The Bestiarum Vocabulum (TRES LIBRORUM PROHIBITUM)

by Dean M. Drinkel

  It made for an ungainly load, but she managed. She pulled the cart, trundling it through the grass. The sun shone hotter than ever. Sweat sheened her brow and ran, salt-stinging, into her eyes.

  The way back, downhill though it was, seemed much farther than she remembered. Her steps slowed to a plodding, reluctant trudge. Some of the house-servants saw her and rushed out, then halted aghast.

  The sight of the burden she brought proved a devastating blow. To lose one child must be painful enough; to lose three, in the same day and by such unnatural means…

  Vadya went wild with anguish and grief. She screamed at Pavla, hurling mad accusations. Pavla had always, Vadya claimed, hated her…had always been jealous, jealous because Vadya wasn’t barren, because Vadya kept a satisfied husband and bore so many children and was wealthy and happy, while Pavla would die unloved and alone…

  Her tirade ended in a sudden cry of pain, as she bent double to clutch at her swollen belly. This time, it was Magda who went on the run to the village for physician and priest, as Pyotr and the house-servants got Vadya to her bed. Tati wailed in her cradle. Even Vadya’s darling Pyotki was for once overlooked as he sat tearful and whimpering.

  Pavla, shaken to tears herself, sought to help but was violently rebuffed.

  “Do not let her touch me!” Vadya shrieked. “She did this! She poisoned my daughter and drowned my sons and now she’d have me miscarry this one as well! Send her out of this house! Keep her away from my babies!”

  “Sister, I…”

  “Just go, woman!” Pyotr said through gritted teeth. “She’s distraught.”

  When Pavla still could not bring herself to move, old Alba put an arm around her and ushered her into the kitchen. Pavla sank onto a bench. She stared vacantly at the bread and milk Alba set on the table.

  “You saw her?” asked Alba, after a while. “The rusalka?”

  Pavla nodded. “You knew of this all along and never told us? Why?”

  “The new lord would hear nothing of it,” the slave-woman said. “You know how he is when it comes to superstition.”

  “But, his uncle…?”

  “Oh yes. And others before that, not many, but enough. Why else do you think we avoid that place? Until the rusalka’s curse is somehow lifted, we must make do with our creeks and wells.”

  “Have you ever seen her?”

  “Once,” Alba said. “Long ago. We went up to the willow pond of a midsummer evening. Silly girls that we were, the girls of the house. We’d taken it into our heads somehow that if we bathed there by moonlight, we’d all find true love by that time the next year.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were half-undressed, gossiping and giggling, teasing like girls do. Then the rusalka rose up from the water. She had a child in her arms.”

  “A child? What child?”

  “A newborn babe. Her own, or so the tale went. By the lover who’d forsaken her to marry another.” Alba paused, and added, “Her lover, they say, was a son of the lord, who preferred a better and wealthier match.”

  Hard though it was to have compassion for the creature who’d killed her niece and two nephews, Pavla did suffer a sympathetic pang for the woman the rusalka had been. Whatever her folly in giving herself to a false and faithless man, no one deserved to endure such a sad fate.

  “She held it out to us,” Alba said. “We saw how she wept. We saw how tiny it was, how fair and perfect, its eyes a clear-blue. She wanted us to take the babe, save it, the poor thing, innocent and blameless. Pity stirred us. What girl or woman could in good conscience feel otherwise?”

  They sat in silence for a moment, listening to the babble of voices from Vadya’s chamber.

  “Was it a trick?” Pavla asked. “A lure, the way she lured Minka with the berries, and Aleks with her beauty?”

  Alba drew a shaking breath before giving her reply. “Sascha…Sascha, my friend…was first to step forth. The rusalka put the babe into her hands…and it…melted, dissolved…it fell apart in Sascha’s hands, spilled through her fingers like the water it was…splashing onto the stones at her feet…”

  Pavla winced, able to envision the scene all too vividly.

  “Then the rusalka went into such a rage, such a fierce fury…she…seized Sascha by the throat and dived with her, dived into the deepest part of the pool, and vanished from our sight.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We ran,” Alba said. “We fled like geese. In the morning, when we went back with men from the village, we found Sascha floating face-down in the water.”

  “Did no one ever try to stop the rusalka? Be rid of her?”

  “Prayers and charms,” Alba said, shrugging. “In the end, it was simpler to stay away. Now and then someone wouldn’t believe, or would want to see for themselves, and she’d claim another…and leave them all drained or drowned.”

  A heavy tread neared the kitchen. Pyotr appeared at the door. He glowered at them. Alba scurried to the stove, where she busied herself.

  Pavla turned anxiously to her brother-in-law. “Vadya? How is she?”

  “Resting,” he said. “She has not lost the baby.”

  “Oh, I am so…”

  “But she wants you out of this house,” he went on. “And I agree.”

  “Where will I go?”

  “That’s your concern. You’ve upset her enough. Leave now, or I’ll drive you out myself with a stout stick.”

  She stared at him, mouth working, but could think of nothing to say. Alba threw her a dismayed look. The slave-woman could be no help to her now, not in this.

  Pyotr refused to let her see Vadya or the children, even to say goodbye. He gave her a small purse of coins and saw her to the manor gate with her few belongings slung in a sack on her back.

  She set out into the sweltering-hot summer day, having no idea where she meant to go or what to do. Without family or friends, she would be at the mercy of wild beasts, ruffians, and countless other dangers. She glanced over the sun-baked fields in the direction of the village, wondering if any in Ladikov would take her in. No, she decided, not if it meant risking their lord and lady’s displeasure.

  Thirst crept in, then hunger. She wished she’d eaten the bread and milk Alba had offered. She’d had nothing since the evening meal the night before. Dust puffed from the dry ground with each step.

  Pavla realized when she reached the willow pond that it had been her destination all along. She let the sack slip from her shoulder and stood in cool shade. The pool rippled, lapping gently against wet stones.

  Soon enough, the rusalka rose up, hair and tears streaming. Unlike when she’d tempted Aleks, the suggestions of a gown flowed silken over her body. She held her infant to her breast.

  The babe was as Alba had described it, fair and perfect, blameless, with innocent clear-blue eyes. Its gaze seemed as beseeching, as imploring, as that of its mother.

  The rusalka glided toward shore, her gown trailing. She extended her arms. The child’s tiny fingers curled, seeking.

  All those years childless…unloved and alone…oh, if to know just once, for a moment, the joy…the fulfilment…to have one to call her own, to love and raise…a child of her heart, if not her womb…

  Pavla’s feet moved almost without her bidding. The green grass whispered against her ankles. Her hands rose, and reached.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw, piled where she’d left them, the vessels she’d taken from the cart before lifting her nephews’ bodies into it. She saw the pails, and jugs, and the soapstone wash-basin…

  She suddenly remembered what else Alba had told her.

  …spilled through her fingers like the water it was…splashing onto the stones at her feet…

  Quick as thought, she stooped and swept up the basin, balanced well upon her palms. This, she offered out to the rusalka instead.

  A tremor shivered through the river-spirit, blurring her form. The tears coursed more freely down her face. She laid the child into the basin as
tenderly as if the chipped soapstone were a fleece-lined cradle.

  It did not dissolve, did not melt into a puddle, but held its shape. Pavla touched its cheek, felt warm skin rather than cool liquid, saw the babe’s head turn with little mouth questing to suckle. Emotion brimmed in her, and with it came sure knowledge…this child would be a dowser of wells, a drought-ender, a rain-maker, a cleanser of springs and a bringer of pure water…treasured and prized throughout the land.

  The rusalka’s tears had stopped. In her sigh of release, there seemed to be soft words of thanks. The willow boughs shivered. The pond’s surface swirled.

  Then she dissipated into mist, and was gone.

  S Is For Succubae

  The Laundry Girls

  Tej Turner

  The first time I saw her I was in the courtyard pegging the laundry out on the lines when a sudden gust of wind tore through the garden and sent the sheets flapping into the air.

  She was standing a few yards away, looking at me. The most remarkable thing about her was her smile. It had been a long time since I had seen anyone smile. People don’t smile much here.

  When the wind ceased the sheets came swinging back down, and a white wall descended between us. I ran to her, shoving the canvases aside to try to find her again, but she was gone. I was merely running around in circles.

  “What’s the matter, Moyra,” someone asked.

  I then became aware that the rest of the girls had paused from their work, and they were all staring at me. None of them were her, though. I knew all of their faces by now. Whoever that girl was, she was an outsider.

  “I saw a girl,” I whispered. “But she vanished.”

  Most of them sheepishly turned away and carried on with their duties. They had all been here much longer than me, and it showed in their bearing.

  “What did she look like?” Bettie asked – she was another newcomer, and like me, yet to be broken.

  “Blue eyes,” I said, trying to remember any other details apart from that smile. “And fair hair. Yes, fair. She was...”

  “No talking!” a voice interrupted us so loudly that we both jumped. It was Sister Cynthia, striding up to us in her black and white gown.

  “Sorry, Sister,” I said, tilting my head down. “I saw a girl, but now she’s gone. I was only...”

  I was cut off by a blinding pain to the back of my head which sent me almost falling over.

  “I said no talking!” Sister Cynthia screamed as she hit me again. I cried out and fell to my knees. “Do you not listen? Are you simple? Look at me you filthy wench!”

  I tore my hands away from my head, and looked up at her. She was leering down at me.

  When most of the Sisters punished us, it felt like it was carried out with reluctant duty, but I always suspected that Sister Cynthia enjoyed it.

  This time was different though. There was more than the usual malice in her cruel eyes – there was fear as well.

  “Up!” she screamed, grabbing hold of my collar. “Up, now! I’m taking you to Father Braden!”

  She dragged me to Father Braden, and shoved me onto a chair opposite him.

  “Moyra,” he said, when the door shut and we were alone. “Moyra. Moyra. Moyra,” he repeated the name, tiredly. “You’ve only been with us here at Magdalene a few weeks, and yet I keep seeing you. Why is this?”

  I kept my head down because I knew that if I argued back he would only beat me, or even worse, let Cynthia do it again.

  He folded his arms and stared at me. His eyes lingered on my neckline, and then went down to my chest for just that slightly inappropriate moment too long, and then he looked back up at my face again, like I was filthy. Like it was my fault that he was having the thoughts I suspected he was having.

  “You are a sinner, Moyra ,” he said. “You are a sinner, and you should be grateful for the chance we have given you to atone for your wretched, wicked ways. We feed you, we give you a bed to sleep on. I know what you did, Moyra – your parents told me – and they don’t want you anymore.”

  I flinched at the mention of my parents. They sent me here when they caught me in the fields with a man from the village. I loved him, and we were planning to get married. I lusted for him, and I couldn’t resist. I missed him, and now my heart was aching.

  They wouldn’t let me marry him. They sent me here, saying that it would teach me virtue and piety, but all I had learned so far was how to wash linen and scrub floors.

  “We are your parents now, and we love you. We love you because Jesus,” he said, indicating the figure of his saviour pinned to the cross, pinned to the wall, “loves you.”

  “Sister Cynthia tells me that you have been seeing demons,” he said, his voice becoming grave. “This is not a good sign, Moyra. Seeing demons means that the devil has chosen you. Do not taint your fellow Magdalene sisters by speaking of it.”

  “Remember,” he said, as he reached for the cane hanging on the wall, next to Jesus. “We only do this because we love you.”

  You will pay for this, I thought, when Sister Cynthia collected me from Father Braden. Both of you will pay.

  ***

  “She killed herself,” Fianna whispered to me the next morning.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “The girl you saw,” she uttered, warily looking behind us to make sure that no one could overhear. Fianna must have had a remarkably resilient personality because she had been here for a long time but yet somehow she had retained some of her spirit. I believe it was because she had learned quickly how to act the part. She knew the boundaries, and what one could get away with. When to speak, and when not to.

  “She was here a year ago, but one day they found her with a...” she then made a few motions around her neck with her hands, and then her head slumped. My hand went to my mouth when it became clear to me what she meant.

  “The others don’t like to talk about it, but some of them have seen,” she finished.

  “Why don’t they talk about it?” I asked, shocked that such a thing could exist unspoken.

  “Not just us who fear her. Father Braden, Sister Cynthia, Sister...”

  I hushed her, because I could hear footsteps heading our way. We both turned back to our buckets and carried on working. Yesterday’s beating was still firmly imprinted into my mind, and the back of my legs.

  ***

  I began to see her more and more.

  One day I saw her at the end of the hallway when I was sweeping the floor, I dropped the brush and ran to her but I was too late. A couple of days later I saw her at the window when I was tending the garden and I rushed inside and raced up the stairs, but again she had vanished. I even saw her face on the surface of the water one night when I was filling up the bath for one of the Sisters. I reached out, but when my hand touched the surface it created a cascade of ripples, and she was gone.

  I was not scared of her. I felt like she was the same as me; we were both women who were isolated and trapped. I couldn’t explain why, but I just knew that she needed my help. We needed each other.

  I began to have visions about her. My dreams were usually about Father Braden and the Sisters chasing me through a forest with burning crosses, but I began to catch fleeting glances of her between the trees. Just like in the waking world, I pursued her. She offered me something new and exciting. An escape.

  Once I caught her. I grabbed hold of her shoulder and she spun around. It was only then that I realised she was naked. And I was naked too.

  I was shocked. Why was I naked? Why was I dreaming of her being naked?

  Why was it that I liked that she was naked?

  She kissed me under the moonlight.

  I woke suddenly that morning. Unable to move. Unable to breathe.

  She was hovering over my bed, smiling down at me.

  ***

  “I keep seeing her,” I whispered to Bettie the next afternoon as I handed her a plate to dry. We were in the scullery washing the dishes. I originally wanted to talk to Fianna about i
t but I had not managed to find a chance to catch her alone. “That girl, the one who haunts this place.”

  Bettie’s eyes widened, and I could tell that she was frightened. I instantly regretted confiding in her. She was a good natured, but yet incredibly simple-minded girl.

  “I will pray for you,” she whispered back.

  “SShhhh!” one of the Sisters swooped in on us with a finger to her mouth. “Quiet!” she warned. “If Cynthia hears you’ll get a hiding.”

  “I want to go to the church to pray,” Bettie said to the sister, earnestly. “Can I go to the church?”

  She shook her head. “No. You do not pray to God – the Lord doesn’t listen to the litanies of fallen women. Pray to Mary.”

  “You should ignore her,” Bettie whispered, when the Sister went back her chair. “Ignore her, and then she might go away.”

  That’s the thing, I thought, silently. I don’t think I want to her to…

  Every night she was becoming more vivid, more real. And a secret part of me craved for that feeling of her bare flesh again.

  How can it be a sin if it is only a dream?

  ***

  “Scrub away your sin!” Sister Cynthia and the other nuns screamed. They were in a ring around me.

  “I am trying,” I cried, again and again, as I plunged endless sheets of linen into the soapy water and swished them around. My hands were shaking. I was working as fast as I could but they kept screaming no matter how fast I laboured. “I’m trying!”

  “It is not good enough!” Sister Cynthia yelled. She charged, becoming taller and taller with each step until she towered over me. “It is you who needs cleaning you filthy little bitch!” she shrieked as she grabbed my ankles and lifted me up as easily as if I was a doll.

  She dangled me over bucket, but it was no longer filled with water. It was on fire.