The Demi-Monde: Winter

by Rod Rees

  Trixie nodded. It was a sensible explanation and better than her father’s idea that Heydrich had changed his mind and abandoned the attack on the Coven. Leaders like Heydrich didn’t change their mind; that smacked of weakness.

  ‘How many men do we have left?’ she asked.

  ‘Maybe a couple of thousand,’ Wysochi guessed. ‘It was hot work.’ He cocked an ear back towards St Petersburg. ‘And the SS aren’t far behind us.’ He was right: even with only one good ear she could hear SS steamers advancing towards them through the chilled silence of the night.

  ‘Can we force the bridge?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t think we have any other choice, Colonel. And if we’re going to do it we should do it soon, otherwise we’re going to end up as meat in an SS sandwich.’

  At a signal from Trixie, the remaining WFA fighters attacked the bridge and it was an attack that soon degenerated into mayhem. Later, all she could remember was ordering their steamers to smash through the barricades defending the bridge: the rest was just a blur of firing, fighting, yelling and cursing. The SS detachment stationed on the St Petersburg end of the bridge had obviously not expected to be attacked from the rear but they fought bravely and the cost of the victory was appalling.

  When Trixie eventually arrived on the Coven side of the bridge, she was flanked by only a tattered and battered rump of the army of seven thousand men and women she’d led over the barricades just two hours before.

  ‘The Sacrifice of Blood?’

  Crowley laughed at her concern. ‘Oh, don’t fret yourself, Daemon, your life isn’t to be forfeit. I just need a little of your blood to seal the psychic union between you and Lady Aaliz.’

  He gestured to the Witchfinder, who moved forward with an evil-looking knife clasped in his hand.

  ‘Hold out the Daemon’s forearm,’ commanded Crowley.

  ‘No way!’

  But there were too many of them to resist. They forced her right arm out and the Witchfinder ran the tip of his knife along it, slicing a six-inch cut in her pale flesh. Immediately blood began to run, collected in a gold goblet by an adept.

  Face flushed with excitement, Crowley pointed to a small stage set in the centre of the cavern. ‘Bring the Daemon to the altar,’ he boomed, ‘and Lady Aaliz, if you would approach through the unformed part of the pentagon, being careful not to step on the rest of the design.’ He pointed to the pentagon painted on the floor of the cavern that surrounded the altar, indicating the one missing side. ‘Now, my Lady,’ said Crowley, ‘if you would please kneel in the direction from which the dawn light will enter our temple.’

  The Lady Aaliz did as she was bade.

  ‘Have the Daemon kneel facing the Lady Aaliz.’

  None too gently the Witchfinder forced Norma into the pentagon and pushed her down so that she was face to face with Aaliz, the girls forming human bookends to the altar. ‘Ah, the perfect yin and yang,’ mused Crowley. ‘The perfect antipodes: one blonde, the other dark.’

  A trio of musicians seated at the very rear of the temple began to play, the music they conjured from their instruments cacophonous, disturbing and somehow alien.

  In the corners of the cavern incense burners were lit and acrid red smoke began to drift through the temple. The smell that tugged at Norma’s nostrils made her head swim, and she began to feel strangely divorced from reality.

  A priestess set a golden tray bearing two goblets – one containing Norma’s blood – on a stand to the side of the altar. Once the woman had retreated from the pentagon, Crowley turned to address his small audience. ‘The altar has been encased in this pentagon for two reasons: it seals the altar from the Demi-Monde, which makes it a more … comfortable place for the Spirits to occupy, and secondly, it forms a magical barrier that safeguards onlookers from the occult forces our spells will release.’ He stooped down and with two swift swishes of a piece of chalk and a few muttered incantations closed the pentagon.

  Satisfied, he moved to stand behind the altar, then spread his arms and called out, ‘I command ABBA, the deity that rules this, the Demi-Monde, to send the soul of Aaliz Heydrich to the Spirit World there to inhabit the body of Norma Williams.’ Crowley walked around the altar nine times waving an incense burner to and fro, wafting thick, acrid smoke over the two kneeling girls.

  ‘First, the Lady Aaliz must drink the blood of the Daemon and by doing so subjugate its will and its astral power.’ He offered the golden chalice to Aaliz, who, with obvious relish, drank down the thick, red liquid.

  ‘Now, Daemon, drink this.’ Crowley noted the look of revulsion on Norma’s face. ‘Do not worry, it is not blood. This is zelie, a potion made from the hallucinogenic plant called ayahuasca that grows in the Hubland: its use was much favoured by the shamans of Old Rodina. To this I have added the juice of boiled fly agaric mushrooms, to make a cocktail to unlock your mind from the hegemony of your will.’ Norma reluctantly downed the draught. The tart red liquid made her head spin.

  ‘Join hands,’ commanded Crowley and Norma unthinkingly stretched out her hands towards Aaliz, who intertwined her fingers around hers.

  ‘Let the Rite of Transference commence.’

  The seven men and five women who made up Ella’s bodyguard gathered expectantly around the basket. She found the way they looked at her vaguely disconcerting: they really did believe they were in the presence of someone truly holy. The problem was she didn’t have a clue what to say to them. As she gazed into those trusting, imploring eyes, she wondered what she, little Ella Thomas from New York City, could say that would inspire these people, that would give them hope. She turned to the greatest speech-writers in history for inspiration.

  Thank you Mrs Little and her English Lit class.

  ‘Friends, Demi-Mondians, countrymen, lend me your ears.’

  Now a little from the greatest speechifier of them all, Winston Churchill.

  ‘We have seen joined the greatest battle in the history of the Demi-Monde. It is a battle between good and evil; between those who wish to be free and those who wish to enslave them; between those who would embrace understanding and tolerance and those whose philosophy is infused by hate. But it is a battle that must be won. It will not be an easy victory. We see stretching before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many months of struggle and suffering. But we must be victorious. We must have victory. Victory at all costs – victory in spite of all terrors – victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival. And make no mistake, my friends, we now fight for our very survival.’

  Though JFK wasn’t bad either.

  ‘Let the ForthRight know we shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe, to assure this victory and the success of liberty and equality within the Demi-Monde. Let the ForthRight know we wish a new world order, one where the strong are just and the weak secure and the peace is preserved.’

  Not forgetting the inimitable Martin Luther King.

  ‘My friends: I have a dream that one day this world will live out the truth in the creed that all men and all women are created equal. I have a dream that even the ForthRight, with its vicious racists and a Leader whose lips drip with the bile of detestation and subjugation, will be transformed into an oasis of freedom and justice. I have a dream that one day people will be judged not by the colour of their skin but by the content of their souls.’

  A little touch more of Churchillian rhetoric.

  ‘So I ask you to go forth and spread the message that all of the Demi-Monde must unite against the plague that is UnFunDaMentalism. Tell the people of the Demi-Monde that we must unite to wage war by land and by river. We must wage war with all our might and with all the strength ABBA has given us. We must wage war against a monstrous tyranny never surpassed in the dark and lamentable catalogue of human crime. Tell them we must fight and we must be victorious.’

  And round it off with a dash more Martin Luther King.

&n
bsp; ‘But be assured that one day the chimes of freedom will ring out through the Demi-Monde proclaiming the coming of a world where men and women, black and white, HerEtical and HimPerialist, will join hands as equals and as friends. That is my message. I pray to the Spirits to keep you safe and to give you the courage and the strength to face the trials to come.’

  After she had finished speaking an unnatural silence descended on her audience. Then one of the twelve – the long, beanpole William Penn who had been so assiduously scribbling in his notebook as she had been talking – stood up. There were tears trickling down his cheeks. ‘We pledge, Lady IMmanual, that we will take your message to the Demi-Monde. We pledge that your message of democracy and the defiance of tyranny and injustice will be spread to all the Sectors. We pledge to work night and day to rally the Demi-Monde to defy the evil of the ForthRight and of UnFunDaMentalism. We pledge our undying loyalty and allegiance to our Saviour, the Lady IMmanual and the creed of IMmanualism.’

  Bloody hell.

  Then the twelve knelt before Ella, who, remembering what she had seen the televangelists do on TV, went around placing her hand on each of the bowed heads whilst intoning, ‘May ABBA be with you.’

  At last Vanka intervened. ‘Well, thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. Thanks for everything. Best of luck with your preaching. Go forth with the blessing of the Lady IMmanual and all that. Yeah, go forth and multiply. Now we’ve got to be going.’ He hopped into the basket and held out a hand to Ella. ‘C’mon, then, time to go flying.’

  Once his two passengers were safely in the balloon’s basket, Vanka nodded to William Penn. ‘If you would cast off the mooring ropes.’

  There was a judder, a lurch and slowly the balloon began to rise.

  ‘What did you think, Vanka,’ she gasped as she watched the ground begin to slowly recede, ‘about what I said down there?’

  ‘I think if you carry on making speeches like that the IMmanualites will never let you leave the Demi-Monde.’ He beamed at her. ‘And if that’s the case, I might even be persuaded to become one myself.’

  As Trixie walked to the Rangoon side of the Anichkov Bridge she saw a deputation standing waiting to greet her. Unconsciously she ran a hand through her sweat-drenched hair, trying to make herself just a little more presentable. She almost laughed: after what she had been through it was a ridiculous thing to worry about.

  Two of the deputation stepped forward. The leading woman was tall and well-made, and despite the rather severe cut of the trouser suit she was wearing appeared elegant and quite feminine, thanks to the wonderful cascade of blonde hair that tumbled down to her waist.

  ‘I am Lady Lucrezia Borgia,’ she announced in a voice so refined that it bordered on the haughty, ‘First Deputy to her Imperial Highness Wu, Empress of all the lands known as the Demi-Monde.’

  Another megalomaniac.

  Trixie set her face to bland and saluted. ‘I am Colonel Trixiebell Dashwood, Commander of the Warsaw Free Army.’

  ‘Empress Wu sends her greetings to such a courageous soldier and offers you and your troops sanctuary in the Coven.’

  ‘I am very grateful, Madam First Deputy.’

  ‘Where is the one called the Lady IMmanual?’ The question came from the girl standing behind First Deputy Borgia, and in contrast to the First Deputy’s serenity, the second woman radiated impatience and petulance. She was clad from head to toe in combat gear and carried a repeating rifle slung over her shoulder. Trixie knew her instantly, knew her by her cropped brown hair, by her gleaming eyes that seemed to flash and sparkle as she spoke, and by Loki’s symbol, the large wooden cross hanging from her neck. This was the infamous Jeanne Dark, leader of the Suffer-O-Gettes, the scourge of HimPerialism, the enemy of UnFunDaMentalism, the Chief Witch of HerEticalism.

  A few weeks ago Trixie would have made the sign of the Valknut to ward off the evil that Jeanne Dark represented for the natural order of things, but not now. Now all she saw was a rival and rivals weren’t something to be afraid of. Rivals were something to be eliminated.

  ‘I asked you a question.’

  The sharpness in Jeanne Dark’s voice brought Trixie out of her reverie. No one – no one – spoke to her like that.

  ‘When you address me you will use my rank. I am Colonel Dashwood.’

  ‘Very well, Colonel Dashwood: where is the Lady IMmanual?’

  ‘The Lady IMmanual? She was lost. We believe she has been tricked by a man named Vanka Maykov into surrendering herself to the SS.’

  ‘Fuck,’ snarled the girl. ‘Now that, Colonel Dashwood, was a careless, costly mistake.’ With a snort of disgust she spun on her heel and marched back towards the end of the bridge. The look the First Deputy directed towards the witch’s retreating figure suggested there was little love lost between the two Covenites.

  ‘You must forgive my colleague, Reverend Deputy Dark,’ said First Deputy Borgia, ‘she is apt to be a little temperamental.’ She smiled diplomatically. ‘We have prepared accommodation for your fighters in a nearby barracks, but while they are resting the Empress Wu has commanded an audience with you.’

  ‘Now?’ Trixie looked down at her soiled and tattered combat overalls. ‘Perhaps I might be given a few minutes to—’

  ‘Empress Wu is very insistent that she meet you immediately. She is aware that you are a soldier and apt to be somewhat careless regarding your appearance. But your army’s presence on Coven soil has the most profound political implications, implications which must be urgently resolved.’

  Trixie nodded: the Coven giving the WFA sanctuary must have sent Heydrich into a paroxysm of fury. ‘I wish Major Wysochi to accompany me.’

  Wysochi grinned when he heard his instant promotion, but Trixie knew eyebrows would be raised if she insisted on having a mere sergeant as her second-in-command.

  ‘Is he your Preferred Male?’

  ‘Preferred Male?’

  The First Deputy gave a condescending smile. ‘It is a Covenite term for the male a Femme allows to accompany her and provide her with certain physical comforts.’

  She glanced at Wysochi, whose grin broadened. ‘Yes, Major Wysochi is my Preferred Male.’

  ‘Very well, but Preferred Male Wysochi should understand that he is to walk behind you and never address a Femme without being addressed first.’

  The First Deputy turned and led Trixie and Wysochi from the bridge.

  As the night floated past, Norma felt the air in the temple become heavier, almost syrupy. Sounds were muffled as though they were coming to her from far, far away. She felt distanced not just from the music but from reality. With every passing moment her world contracted. She seemed to be falling into herself.

  As she and Aaliz Heydrich knelt face to face and hand in hand through the long night, she experienced a growing sensation that she was merging with the girl. It was almost as though she and Aaliz were beginning to inhabit the same body … the same consciousness … the same soul.

  She saw a bead of sweat trickle from Aaliz’s brow and felt the identical one course over her own forehead.

  In an apathetic sort of way Norma sensed the tempo of the ritual become more frenzied. The rhythm of the unrelenting music was becoming faster, the stench wafting from the incense burners more pungent, and the ululations and the cavortings of Crowley and his adepts more fervent. The cavern was heavy with magic, and inside the pentagon strange and nebulous forms manifested themselves.

  Ghosts and spectres … the Intangible … floated … through the thickening air, their gossamer fingers drifting over … through Norma and Aaliz. The Spirits had come, and their coming announced that the moment of Transference was imminent. There would be no time for anyone to rescue her now.

  From what she had seen of balloon rides on television, Ella had thought them to be tranquil, calm, almost beatific experiences, with the balloonists drifting high and silent in a sun-kissed sky. But as she quickly discovered, balloons were in fact noisy affairs, with the wicker basket and the cor
dage creaking and groaning, and the fabric of the balloon rippling and flapping in the wind.

  The balloon stank too: the dubbing that waterproofed the canvas canopy had a rancid smell. And all the while the Winter blizzard that swooped around the basket pushed and pummelled the balloon, making it slip and slide through the air in an unsettling way, as though she were riding a pendulum. It was also bitterly cold floating around in the night sky, so cold that she was forced to duck down beneath the side of the basket to get away from the freezing wind.

  She didn’t stay there long. The noise, the smell, the cold and the continual swaying of the basket in the air currents meant that they had barely floated a couple of miles from the Balloon-O-Drome before she was obliged to get back to her feet to retch over the side of the basket.

  ‘Good shot,’ observed Rivets. ‘There’s a coupla thousand of them ForthRight soldiers below us an’ now one of ‘em’s got a faceful of vomit.’

  Ella wiped her mouth and then – cautiously, she hated the way the basket tipped when she shifted her weight – peered down to the ground below. In the darkness it was easy to see the lanterns the ForthRight Army had placed to light their way along the newly opened Hub spur of the Trans-ForthRight Railway. The flickering snake of trains coiled and twisted along the railway line that connected the ForthRight with Hub Bridge Number 4.

  No … not Hub Bridge Number 4. They were advancing towards Hub Bridge Number 2!

  A frown creased her brow: the ForthRight Army was going the wrong way. All the trains and the steamers and the marching soldiers were advancing in the direction of the Quartier Chaud.

  ‘The ForthRight’s attacking the Medis,’ she gasped and even as the words tumbled out of her mouth she realised that that was what she hadn’t been able to read in Crowley’s mind the last time they’d met. Somehow Crowley’s – Heydrich’s – duplicity had been hidden from her and PINC.

  But how? And why?

  Vanka shrugged. ‘Doesn’t surprise me: Heydrich’s a crafty sod. All that stuff he fed Baron Dashwood and Dabrowski was obviously moonshine. Probably just playing silly buggers to keep everybody off balance.’ He laughed. ‘The funny thing is that the non-aggression pact he signed with the Coven was probably genuine: it’ll go down in history as the only pact Heydrich ever honoured in his whole rotten life.’