by Tanith Lee
'It's only a toad. A pathetic harmless toad,' said the Countess. 'Surely you are not afraid of a poor ugly toad?'
'Don't strike out at it,' added Count Fedesha, somewhat nervously, to the man he called Quick. But Quick had made no move at all. Seeing this, the Count elaborated: 'There is an old legend, isn't there, that in some cases a beast slain reproduces and multiplies itself? Tread on a fly and there are two flies. The skin of the dead toad lets out two more toads.'
The toad hopped from the girl's plate. It bounded on to the knee of Quick, and then away into the shadow beyond the hearth. They heard its croaking there, and presently from another place, and then another.
The Count quaffed down his beer. For an instant he had looked afraid, and he had lost much of his blandness. The Countess Mirromi, however, was calm, and regarded the brother and sister with satisfaction. Their faces had taken on the vacant stupid expression of people half-asleep. Though they had eaten hardly any of the food, the drugs she had mixed in it were powerful ones.
Mirromi left her chair and crossed to the tall candlebranch beside the hearth. Each candle was of fractionally differing length from its fellows; the shortest was burned out, others were scarcely begun: it was a means of telling time.
'How long?' asked Count Fedesha. He giggled, but his mouth was pale and dry in the black beard.
'A little longer,' said Mirromi. 'Though I think possibly the moment has come to give our friends their proper titles.'
'Ah, yes,' said Fedesha. He seemed to recover his spirits. He got to his feet, and lifted his mug of beer, toasting the listless guests. 'Here's health to you, Count and Countess.'
'Health, Count and Countess, and a happy life,' added Mirromi, raising her own mug of water.
Fedesha and Mirromi drank.
Quick spoke thickly and falteringly, peering through his myopic eyes, obviously trying to throw off the effects of Mirromi's drug - to no avail.
'Why name us so? Count and - Countess?'
'A whim,' said Mirromi.
'A foible,' said Fedesha.
From five or six separate parts of the hall, the toad croaked. The light gleamed fitfully on its knotty skin as it shuffled and hopped, now across the mosaic floor, now along the back of a chair.
'A piece more meat, Count?' Fedesha inquired.
'A plum, Countess?' Mirromi offered.
They both laughed this time.
'Do you have it to hand?' Fedesha asked his wife.
'In my sleeve. As always.'
'This is the last year,' Fedesha said. 'Then the trouble is done with.'
'What could defeat my magic?' Mirromi said. She smiled and patted his face. 'Foolish of you ever to doubt me.'
Fedesha glanced at the crippled girl, whose gaze had grown huge with a sort of glazed anguish.
'A pity, though…'
The croaking of the toad ceased.
Fedesha gripped his wife's arm.
Quick writhed mutely in his chair, and the girl Amber whimpered.
Between the table and the hearth, something darkening on the bearskin, not smoke, not shadow. Gradually a black dog came visible. It was thin as a stick, every bone showed through its hide. Its eyes were filmed yet burning, its tongue lolled. Its body was faintly iridescent, and where its spit dripped down it flamed and then vanished.
Fedesha shook and his eyes started. Mirromi's smile became more of a snarl.
The dog did not snarl, nor growl, nor make any sound. It moved by them, along the side of the table. It sniffed at the velvet gown of the crippled girl and at her brother's velvet cuff, and then it padded away and straight through the tapestried wall as if the wall were not there.
'Now!' cried Mirromi. There was a brittle triumph in her voice. She resumed her seat, and struck the table with her white hand. The brother and sister turned to her as if she mesmerized them. 'As it is festival night,' said Mirromi, 'we will tell you a story, most worthy Count and Countess. Are you ready? Good. The story concerns a huzdra, which, as you may or may not know, is a kind of curse invented by the primitive folk of the Eastlands.'
'A very effective curse,' Fedesha said. He shivered and licked his lips.
'Surprisingly so.'
'But to begin at the beginning,' Mirromi said, 'for we must make certain the Count and Countess understand everything.
'It was the chill dawn of Midwinter's Eve seven years ago. The sun was just coming up, when someone commenced knocking on the gates. Occasionally I leave my bed before dawn, for there are particular herbs that can be gathered only at sunrise and on selected days in order that they retain their potency. The porter, knowing I was about, soon brought me word that a desperate peasant girl was at the gate, begging for shelter and food, offering her service at any form of work in exchange. I instructed the porter to bring the wench to me, and this he did. She was a pitiful sight indeed, filthy and ragged, half dead of the cold and almost starved. She told me her name; it was some barbaric Eastlands foolishness. I called her
'Pebble' instead, for she was aptly as dirty, as uncared-for and as common as one. She was brought nourishment and wine. I foresaw a
use for her, but did not reveal to her what it was to be, saying that she must consult my husband later. I could tell she was strong, this Pebble, despite her deprivations. She kissed my hands and feet and swore she would serve me till death, but she was not so tractable afterward.
'Now you must hear, dear Count and Countess, something of my husband and myself. I am of humble stock, though you would never guess it; my husband, whose title he has given you, master Quick, wed me for my beauty, and also for certain magic powers that I possess. Accordingly, I gained the title I have given you, mistress Amber, while by my powers, my husband became a deal wealthier and more influential than before, which was to our mutual pleasure.
You should realize, this magic involves traffic and trade with demons, hobgoblins and elementals. These delightful creatures will do business willingly with humankind if they are summoned correctly and paid a fee. We had learned, my spouse and I, of an ancient treasure to the north; in order to gain access to it there was one infallible demon which could aid us. And the fee this demon demands is to drink the blood of a living maiden. You will understand, then, how opportune was the arrival of Pebble. None knew her, she was a stranger from the Eastlands, dull-witted, and a maid to boot. For our servants, they would dare tell no one - they respect my gifts too much for that. So it was arranged that Pebble's blood should entice the demon, and accordingly, at sunset, I took her to the Tertiary Tower, where everything was laid out in readiness. No sooner did the wretch learn her fate, than she began to scream and struggle. I subdued her, as I am able to do. The demon was called, answered, brought us what we wished to have, and took his payment gladly. A space before midnight, when all was finished, we instructed our menials to carry Pebble away. We thought her dead, as well we might, but somehow she had clung to life, and as the servants lifted her she opened her eyes, and staring at me and at my husband, she said: 'Fine Count and fine Countess, your fine food and your fine clothes and your fine spells shall avail you nothing. I have put my huzdra on you both. One year beyond this night you may take your ease. But next Midwinter's Eve, look for death, and for Hell after it.'
Then she did die. We witnessed her buried as midnight struck and thought ourselves rid of her.
'You may suppose,' went on Mirromi, 'her puny threat would be
forgotten as the year passed, but this was not the case. As the months elapsed we found we brooded more and yet more upon Pebble's words. At length, a month before Midwinter's Eve should dawn again
- the anniversary of Pebble's death - I conjured one up by my magic that is wise in curses, and questioned it. And thus we discovered the nature of a huzdra.
'The huzdra is effected through some personal item belonging to whoever lays the curse. It may be something as mundane as a shoe, a scarf, a ring. Though once huzdra is laid on it, it assumes weird a
ttributes - the shoe runs on its own as if a foot were in it, the scarf wriggles like a snake, the ring grows large as a noose. The object of huzdra is ultimately to kill those on whom the curse has been set. It is a thing of antique Eastlands sorcery, and very strong, for it is always sealed with hate. It is difficult, even for one as well versed in magic as myself, to evade this curse, for in such an instance, even the most agile demons grow uneasy. They will advise, but may not intervene.
In the east, huzdra is feared worse than the White Plague, by simpleton and mage alike.
'As my conjuration assured me, our first concern was to find which item of Pebble's belongings had become the huzdra. She had brought nothing with her to the gate, all she possessed had been her rags. My husband and I were forced to go by night to the spot where we had had the girl buried, dig up the grave, and search her body. It was not difficult to recognize the huzdra. Little remained in the earth that was distinguishable, except for one thing: a bracelet she had worn high on her forearm, hidden by her sleeve. It was very old, the bracelet, crudely fashioned, discolored by age and by lying in the ground. The band was black copper, with seven pendants of reddish, greenish stone or black stone, chipped and dirty. I brought the bracelet to the Tower, and recalled the elemental wise in such matters, and made it tell me all I must know, though it was afraid.
'The strength of Pebble's huzdra was sevenfold, because of its seven pendants. Even if we could thwart the curse on the first anniversary of her death, the huzdra would yet be activated six more years, seven in all, and each successive year the power of it would grow.
However, though the seventh year, the seventh anniversary, would be the most terrible, it would also be the last. After that, the strength of the huzdra was exhausted. Though who could expect to hold off such
a bane for so long?'
Mirromi glanced aside at the time-telling candles by the hearth, and broke off the story to say, 'One moment, honored Count and Countess, with your indulgence.'
Then she and Fedesha rose from their chairs and withdrew across the hall to stand beneath a tapestry of gold and ruby thread.
The brother and sister, silent all this while, lay in their chairs like discarded dolls. Only their eyes blinked and strained, and their hands twitched.
There came a sound from the fire. A hissing, spurling sound. Out of the fire bowled a bone-white wheel. It was ten feet in diameter, and though it looked solid it had no substance. It passed straight through the table, it rolled once, twice, about the cripple girl and her brother.
Flames gushed from its spokes. It hurtled away into nothing and sparks faded on the air.
Mirromi said to Fedesha: 'Success, as ever. The wheel has marked them out, and not us. We have won, and this the last year of the curse.'
'My wondrous witch-wife,' Fedesha said, kissing her hand, licking his lips, which had grown red and healthy once again.
'Now I will show them,' said Mirromi. She returned to the table, and sliding something from her arm beneath her sleeve, laid it before the brother and sister on the damask cloth.
It was a bracelet of black copper, with seven pendants of greenish, reddish or black stone, chipped, grimy and very old.
'Here is the huzdra' said Mirromi. 'See the little figures? First the fly; he generally appears before the rest. Next, the toad; he usually comes second. There is the dog, tonight's third visitor. And see, there the fourth thing, the fiery wheel, though its spokes are clogged with dirt.
These manifestations are warnings, heralds, preparations for the ultimate terror. Whatever else, this is the final omen, this tilted pitcher. You have not seen it yet, but you shall. It will appear, as it always does, when that candle there has burned out. Then we shall have had all the warnings, and only death need come. Death is represented by these last two figures on the bracelet. Observe closely, so you shall recognize them.'
It was hardest of all to make out these last figures of the bracelet.
This was the seventh occasion Mirromi had displayed them, the seventh year that two travelers, brought here by magic and drugged by occult herbs, had peered down with horror scrawled on their stupefied faces, trying to see.
One figure was of a man. In his head and on his chest little glass scintillants winked like many eyes. The second figure was female, except that below her waist her body grew into a single coiled thing, like a worm.
'It was a clever huzdra,' said Mirromi. 'That the demon man and the demon woman should be part of it, two for two, a man and woman as my husband and I are man and woman. Clever of that wretched Pebble; it made the curse doubly powerful. But,' said Mirromi, 'as you notice, we live. I will tell you how we cheated the huzdra, and how we shall cheat it tonight, the seventh and last night it can seek us.
'By my peerless spells, I have drawn to this house, each Midwinter's Eve, two wanderers from the road. Some have been brash, some sly, some foolish, though none, I think, so innocent and so stupid as you, my doves. Really the curse, while being a mighty one, is also naive.
It relies upon the fear of the victim, and on his ignorance.
'The canny elemental advised me well. Never destroy the object of the huzdra, for to destroy it doubles its vitality, unleashing its force from the earthly materials which form it and loosing them entirely into the spirit world, where they become invincible. Destroy the bracelet, and you could never be rid of its potency. Nor must you use violence against the apparitions - the buzzing fly, the croaking toad, the black dog. They cannot be harmed, but absorb fresh energy from every blow which is dealt them. No, let them roam freely, and cherish the huzdra.
'Now, the huzdra can only match whoever works it. Though Pebble's hate was ferocious, she was an imbecile. By employment of certain incantations, runes, auras, by dressing the two strangers in our garments and our jewels, by setting before them the riches of our house, our foods and wines, by addressing them by our titles of Count and Countess, we have made them into replicas of ourselves.
When Pebble hated us, she hated only the symbols - velvet clothes, silver plate, a name. And thus it is that the huzdra and its hate fall
similarly on the appearance, the effigy, the name. In six years, twelve strangers have taken our places, become our scapegoats, and the vengeance of the huzdra has claimed them, and we have survived royally. It is a dreadful death that comes. There are screams and raucous cries, and when midnight strikes, the hour of Pebble's burial, and we are able to return safely into the chamber, we find our jewels scattered about, and otherwise merely clean bones. For sure, too, the curse has gained strength each year. The first year the apparitions were faint, the death very swift at its predestined time. But, as the years pass, the apparitions are more solid, appear for longer periods and in a different order, though always the wheel and the pitcher are the last. The two entities which bring death have no ability to kill until the exact moment when Pebble's curse was spoken - and do not arrive before, being powerless. But even here there is a change. The shrieks of agony in the locked room are more prolonged, the bones are more thoroughly picked and drained of marrow. This is the final year, when you, my pair of ducks, are to take our place and remove the huzdra for ever from our house and our lives. No doubt, it will be very awful. I even ask myself if they will leave your bones intact on this occasion.
'You may ponder why I have told you all this, and in such detail. You will understand when I say that I do it to inspire you with terror. For nothing lures the huzdra toward you so well as your absolute fear.
And now,' added Mirromi to Fedesha, 'it's time we took our guests to their chamber.'
Up the great flights of steps to the Primary Tower, to the pitch-black, dank and windowless room, whose door of stone was opened only once a year to admit terror, and to contain terror, until the stroke of midnight should end it.
Up those flights, as once every Midwinter's Eve in the past six years, two strangers dressed in velvet were propelled, their eyes running and their limbs water. This year the
girl seemed to have fainted. Fedesha carried her, she felt boneless already, and escaped strands of her amber hair trailed after them on the steps. The big man stumbled forward, his hands outstretched as if he were blind.
Up to the door, the key in the brass lock. The door opened.
On the black nothingness of the tower chamber a shining pitcher had formed, tilting slowly, slowly, until from its narrow lip poured a stream of thick, red, and smoking blood.
Fedesha flung the girl into the room, thrust the big man after her. As in the past six years, he banged the stone door shut, and Mirromi locked it.
As in the past six years, Fedesha and Mirromi held their breaths, waited.
As in the past six years, there came a broken wild screaming inside the locked chamber, and then a man's screams, deeper, and without pause.
Mirromi and Fedesha smiled.
Hand in hand, like two happy children, they went smiling down toward the hall, to wait for midnight, as in the past six years.
Word gets around, even in Hell.
For six years, the huzdra had been negated by the stroke of midnight because the components of huzdra believed its victims had been claimed, the curse accomplished. Yet, as each year progressed, the knowledge that Countess Mirromi and Count Fedesha still lived, and boasted of their guile, had roused the huzdra to reactivate itself again upon the next Midwinter's Eve.
A curse is not a thinking thing as such. Like the spear, it homes to its target when a marksman aims it. And yet, each year cheated, each following year rewoken, and each year stronger, some element of the huzdra began to reason. The warning apparitions of the curse began to rearrange themselves, to appear for longer periods, to deviate.
There was no law which bound them to materialize only in an exact order, or for any exact period. Once the sun began to sink, they were free to manifest themselves as the instinct moved them. Nor were they bound to vanish at midnight; they had merely done so from the sense that the work was completed.
