The Book of Shadows (41 page)

“A dog, is it?…If it's a dog I am, you are but my bitch.”

“Arrête!”
This from Roméo, who came nearer now. “Stop it, both of you. And you,” said he to Asmo, “you go now.
Go!
”

“Go in shame,” added Sebastiana, “and before the succubus sees what it is you've attempted—to take from her the only hope she has of…”

“I'll go,” agreed Asmodei, “but I will return. And when I do,
this
had best be gone.” And with that he moved fast; leaning over the divan, taking my chin in hand, so that I could not turn from him, he lowered his face to mine and…and he made the croaking call of a toad. Much amused—his laughter
exploded
within the studio—he left through the garden door, and was gone among the roses.

At the slamming of the door, at the rattling of the glass panes, I
leapt
into Sebastiana's arms. Roméo, at her direction, knelt to wrap my hands in bolts of black damask torn from beneath the divan. “In two hours' time,” said Sebastiana, “the venom will be dry, of no danger at all.”

Apologies and plans were made, but all I can recall is Sebastiana whispering, more to herself than to me, “I feared this might come to pass.”

Soon it was agreed that sleep was the wisest course of action; and so I found myself settled into the
lit clos
. Sebastiana spoke somewhat cryptically of a “mission,” and of “the long, long days to come.” As if to assuage me, she added, “It was never meant to be
permanent,
my dear.” Then—with a blessing or spell—she slid shut the doors. I tried to stifle my tears, for Roméo, I knew, stood sentinel in the studio.

My sleep, when finally it came, was deep, aided by a second tea I'd warily accepted from my Soror Mystica, this one thick and pulpy, pumpkin-colored.

Sometime later, I woke and stepped from the
lit clos
into the cold and dark studio.

It seemed whole days had passed, so deeply had I slept; but the clock, its golden works plain under a glass bell, showed an unlikely hour. It was dusk of the same day. I'd not even slept the night away.

I turned from the windows to see Madeleine standing across the studio. The
depth
of the chill told me Father Louis was near as well, though I could not see him. Asmodei was gone, I knew not where. Within minutes, Sebastiana would come. And Roméo too: he would have with him the makings of a meager, but satisfactory supper.

In contrast to when I'd last seen her, when she'd rushed gracelessly into the studio in Roméo's company, dressed in only a single blue robe, her black hair in a hastily pinned-up pile, Sebastiana came as impeccably dressed as when she'd come to save me from C——. She wore her standard robes of azure silk, carefully draped and pinned to conceal her naked self; indeed, her form did sometimes show clearly through those folds of silk. She'd brushed her hair out, and now sported one long braid; wisps of blackest hair were contained by her red coral combs. Her feet were bare. A thin silver chain adorned her right ankle; it was hung with two scarabs of lapis lazuli. She wore no necklaces, no rings or bracelets; but her exquisite eyes, and perfect pale face, were set off by earrings of hollowed pearl, pendant from delicate silver chains and full of a scented oil, which dripped, at long intervals, onto her bare shoulders.

Sebastiana suggested I bathe, but it was Madeleine who brought me a bathing shift of sheer muslin, who led me to the bath behind the muraled wall. There, in the quiet dark, Madeleine—so
kind
she was—sat plaiting my hair.

Then, in the bath, Madeleine let me cry, encouraged me to cry. I did not notice the blood she spilled on the dark tile, on my skin and hair as she comforted me. (Discovering it, on my person, I simply washed it away.)…And Madeleine did comfort me, truly; it was as though she were able to distill her own pain and make of it an elixir. I relish the memory of it. I relish too events that commenced when there came a light knock at the paneled door; and before either the succubus or I could respond, we were joined by Roméo, who asked, simply, “May I?” Before I could answer—did the succubus answer him, or somehow draw him there?—he stripped and slipped down into the tub. “I could use a washing too,” said he. “It has been a…a
dirty
night and day.”

Now my embarrassment was acute, relieved not at all by the ministrations of Madeleine, nor by Roméo's sweet and constant smile. I was embarrassed
bodily,
of course, but also at the recollection of the dirt to which Roméo referred. Yes, he'd cared for me so patiently all that long night, he'd tended so casually to the base aspects of my body—dumping out those enameled bowls of spittle and vomitus and excrement, wiping the sweat from my brow, swapping out the sweat-darkened blankets he'd laid over me, holding back my hair as I retched again and again, my head hung over the side of the sofa….

This grim recollection was interrupted by the succubus, who leaned nearer to whisper,
Perhaps you owe the boy the washing he seeks?
And before I could demur, could act in any way, she repeated her words; and, strangely, this time Roméo seemed to understand her every word, for he rose and came nearer, stopping to stand in the very center of the tub, where the water rose to his full thighs and…

Roméo neared, and Madeleine shoved me forward: soon he and I stood face-to-face. Naked. “I never thought he'd be more than rude,” whispered Roméo. “I never would have left you alone with him.”

Ah, the differentness! The sameness! Never have we seen the like of this! Louis…if only Louis
…. My sudden, paralytic shivering amused the succubus. (Roméo was far calmer, and already aroused.)
Yes, witch,
said she,
the sexual is the preferred means of communication among us, and the boy has been well-trained
. And it was then she fully ceded to her nature, and directed us in a dance, the likes of which…

You've no reason to be shy, dears,
said she.
Your wishes, your desires are known to me.
And this she proceeded to prove.
Ah, but wait,
said she, and were it not for the fluctuating temperature in the steamy, dim room, I would not have known she'd left it; but leave it she did, returning in, quite literally, no time, with the standing mirror I'd put to purpose earlier. Too, she'd brought candles into the bath, and arranging these in their silver stands just so before the mirror, I saw what it was she sought to achieve—for now, by their doubled light—I cannot say how she caused the wicks to suddenly take flame—she would be visible to Roméo as well as me. He would see her in the mirror, a murky mass of steam, of condensation…of I know not what else.

Now,
said the succubus, settling on the tub's ledge, before the mirror,
what he seeks is the knowledge of what so drives Asmodei to distraction. As for you, witch, well
…

“May I see?” asked Roméo. “May I see your…your…”

“But I cannot,” said I, shrinking back in my clinging shift, nearer the succubus.

Madeleine's laugh came like running water.
You want to, witch; and so do it!
Again I felt her cold shove, sending me tripping into Roméo's opening arms.
Do it!
she commanded, adding,
If there is an occasion for shame, I've never known it…. Now show him your…your
self;
he asks out of a tender care and attraction. Why look at him! Here you stand before him, that muslin a second skin, and yet his eyes are trained on yours. He awaits permission…. And what you fear will not come to pass: he will not turn from you, from the
truth
of you.

“Can I not tell him? Must I show him?”

No, no. Far more articulate, the showing…. But time…time is of concern to us this night; and so…Boy, raise your arms high above your head.

Roméo stood still, and I realized with a sinking heart that I would have to translate for him the succubus's every command; this, at her urging, I did.

Madeleine directed me to mirror Roméo's every move.
We shall compare,
said she,
for his benefit and yours—and,
she added with just a hint of apology,
for my amusement
. Again, the liquescent laughter.

And so Roméo flexed this muscle and that, raised his spread palms to meet mine. We tested the slopes of each other's shoulders, patted the flat plains of stomachs, smoothed the wet hair of heads and…
Touch it,
said the succubus to me.
You first, then the boy.

As my trembling hand rose from my side, as the fingers splayed and curled, and as I readied to take his tumescence and…Just then the near giddy succubus spoke:
Ah, but wait,
mes enfants, said she, in mortal years younger than us both.
The pleasure is in the slow play, and I ought not to deprive you of it.
She bade me touch Roméo's brow, the curl of his ear; she bade me touch his lips, and tell him, repeat to him that he was to take my fingers, gently, slowly, with his tongue. It was then she directed my glistening fingers to his chest, so firm, so…so unlike mine. I told him: Touch me, as I touch you. (Was it the succubus's command, or orders of my own?)

It was then Madeleine sank her hands into the tub, and, with a smile, caused the water to heat; soon it churned as though rolling to a boil. “Does she mean to cook us?” asked Roméo, in half-jest.

I mean only to
heat
you,
said the succubus….
Now continue. Revel in the difference, seek out the sameness
…

Take to each other's most tender spots, with fingers first, then perhaps mouths, and
…Her words, discernible now only to me, were lost in laughter. But I knew what it was she meant me to do: I took Roméo's hands in mine and placed them…placed them on my breasts.
The nipples, yes! Always best to begin there.
Madeleine verily howled this; and by instinct Roméo understood, and when he, with forefinger and thumb, took both my…It seemed I would faint, but falling this time into pleasure, not fear.

I did the same to Roméo, teased the ripening buds of his chest till his neck went slack, his head rolled just so, and his fruity breath—so intoxicating!—came in great waves from his mouth and….

Still her with a kiss,
said the succubus. “Kiss me,” came the echoed command from me; but as I readied to receive same—eyes rolling back in my head, lips pursed, my own fingers still at play on Roméo's chest, as were his on mine—the succubus dug into her bag of tricks and…

“Damnation!” I dared say when the cold, cold splash came over us both. But we all three of us soon dissolved into laughter, Roméo and I clinging fast to each other for warmth. As for Madeleine, she'd amused herself well; she applauded now by cracking two silver candlesticks together.

Damned, indeed,
said she, rising…
and so I am reminded. Quickly, into the studio with the two of you! Such games as these will have to wait.

“But,” I began, having hoped our game would resume. Roméo, I saw with relief, had hoped the same. “But…”

Tonight it is you mortals who have eternity on your side. As for me…Now come!
And she dipped her hands deep into the bathwater, threatening another rain of wintry water.

We leapt from the tub, Roméo and I. We took to the hanging bolts of cloth and dried ourselves. And it was then, on our own terms, that we took each other in—with eyes only—and all of our questions were answered. When Roméo looked at me and, far from turning away disgustedly, smiled, I felt a flood of tears, for a dam of loneliness, long years in the making, had burst within me. Then came his final kiss, and hand in hand we left the bath, Roméo whispering, urgently, “You were never meant to stay.” I did not hear his words, did not understand them, not then; for too quickly came the light of the innumerable candles that had been set about the studio.

R
ETURNING TO
the studio—and let me say deep,
deep
was the ache of delayed satisfaction—I saw a purpose in Sebastiana's eyes that I'd not seen since she'd entered the library at C——. I remember she'd fallen into conference with Father Louis then, and it was they who made plans now; rather, it was they who decided that the plan that had been in place, unbeknownst to me, had now to be put into action. “It's time, yes,” I heard her say.

“Madeleine will be pleased,” was Father Louis's response.

“That,” sniffed Sebastiana, “is of secondary concern.”

What are you speaking of?
asked the succubus from across the studio, where she stood helping me to dress in a simple shift and slippers. As for Roméo, he'd gone naked to Sebastiana's side; and there he stood a long while before seeking out a robe.

Ignoring the succubus, Sebastiana said to me, “
Mon coeur,
you must leave. Your safety cannot be assured.” And so, with no appeal, it had been decided: I would leave Ravndal, and soon, in the company of Father Louis and Madeleine.

The mission? What I learned that night was that Sebastiana had little invested in it; it was of little consequence to her. It was, however, of
primary
concern and consequence to Madeleine, and Father Louis, too; and it was they who now pressed for a hastened departure. “She's been most patient,” said Father Louis, referring to the succubus, and speaking to Sebastiana. “And need I remind you, there were promises made and—”

“You need
not
remind me, Father,” interrupted Sebastiana. “I well remember…. How could I forget,
haunted
as I've been all these years?” It seemed Sebastiana had made Madeleine a promise long, long ago; somehow,
I
was the fulfillment of that promise. I understood too that there'd been a plan in place; this mission, as it were, was nothing new. There was much talk that night: routes discussed, details seen to, and from it all I gleaned this: I was only ever going to stay at Ravndal a few days. Now those days had been shortened farther, and mere hours remained to me….
It is time,
said Madeleine, again and again.
It is time.

“Time for what?
Tell
me,” I insisted.

“Time to make preparations,” said Sebastiana. She beckoned me. The two of us stood in the dead-center of the studio. Madeleine, in full-form, was to my side on a spread of worn purple velvet, wet with her spill, near enough to hear every word Sebastiana spoke but far enough away so as…so as not to
offend
the chatelaine. Roméo, sullen, silent, sat in a far corner. Father Louis was near but took no form.

When Sebastiana leaned nearer, it was to whisper, “As Téotocchi told me, long ago, to go north, I tell you to take to the sea. In a dream I had—a dream
of
you, a dream
for
you—I saw the sea.”

What is it you whisper?
asked an agitated Madeleine.
Have I not suffered enough from the secrets you keep, the secrets of your precious Craft, which might have spared me…spared me
this,
if only you'd been brave enough to try, to try to
—

“Silence, sanguinary one,” shot back a slyly smiling Sebastiana, who went on: “Once again it is
I
who am to blame for your state? But was it
I
who bedded my parish priest with so little discretion,
I
who—?”

Suddenly, the temperature in the salon plummeted; the fire sputtered and spat as Father Louis fast appeared. “Now, now,” said he, coming to full-form beside Madeleine. “Ladies…we've agreements, have we not?” But it went on:

“I,” said Sebastiana, “
I
should again risk calamity—like the winter I wrought—just to aid you in your crossing over, in dying the second death you seek?”

Yes!

“And why? Tell me why?”

I've told you over and over and over
—

Father Louis interceded. “Madeleine, perhaps with this
new
witch…” but the succubus did not hear him, for already she'd begun to wail, wail in horrid tones her sole truth:

I cannot live this death any longer!

I fell back from this little circle, nearer Roméo, fearful. But then Sebastiana, with a nod toward the succubus, said, to me, “I tried to help this pitiable one once, but I could not.” She smiled, rather wistfully. “I was…I was not
new,
then; and when I tried to…Ah, let me simply say this: you, as a new witch, are in some ways more powerful than I. And this one”—another nod in Madeleine's direction—“this one needs your power….
Regarde!
She all but
begs
it of you. Rather pathetically, it seems to me.”

“What can
I
do that you cannot?” I asked of Sebastiana.

“They'll tell you in time,” said she, with a wave toward the elementals. “But now,” she went on, a too mischievous smile on her red-painted lips, “now I need something from you, something
of
you. Turn around, won't you, dear?”

I did. My back was to Sebastiana; and it was in that tall, free-standing mirror that both Madeleine and I had used earlier—for purposes perhaps illicit, but true—that I saw my Mystic Sister bend and draw from beneath the paint-splattered easel a black sack. It was sewn of velvet; rather large, it seemed
heavy
with something. As she stood, she nudged the bag away with her foot, and this set to tinkling the two scarabs at her ankle. The bag's angles, the hard noises of its contents called to mind bones, or stones or shells, or worse…. Did I think the bag's contents were
alive
? That Sebastiana would loose some scuttling beetles or crabs or rodents into the studio?…When I took a step nearer the mirror, Sebastiana laughed. “Nothing to fear, my dear. Nothing at all.” And I might have believed her, had she not already drawn from the bag a pair of large shears. Seeing the reflection of those glistening gold blades, I took another step, away; still I did not turn to face her.
“Eh bien, arrête!”
said she, barely stifling her laughter.

Sebastiana came up slowly behind me, the shears somewhere in her blue silks. She came so close I could feel her hot breath when next she spoke: “Such a sweet one you are,” said she in a whisper. “I wish you could stay. I would
let
you stay, were it not for…”

For our mission!
said a nearing succubus.

“Get back on your drape, ghoul! What I whisper to this witch is of no concern to you.” Sebastiana then, rather roughly, lowered the robe on my shoulders. She took my long and still wet hair in her hands and I felt the cold blades come to rest against my neck. I could see them now…. Something—the hard cold shears, the words she would soon whisper—something caused my skin to contract. I was all gooseflesh, and I began to shiver.

“Do you trust me?” Sebastiana stood behind me, winding my hair tightly around her tiny fist. “Answer,” said she—and I affirmed that yes, I trusted her, wondering all the while if she knew of my uncertainty. I couldn't help but recoil from the blades. My eyelids fluttered; I worried that I might faint. But I was roused just then by a tug at my scalp, and in the mirror I saw the first strands of hair fall at my feet.

I wheeled around and grabbed Sebastiana by the wrists. “What are you doing?”

Perhaps I held too tightly to Sebastiana's wrists. Perhaps I pained her…. Regardless, what I saw then stilled me, for…for, with our faces so close, Sebastiana showed me
l'oeil de crapaud
. It
burst
into her eyes, flared there like a flame. And I knew that yes, I did trust her. I let go her wrists and slowly, slowly turned back around. I saw then with surprise that my own eyes had turned as well…. And so I bowed my head, and bent at the knee so that my sister could more easily cut away the thick blond hair that I'd only recently begun to prize.

“It is for our protection,” explained Sebastiana, “you'll see.” She then directed Father Louis to go out to the roseraie, candle in hand, and half-fill the hammered-tin watering can beside the door with soil scooped from under the Ambrose Paré. “Read their labels,” said she, but the priest did not understand. I directed him to that double-rose of medium size, purple-crimson in color; and this pleased Sebastiana—she told me so.

While the priest worked, with Madeleine standing near, Sebastiana incanted, “Hellish, Earthly, and Heavenly Goddess of the Light, Queen of the Night, Companion to the Darkness, Wanderer, Traveler, you who crave the terror of mortals, Great Gorgo, Mormo, Keeper of the Moon in Its Thousand Shifting Forms…” She invoked the infamous gorgon Medusa. She continued on, stopping only to scoop my hair from the floor and place it carefully in the watering can, first separating it into long strands, which she tied at one end with bits of black string—“soaked,” said she, with a wince, “in cat's urine.”

I watched as she worked her Craft over the can, planting the hair and withdrawing her hands fast. “Snappish little devils,” said she. A spitting hiss rose now from the hammered-tin can, which sat like a kettle at slow boil.

…Understand: the hair of a witch will—when cut, imprecated, and planted…the hair of a witch will, when next the moon wanes, evolve into serpents whose purpose it is to guard whatever perimeter they are planted along. (Ravndal, bounded by the sea on one side, was protected by these snakes on its remaining three sides.) They—and what I saw in the watering can that night were but their squirming larvae—they are white, nearly translucent by day, and black by night: they are rarely seen, even by their victims, for they reside in the deepest dirt and rise only to strike at those who come uninvited or unescorted by their Creator or that witch's surrogate. They spring from the soil, fast as a flash, to bury their single fangs deep in the intruder, extruding a necrotic venom that works on the soft tissues of the body, consuming the flesh from within. “Three of our snakes,” said Sebastiana, “can take down a horse, devour it whole—bones too—in two days' time.” She added that it'd been years since she'd “augmented the guard.” At Ravndal, it was “time to sow snakes.” (N.B.: Plant the snakes thirty-six to a row, with a six-pace break between rows.)…And snakes born of my hair, said Sebastiana, would produce a most potent venom, for I was a
new
witch.

…Too, I needed to get rid of all that hair, for, as Sebastiana opined, “I think, dear, that you would do best to travel southward as a man.”

I was easily convinced: she showed me men's clothes. The fabrics were impossibly rich, the needlework exquisite! And though certainly not lacking in detail or decoration, they showed infinitely fewer buttons, clasps, and clips than women's clothes, and they were much more comfortable. Yes, I must have said it a hundred times:
Yes, I'd dress as a man! And why not?

The hour had quickly grown small. Father Louis and rather sullen Roméo had long since disappeared, leaving Sebastiana, Madeleine, and me in the studio.

“Ah oui,”
said Sebastiana ruefully, sticking her finger through a moth's work, done on a dress of white chenille. She cast the dress aside and dug again in the tall armoire, coming up with this, her clinching argument:

A suit—coat, waistcoat, and breeches—cut from light green silk. The coat, which fell just above my knee and not below, as designed, was embroidered with fleurs-de-lis and fern fronds sewn in threads of variant browns and gold; the buttons had embroidered covers as well; and the collar of the coat stood high. The sleeves, though, fell a bit short: we chose a blouse with extra-long and lacy cuffs to compensate. And that is how I was dressed some hours later, at dawn, as we drove from Ravndal with that bulging
nécessaire
fastened to the back of the coach.

That
nécessaire
—a large trunk, or traveling armoire—was in fact a bit more complicated than that, with interior and exterior drawers, both plain and hidden. It was constructed of dark woods, with inlays of mother-of-pearl and ivory. Its lining and outer strapping were of heavyweight canvas. Its sturdy buckles and locks were brass, and brass too were the rods within, for the hanging of clothes. The
nécessaire
sat before the stationary armoire, the one I knew to be crammed with clothes, the one from which I'd already chosen a few outfits, including the robe of green silk that Roméo had worn and those regrettable red silk pajamas. The
nécessaire,
when first I saw it, was already half-packed: Sebastiana had begun packing it as I slept. Now she was
un-
packing the trunk: I simply
had
to see this
blouson,
these culottes, et cetera…. Yes, I daresay she was giddy. (She sought with her lighter mood to distract me from the events of the day and the coming dawn. She succeeded, briefly, and I remain grateful.)

“Mon Dieu!”
said she, “I'd forgotten just how much I'd collected over the years. It's all sat packed away for so very long!” Only that very night, struck by the notion that I ought to dress as a man—“at least to leave here,” said she, “and maybe longer. Who knows?”—only then had she thought again of those clothes.

“Ours was a world of masquerade,” sighed Sebastiana, rifling through the armoire. “We were”—and here she looked up, rather dramatically, at me—she deigned to address Madeleine, too; Madeleine, who sat at a distance, her blood pooling on that purple velvet spread—“We were,” said Sebastiana, “
les Incroyables
. Dress was an art like any other. We didn't give a
damn
for the accepted fashions. We defied them at every opportunity!” Here she paused. “That is, until a man's wearing the wrong color hat could lead to his death in the street!”