Weaponry, it seemed to me. “You are ready,
ma petite
?” asked T., kneeling at the Maiden's head, bending to once again grace with a kiss her flushed cheek.

“I am,” whispered the Soprano. T. said something to her I did not hear, and Luchina said again, rather more emphatically,
“I am!”
and then let fly a note that caused a crystal in the distant chandelier to burst like a dying star. This the sorority loved! Through what followed, they would show their appreciation of the Maiden and boy with rhythmic applause and occasional cries. “A lucky Maiden she is,” said one, “to get that fire-eyed boy!”

What had come over Luchina, that sweet, demure woman with whom I'd conversed not a quarter-hour earlier? The pride of every opera house on the Continent. Here she was now, writhing on my salon floor in anticipation of—And what had happened to me? For here
I
was, kneeling at T.'s direction to…

I separated Luchina's stockinged knees with the lightest of touches, and took from T. the heavy phallus: I was to ready the Maiden. And this I did, slowly at first, wondering was I hurting her; but by the slight bucking of her hips, I knew I was not; and so I sped my hand, and Luchina's breathing grew ever more shallow. I would have worked on but for Téotocchi, who stopped me.
“Ça suffit,”
said she, laughingly. I leaned down to kiss Luchina, deeply; and whisper to her, as I looked over my shoulder at Nicolo, “Pay heed to the taut fullness of his lower lip, Sister, for it's fine as the finest steak.” (I hear those words now in a voice not my own.) With that said, I rose and stepped aside. Nicolo, naked and roused to purpose, was led forward by T. He looked at me. How
well
I knew my friend! I saw through the sad, sad mask he affected, saw through it to the insatiable Venetian I'd known, who'd been my first and best, my beloved.

I, as Summoner, sat on the floor beside the Maiden and boy; and watched.

For how long, I cannot say. I was…was overcome. By the flowing wine? By the strange occasion? By such a shameless sorority? By simple, strong lust? Had someone cast a spell?…Or was it relief, now that the long-anticipated hour had come, and soon would pass?

I was called back, literally—from watching that puzzle of love being put together in seemingly infinite variations—by my own name. “Sebastiana,” it came.
“Sebastiana!”

“What is it?” I asked impatiently, pulled up so suddenly from the sweetest depths. It was then I grew conscious of the blood that had risen to flush my neck and face, my body entire, and render so very pleasant the feel of my trailing fingers, the teasing touch of my own hand.

It was Téotocchi who'd spoken; and so she did again: “I must apologize,” said she, settling on the floor beside me. Cheek-to-cheek we watched the copulating couple.

“Whatever for?” I could not be distracted; it was as though I alone watched Luchina and Nicolo; it was as though the sorority, to a one, had dissolved, disappeared, but then I would
sense
my sisters, see them, and the hot chill I savored would redouble, and please me anew.

“The senior among us know this to be a breach of protocol,” said T.

“Doubtless it is,” said I.

“I am serious,” T. went on. “It is first blood that is to be drawn at an esbat, but as we have all been…
spoiled
”—here she laughed—“I determined the Maiden would do.”

“And she does nicely, indeed,” said Marithé, who, having slid her blouse from her shoulders, had settled near us, unremarked by me. Hermance, beside her, teased Marithé's nipple between forefinger and thumb: it was the infamous tableau of the famed Fontainebleau portrait—
Gabrielle d'Estrées and One of Her Sisters
—with both subjects staring daringly, impassively, out at the onlooker—
moi, bien sûr
—while a nameless maid works busily in the background.

The circled witches had quickly donned masks of pure pleasure. Never had I been party to anything so private—so unself-conscious, they were. Among the older, heavy and ungirdled flesh was exposed; it bore the color of butter gone bad, was the texture of unset pudding. Some of the younger stripped entirely. It seemed the sisters were familiar with one another's paths of pleasure—from practice or instinct?—and I spied jeweled fingers prowling shaven clefts and bared breasts. Directions were spoken without shame; and shamelessly, openly, were the directions followed. “Here, Sister,” breathed one. “Yes, yes, yes! And kiss me now, there. But will the same work for you, my sweet? Let us see.” Some had brought favored props, which were passed hand to hand—agate balls, tiny clamps with tight springs, prods and oils; and a sort of necklace, strung beads of increasing size, “Used well,” said a smiling Yzabeau, “by a Chinaman of my aquaintance.”…All the while, the scene went on center-circle.

As cued by T., Nicolo and Luchina rose to mutual release. The sounds from the sorority were deafening, and thrilling. I turned—first with laughter, then, as my
self
returned, shame—from several of the self-abusing sisters, quivering like shot arrows…. Hisses and cheers, laughter. And it was over.

…Again, I can render no account of the clock. Time passed.

And then I was directed to draw baths for my spent friends. I'd been told by T. to do so quickly, for the sharing was soon to resume: all were attendant upon me. But I dared to speak to Nicolo in my bath, dared to tell him those gemstone eyes would not be his for all time, that T. could be persuaded to…

“Yes, I know,” said he, stopping me, “and won't the persuading be fun?” He smiled. Here was the boy I'd known, and so it was a great temptation to hear him ask, in hushed and hurried tones, “Won't you come back with us to Venice, to our mutual amusements?”

Flattered, I made no response: I hadn't the time. Téotocchi called from the salon. Luchina and I hurried back, leaving a weary Nicolo to soak in a candlelit bath. We entered the salon to the applause of the assembled: it was not for me, of course, but for the sated Maiden at my side, who bowed as though she stood in the footlights of La Scala.
“Brava!”
came the cries.

The esbat resumed, though the Record becomes rather scant and a bit sloppy at this point. (Need I say I was no longer the quick-scribbling Summoner I'd been earlier?)

It was midway through the evening before I learned all the witches' names; and, as I was suffering a rush of emotions and they spoke so fast, interrupting one another, casting off asides…What I mean to say is this: it doesn't much matter if the Record errs, attributes to one witch the words of another, for, though the night would be of consequence—owing to that one careless,
careless
act!—none of the witches would be. Not to me. I would never see any of them again. Téotocchi would soon be surprised by the Blood as she sat taking tea in the Riva degli Schiavoni. As for Luchina, I'd know of her only through gossip and untruths told in the journals…. No, the coven of the esbat of 1788 would never reconvene, and for good reason: we'd done damage enough.

That said, the excerpt from the Record has introduced, by name, seven of the witches present that evening. In addition to Téotocchi, we know of yellow-clad Cléofide, she of the rowan berry necklace; the squat sister from the South, Zelie; the elegant pair from Paris, Hermance and Marithé, the former speaking of the Witches' Calendar, the latter of colored candles; that dreadful Sofia, she of the Hand of Glory, who I would learn was Basque; and Luchina.

The crone who lived hidden deep in the Bois de Boulogne was named Inez. Others in attendance were Giuliana and Renata, who'd come from somewhere in northern Italy; Mariette of Paris, a nun who scared me, scared me
terribly
; and, finally, Léocadie, come from some faraway part of France. (Léocadie, for reasons all her own, had earlier given her name as Yzabeau; indeed, that night she'd use
three
names, but here I will fix her as Léocadie…. Indeed, as I did not like her—she too readily took every opportunity to laugh at my
gross
misunderstanding of the esbat's nature—I will further fix her as the widow of one J.-F. de Bonnegens, Presiding Judge of the Civil Court of X——de M——, dead of an excess of cantharides, used “to secure his love.”)

That makes eleven. Thirteen, counting Téotocchi and myself; and only with Luchina did I sense any affinity. The Parisians, Hermance and Marithé—the latter having access to the Queen through medical channels; indeed, she offered for sale vials of the Queen's “blue” blood; and the former reputed to be the mother of six—were refined, friendly, but no…. True to say I liked few of these women.

I should say that none of the sisters seemed enamored of me, either. The intimacy borne of our sex charade proved false, and short-lived. A few of the witches were openly contemptuous, and comments were made regarding my high style of living. Others thought I courted fame, that I risked discovery, thus endangering them all. What did I care? A few hours more, I told myself, and I will close my door on these women forever. The night would distill itself down to little more than a cautionary tale in my
Book of Shadows
. What came to matter was not that this was
my
esbat,
my
chance to meet my sisters and learn and…No. What came to matter was the clock on the mantel. I
willed
the hours on. I wanted the night to simply end.

Would that the night had ended simply, that the sisters had slipped from my house out into that Hallowed Night unseen, fast to be forgotten. Instead, what happened later that evening would change…everything.
Everything!
No amount of prevision, practiced by the most senior, the most adept among us, could have told us what waited in store. And even if we had seen it, we would not have believed it,
could
not have believed the magnitude of…of all that would happen in the days, the weeks, the months to come…. I wonder, if one among us had seen just what that simple dance was to draw down on our city, on all France, would we have done it? Certainly, if I'd seen as much, I would have stopped the esbat then and there, thrown the witches from my home no matter the repercussions….
Hélas,
none of us had such a vision that night, and so…