The Demonologia Biblica

by Wilde, Barbie

  Shadows can sometimes give birth to shadowed things and items forgotten are not always lost. Phartouche’s desire grew and all the more so for it could feel its wielder close by. An ache ran the veins of its making. A power once bound is not severed because one wishes it. It takes special actions and so Phartouche gathered its will, the very essence of its metal, to cut, to slice, to stab. One night when even the rays of the full moon shone meager light through the laths of the closet door, Phartouche called out to Jezaleen and drew her close.

  Awake or asleep she was unable to resist the pull and only came to full wakefulness as the blade plunged into her sleeping lover. Jezaleen wailed, tossing the sword with a clatter, trying to stop with her hands and the sheets the fatal black pools that welled from her lover’s chest. Mad with grief, she cursed the blade then. “I will be your undoing as you have been mine.”

  But she grabbed the blade, her riding boots and pants, a sack and her cloak. Before dawn pushed the moon away, Jezaleen was on the road, Phartouche sheathed firmly to her back.

  A year, two, five passed with Jezaleen wandering the most southernmost reaches, speaking little, taking the most distasteful of jobs. She fed Phartouche well as a guard for caravans, a scout in the mountain passes, a hunter of wild cats in the desert sands.

  Desolation touched Jezaleen and she spoke of the hollow wastes of her soul, but the blade cared not. As long as wielder and sword worked in concert all was well.

  It was on the road that Jezaleen met another weary warrior of the bloody paths. They walked along first in cold companionship, sharing a fire and little else. Eventually the nearness of another human whose heart was scarred and world weary, one who understood the sorrows of the fighter’s road helped thaw the other’s heart. A spring moved across their consciousness, drawing out hopes and dreams as if they were new shoots budding tentatively after blight. In time they shared more than words and talked of a future. He wished to use only his stave for balance and bow for hunting game. No more wars, no more raids, no more deaths that wither a soul.

  Jezaleen echoed the sentiments and though Phartouche barely cared for the meaning of words, it felt the intent. A shimmer of sound escaped when Jezaleen pulled the blade from its sheath, soft as a fire’s hiss.

  As they traveled through the autumn days Jezaleen and her companion stopped frequently, resting and eating windfall apples. They left behind their goods at their well concealed camp, and swam in streams and ponds. Here they forgot the horrors of war, the ways of killing and opened themselves to the dance of loving and the healing it brought.

  Frost painted a glamour of rime to the land, so that grass and gorse crunched underfoot and their breath formed fairy mists. Phartouche rang clear as a chime in such air but at this time of year all they hunted was game to feed them.

  A deer trail led them to a village too far away from any beaten track to have heard news of any wars, too meager for raiders to bother with. Tucked in a vale with a small lake close by, the people herded sheep, a few cows and tended their fields. Here was where they would winter and a small cottage was easy to come by.

  Jezaleen often sat in front of the fire at night, honing Phartouche’s edge or polishing the pommel as she stared into the capering flames. Her partner wove sinew and made arrows and fletching. Neither of them left their weapons in a closet.

  The blade felt its wielder close, the entwining of their wills and knew her heart was restless. While the chance to slake its unending thirst still remained, Phartouche was content to bide its time. After all, it had lasted centuries in the throes of power and in wars.

  Spring came slowly to the veldt with drifts of crusty snow lying like slumbering dogs in the blue shadows of the lees. Animals ventured from their burrows and Jezaleen and her companion began to hunt. Yet one day she set her sword on the hearth’s mantle and it tumbled off, striking the flagstones. She picked up Phartouche, examining the blade and hilt.

  She said to her lover, “The crystal’s chipped. I think I’ll take the sword to the smithy and have the nicks polished out before summer comes.”

  He smiled back at her, his dark eyes pulling her in. He kissed her deep and said, “I’ll try to get a pheasant for dinner. I’ll see you later.”

  Jezaleen walked down the road to the smithy, a lightness to her step and a spark within her soul that made Phartouche thrum. It was always a sign that they would soon be on a new path. Combat and blood would warm its metal by summer’s end.

  At the smithy, Jezaleen placed the sword on the anvil and walked over to the smith. He was angular, leathery from the heat that had forged him as he had shaped metal throughout the years. As he walked to a barrel and pulled a ladle from which to drink, Jezaleen followed, talking. They went inside to settle the coin it would cost and Phartouche tasted the ores that lay near it, blades yet to be born. But would any of them ever be imbued with the intelligence that had kept it aware through all these years? It had never yearned for its kind for it was only one and wedded to its wielder.

  The smith came out and hefted the sword, giving a few strong bursts to the bellows to burn the fire hotter. Then he pried out the crystal and the emeralds saying he would reset them, glancing to Jezaleen who stood out of the fire’s heat, her arms crossed, watching.

  To be immersed in the flames until its core glowed molten was like bathing Phartouche in its spirit. It hummed as the hammer struck out the nicks, it sang with ringing tones as its folds were honed and remolded. Phartouche’s will never left but slowly in the embracing heat, it changed. The lust for blood and war began to fracture, yet its purposed held. The bond of blade and wielder would outlast the fires of hell.

  After a time when the shaping and hammering had stopped, and the cooling baths hardened the metal, the smith inset the two emeralds, one in each armband. He banded the crystal and hung it from a chain. As Jezaleen took the two armbands, Phartouche chimed and subsided.

  When she arrived back at the cottage, the crystal on her breast, she gave her lover one armband and she put on the other. They twined in each other’s embrace, kissing fervently, fingers twined in hair before they disrobed each other in front of the fire.

  Armbands glinting in the light they felt Phartouche’s presence. No matter where they went they would always find the other while wearing the armbands. Phartouche’s purpose had changed. Where before it craved to cleave flesh, now forged anew into circles unending, it would bind flesh to flesh, bring the lovers together, forever twined with their will.

  Q Is For Qangiel Yah

  The Condemned

  Emile-Louis Tomas Jouvet

  The sun shone down upon me. My eyes closed, but for that blissful moment I shed the confines of my prison and was swimming in an ocean of dreams. My pain was sublime.

  A movement behind me. I grabbed the wheels of the chair and manoeuvred myself so my back was to the window. I felt briefly illuminated.

  “I trust I didn’t disturb you.” A man’s voice.

  “You were expected.”

  “Slightly late, I believe.”

  I tilted my head, listened. The clock chimed. “You do yourself an injustice, sir. Please, sit down.”

  “Thank you, Madame.”

  The creak of the floorboards as he entered fully, sat down on the chaise longue. I could sense his nervousness.

  “The terms are acceptable?” I prompted.

  “Very generous.”

  “Have you ever visited Châteaubriant?”

  “Sadly not.”

  “It is very pleasant this time of year. I’m sure you will find it...inspiring.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Then that concludes our business today. We will see you on the twenty-third.”

  As he headed to the door, I took a deep breath. “One moment. I thank you for not referring to my appearance. I know I may seem...somewhat disturbing.”

  “Think nothing of it, Madame.”

  “All the same, I thank you for your discretion. It is painful explaining myself to stran
gers.”

  He coughed politely. “I hope Madame will come to consider me a friend, in time.”

  My flesh strained as I smiled. “I pray that will also be the case M. Barclay. God willing.”

  I closed my eyes and didn’t hear him leave.

  ***

  “Eloise? Where are you girl?”

  “Here, Madame.”

  “Is everything packed?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  It vexes me leaving a house just as soon as I’ve become comfortable, but that’s the story of my life. It distresses me so. I sensed another. “Ah, Barclay, you’ve arrived. It must be time for our departure.”

  “The carriage is waiting, yes, Madame.”

  I held out my hand. “I wish to walk these step one final time.”

  “Final time?” He asked confused.

  “A turn of phrase young man, nothing more.”

  Barclay took my arm. “Get a firm grip of me, I’m not that fragile.” I snapped.

  “Forgive me, Madame.” His hold on me tightening.

  There were thirty-seven steps from the door to the front gate but quickly I was out of breath. Eloise cleaned the sweat from my brow.

  An awkward moment also when Barclay aided my assent into the carriage. He appeared unsure where to place his hand, but whilst I could have chastised him for being rough with me, I chose to keep my own counsel – I didn’t want to cause further embarrassment.

  Once we were comfortably inside (I took one side, Eloise and Barclay the other) – I knocked my cane on the roof, signalling to the coachman that we were ready to leave and within moments, the journey began.

  “Eloise? What breed are the horses?” I asked after a while.

  “Cleveland Bay, as you instructed Madame.”

  “I sense a heavy gait on one of the rear animals. Who is the coachman? Petain?”

  “No Madame, Berling fils...”

  “...Berling fils? How is his father?”

  “Unwell, if truth be told.”

  “Please remind me to give him something extra. M. Berling was a first class coachman.” My mind drifted for a moment, back to happier times, before, before...”I trust that the younger Berling knows the direction we travel?”

  “Querol rides alongside him as piquer. He knows the short-cuts through the roads less travelled.”

  I leant forward. “Old Querol? Mon Dieu, I believed him passed many moons ago.”

  Eloise was smiling when she replied. “It is generally accepted that he will outlive us all.”

  “That has been said, yes.” I sat back. “Barclay, does this carriage please you?”

  “It does Madame, very much so.”

  “It is a long journey but be assured however, that there will be opportunities to rest the horses, if not our legs.

  ***

  I had taken a stronger dose of medication than usually prescribed. As such, I had fallen asleep within moments of leaving the city.

  Slightly disorientated, I shifted my head. “Would you mind opening the window?”

  Barclay loosened the catch and the shutter flipped open. I breathed in the fresh air.

  “Your lap-robe, Madame?” He asked.

  “A little sunlight on my skin won’t kill me...not today, anyway.” I replied but perhaps more harshly than anticipated. “Though it is true, I have to be careful, so thank you for your concern.”

  Eloise snored lightly. I didn’t want to disturb her. “By the coarseness of this road, we are long away from Paris?”

  “We did stop briefly but my apologies, I chose not to wake you, you appeared to be sleeping so peacefully.”

  My lower lip twitched. The bandage course on my skin, causing severe irritation.

  “In Eloise’s belongings, you will find a small jar of white ointment.”

  “Here it is.” He said, after a couple of moments, placing it in my hand.

  “You may want to move nearer to the window. There is a certain pungency which some find offensive, yet if calms my tumours – if only temporary.

  I waited several seconds before removing the stopper from the jar. I dipped my finger – what was left of my digit – inside, put it to my lips. It wasn’t just pungent, the taste was equally as revolting. It is recommended to keep as much as possible from the inside of the mouth but the temptation did get the better of me and I let my tongue slide over the area where the bandage and the skin battled. A warm shiver shot down my spine. My one working eye-lid fluttered.

  “You are awake, Eloise.” I stated.

  “Would you like some water?” She uncorked her flask, poured some of the liquid into a metal beaker.

  I declined, I was enjoying the exquisite pain on my tongue as the ointment worked its devilry.

  “May I close the window?. I believe the heavens are about to open.” He stated.

  “You don’t like the rain?” I fiddled with the wig straddled atop my head, the tip of a metal pin dug into my scalp. “I often long to feel the drip-drip-drip of the water upon my flesh. It calms my soul.”

  Nobody spoke and I realised that I had seemingly distressed the young man.

  Eloise, being her normal diplomatic self, began singing a child’s lullaby to break the silence.

  She wasn’t entirely successful.

  ***

  “Tell me about yourself.”

  “I don’t believe there is much to report, Madame.”

  “I detect a slight accent?”

  There was a slight pause. “My father is English, my mother French. I spent my formative years in both London and Paris.” He offered nothing further.

  I could sense some excitement within Eloise’s tiny frame however. “Was your father Sir Thomas Barclay, the diplomat who...” She took a quick short sharp breath. “...murdered all his servants?”

  “Eloise!” I chastised. “Can you please discuss something else?” It wasn’t fair of her to mock him so. “I’m sure that what you have possibly heard in the salon of Mme. Culot is nothing but idle tittle-tattle and bears no semblance of truth at all.”

  Eloise’s jaw flapped open but it was the young man who interjected. “You’re very kind Madam but what she states is the truth, to a point I suppose.” He coughed. “It is an undoubted fact that my father was sent to the Guillotine some sixteen months ago. He had been discovered by the local militia, locked away in our estate in Ferrières-en-Brie, the bodies of thirteen people lying dead about him. When they found him he was sitting in his favourite chair, rocking backwards and forwards, a bloody saw in his hand. Oblivious to the fact that a fire was raging through the chateau – it was the smoke that had brought the attention of the militia in the first place. If they hadn’t seen it, who knows what would have happened?”

  The young servant girl was beside herself. “But there’s more!”

  “Is there?” I was annoyed.

  She didn’t notice. She was in her element. “The victims weren’t just murdered. They were mutilated beyond belief. Hacked to pieces. Men, women, children. The violence was terrible. It was said that blood dripped from Sir Thomas’s lips, that he had feasted on their flesh, on their bones, scratched strange markings into their corpses!”

  “That is quite enough, quite enough indeed.”

  She didn’t stop, was becoming hysterical. “They also claimed that he had penetrated the bodies after they had been killed and...”

  “ENOUGH! It is this man’s father you are slandering, have some respect!”

  Barclay sighed. “I am becoming used to such comments. That was why I found employment so difficult. After my father’s execution, I was asked to leave University. I was unable to find a commission in any of the Armed Forces...captains of industry literally slammed their doors in my face. I was thinking about returning to England but at the train station I happened to look in the situations vacant section of a broadsheet I found lying about the ticket office – I joined the employment agency concerned, using my mother’s maiden name, but decided that when I was successful then I wou
ld reveal my true identity. I believed at the time it was a risk worth taking. However, you must be confident, I am nothing like my father.”

  I tapped him lightly with my cane. “I suspect you are more like your father than you realise. Honesty being one of his best traits.” I then added. “I had the pleasure of making his acquaintance once, a long time ago, but he was an...honourable gentleman.”

  “Thank you, Madame.” Barclay whispered. He coughed again. “At the next town or village, I will depart and wish you good travelling. My apologies if I have made either of you uncomfortable.”

  I was intrigued. “Why does it matter? You may have inherited many of your father’s characteristics, some good, some bad – but you are not him.”

  “You do not believe your father guilty? Even with all that evidence?” Eloise enquired.

  “I do not.” Barclay replied sternly. “And I shall tell you why. Before he was murdered by the state, he told me that someone else was there, someone else killed those people.”

  “Really? Who?” Eloise was hanging on his every word, she wanted to hear the slightest tidbit of gossip.

  “Qangiel Yah.” He mumbled.

  I didn’t reply but I noticed that Eloise’s heart missed a beat. I knew the sky was full of butterflies. Dark black butterflies.

  And I knew where they headed.

  ***

  “This will be your room.” Eloise explained.

  The journey had exhausted me more than I realised and thus I had decided to retire to my bedroom for the evening. I needed time alone to reflect on what had been said earlier.

  “Thank you. This should suit my needs.” Barclay replied.

  Berling and Querol were in the servants’ kitchen. They were talking and laughing with Marguerite – a girl I employ to look after the house in my absence. Some other Masters or Mistresses may not allow such frivolity but I enjoy a happy household. And why not? There is so much misery in my life as it is. Let them enjoy their flesh.