Danforth answered her. “Oh, many, many. Wurzburg, North Berwick, towns you have never heard of, that ceased to exist before you were born.”
“What type of demons are you that you can live so long?” Mary asked.
Abigail rose. “We are quite human, I assure you,” she said. “Though we are long-lived by your standards, and we have been taught some skills by our Master that are beyond your understanding.”
“You describe the very definition of a witch,” Mary said, her voice full of scorn.
Abigail shrugged. “If that word best matches your perception, then I am in no position to say otherwise. All I will say is that my colleague and I made a choice a long time ago, and we have lived according to that choice ever since.”
Mary blew out a deep breath, exasperated at the rationales of the two conjurers. They behaved like no witches she had ever heard of. Her wrists were chafed raw as she felt another strand give way.
“And what will you do now?” she asked.
Danforth spoke. “That remains to be seen. Obviously, we cannot allow you to interfere with our plans. But your disappearance at this delicate time may swing the balance either way in Doylestown. So we must consult with our Master.”
Mary nodded, her words tinged with bitterness. “So you will kill me. I suppose it is only fitting. I should have died of shame after Salem. Since then my life has been little more than a great emptiness. It must be fate that I meet my end at your hands, the ones who caused my ruination from the very beginning.”
Abigail wore an amused expression. She came closer, kneeling down and bringing her face inches away from Mary’s. “Such self pity does not become you, my dear.” Abigail licked her lips, her words silken murmurings. “When you watched us dancing before, did you feel empty then?” Mary focused all her concentration on grinding her bonds against the bark, refusing to answer, unable to look away. “Tell me, after you realized I had left Salem, what was the very first thing you felt? Was it the shame that you claim ruined your life? Or was it something else?” Abigail’s voice dropped to the lightest, lilting whisper. “Was it sorrow? Sorrow that the rapturous power I gave you had suddenly vanished? Is that the emptiness you have felt all these years?”
At that moment, the last strand snapped. Mary grabbed a hand-sized rock from behind her, giving a howl of rage and pain as she swung it, clubbing Abigail on the side of the head. Abby toppled over with a cry. Danforth hurried toward her and Mary threw the rock, hitting him squarely in the knee. He yelped and stumbled.
Mary knew she had only seconds. She didn’t even pause to untie her feet, instead lurching on hands and knees across the few feet of open space into the trees. Her one hope was finding the carving knife. She prayed that Danforth had not already recovered it.
Her breath rasped and she felt lightheaded as she thrashed about among the underbrush. Behind her in the clearing, she heard Abigail speak in a strange, guttural accent. “Marcus, I’m fine, go get the stupid girl.”
Footsteps were approaching. Mary cast about desperately. A short distance away, a stray beam of moonlight glinted a cool spark on the dark forest floor. Mary propelled herself toward it, reaching beneath the leaves to grasp the familiar wooden handle of the knife. As she did so, a hand grabbed her by the collar and hauled her up, half strangling her.
“Mary, you’re only delaying the inevi…” Danforth was interrupted as Mary swung an elbow behind her, landing a blow into his stomach. He doubled over for a moment as Mary tried to turn around to face him, but her bound feet caused her to falter. She found herself falling back, and reached out with her free hand to grab hold of something, anything. She caught Danforth’s shirt in her gnarled fingers. Still wheezing to catch his breath, Danforth fell too, right on top of Mary and the knife she held between them.
Mary hit the ground an instant before Danforth fell on top of her. The knife made a sickening tearing sound as it sliced into him below the chest. Warmth gushed all over Mary’s front. Only a brief, gurgling breath escaped Danforth’s lips before his body went limp. Mary lay there a few seconds, panting beneath the dead weight on top of her. Then she struggled and wriggled out from under the body. She fought to still her trembling hands and carefully cut the rope around her ankles, casting it aside before scurrying over to crouch in the deep shadows of a tree. She could still see the body.
Stillness reigned as Mary clutched the knife in her white-knuckled hands. Her old body was battered and bruised and she still felt dizzy. There was a small tightness in her chest that she ignored as she concentrated on remaining utterly quiet while she willed her body to stop shaking.
Finally, she heard Abigail’s voice. “Marcus?” she said in that strange accent. “Are you there?” Then, in the voice she recognized, “Mary? I do hope you’re alright, dear.”
Her voice was moving now, coming closer. “You know, of all the girls in Salem, you were my favorite.”
Mary remained alert, her back against the tree, knife ready.
“The others were merely followers, sheep eager to be led.” Now the voice receded, seeming farther away. “But not you, Mary. It took real strength to defy me and seek to confess. That showed courage. It took both me and my colleague to stop you…”
Mary let out a long breath. Abigail’s voice continued to fade. Perhaps she could slip away, unnoticed. Then she practically jumped out of her skin in fright when Abby’s voice sounded right next to her.
“…Just as you will be stopped now.”
There she was, beautiful despite the blood that coated her hair where the rock had struck her. Mary hesitated for a split second, then she swung the knife. Abby intercepted her arm with ease, grabbing her wrist and punching her full in the face with her other fist. Mary sagged as the knife dropped. Abby looked around for a moment, noticing Danforth’s body. She pursed her lips.
“How unfortunate, now my Master will have to supply another colleague,” she said.
She grabbed Mary by the hair and forced her back toward the clearing. Dazed, Mary offered no resistance as she was dragged. Her hand ran across something rough on the ground. Out of some reflexive instinct, she grabbed the tree root and jerked herself back. Abby’s hand came free, along with some of Mary’s hair.
Abby turned, still mocking. “Mary, such spirit. If only you had shown as much in Salem,” she said. “Come along now, we mustn’t keep my Master waiting.”
Mary was on her hands and knees, barely conscious. She knew she had not long to live. On the ground, she noticed a length of rope, the bonds that had once secured her wrists. Mary took them in her hands as Abby came near. She remained still, allowing Abby to reach down and grasp her by the hair again. Mary took the rope and wound it once around Abby’s ankles. Then she drew it tight and lurched forward, driving into Abby’s body while she pulled on the rope. Abby fell backward as her legs went out from under her. There was a horrible cracking sound as Abby hit the ground. She did not move again.
Mary looked up. Abby had fallen on the tree stump where Mary had previously been held captive. Her neck had caught the edge, snapping instantly. Abby’s head lolled at an unnatural angle, her face blank.
Mary leaned over her, her body trembling with exhaustion and relief. Somehow, through the wildest luck, she was still alive. She looked down at Abby, beautiful even in death. Mary touched her porcelain cheek, her emotions a confused jumble.
She wearily rose to her feet. Every inch of her body felt battered. She took a deep breath and was about to turn away when she clutched her chest in sudden agony. Jagged pain shot down her arm as she dropped to her knees, unable to breathe. Her chest felt like it was being crushed, and she fell on her side, gasping for air. In her last few moments of life, Mary’s vision constricted down a long tunnel to the low-burning fire in the middle of the clearing. Thick black smoke began to pour out of it, and a pair of chilling, red eyes peered out at her.
The eyes were dead, utterly devoid of emotion or feeling. But they stared at her, into her, sifting through eve
ry single atom of her being. And they gave her a choice. Mary thought about her long life, about the people of Salem, and Doylestown, and everywhere else. She thought about Abby, whom she had loved and then hated, and her words, and the scalding truth she couldn’t deny in a small part of herself. As blackness enveloped her, she chose.
On a hot summer morning in Richmond, Virginia, Melissa Jennings took her ease in the town saloon. The young beauty was the new nurse and assistant to the town’s physician. She drank lemonade as she studied her flawless reflection in a mirror behind the bar. A young man approached her.
“Excuse me, Miss Jennings?” he said. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name’s Franklin Harden.”
She turned to him. “Not at all, Mr. Harden. How do you do?”
He frowned. “My little girl has herself a nasty cough,” he said. “Doc Jacobson saw her a few days ago, before you arrived, says it’s nothing to worry about. But she’s still sick and my wife and I are more than a bit concerned. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, would you take a look at her? We’d be much obliged.”
Melissa took Mr. Harden’s hand. “Of course I will. No bother at all. Only, do not be alarmed if your child’s malady is not of a physical nature.”
Mr. Harden looked confused. “What do you mean?”
Melissa leaned forward, motioning him to come close. “Those who traffic with the spirit world may cause such ailments,” she whispered.
Mr. Harden’s eyes widened. “Here in Richmond? I cannot believe it.”
Melissa nodded knowingly. “It has been known to happen.” Then she gave a dazzling smile. “But I’m sure this is not the case with your little one. Go see to her now, and I will be along presently.”
Mr. Harden clutched her hand tightly before letting go. “Thank you, most kindly.” He hurried off, gratitude and concern in his eyes.
Melissa watched him go before returning to her reflection in the mirror. She still could scarcely believe it, but her new Master had been true to his word. And though the price had given her pause, she knew that ultimately, those who chose the path of evil would go to their just reward. The rest was unimportant.
She eschewed the drink in front of her for something stronger, ordering a shot of whiskey.
The bartender gave her a dubious look, not sure what to make of a young lady drinking so early in the morning. Melissa fixed him with a stern gaze that belied her apparent youth and placed a few coins on the bar. “Make it a double.”
COTTON AVICENNA B iv
by Paul Marlowe
THE ALIGHIERI GLOSS
London! Paragon of cities. How many wonders there are, in its villas, its marketplaces, in its streets and tunnels. London – this uncommon weal of fateful miracles, and of horrors that I know only too well. Cheek by jowl a multitude lie, a thousand-thousand strange tales between them, unknown but for the chance mis-step into an unfamiliar alleyway – the passing glimpse along a half-lit, fog-swathed street. So has it always been in the great cities that draw in every kind of creature. Those who toil; those who live upon them. The builders, the wreckers. Town- and country-men. The eager, the wicked, the mad; and not from this isle alone, but from all the ends of the world. Indeed, not only from this… but now, let me see. How to begin.
Rafe – Dr Maddox – was leading me upon another tour of the city, the latest of our annual excursions that began after the blessèd meeting in Tower Tunnel. We viewed the palaces; of the Empress, of entertainment, of crystal, of iron and steam afloat on the Thames, and others among the marvellous constructions of the age.
Not the Underground, of course.
But no museum, no theatre brought us out that November night to St. Raphael Square. We went rather to the Etheric Explorers Club, for Rafe was to stage there a little show of his own. He called it Cotton Avicenna B iv : A Novel Method of Revealing Decayed Calligraphy. Something to do with books, he led me to understand.
Maddox is a great scholar, and much, much more.
Until the lamps were lowered, members and guests of that club had eyes only for myself, in my veil and mourning, try as they did to pretend otherwise. It was no surprise, as no other women were in attendance. None, at least, of which they were aware. For my part, I watched Rafe. It was strange that his was no longer a young man’s face. He introduced me as his niece!
A magic lantern, he called it, this thing he used. Not true magic, he took pains to assure me, but rather a bright lamp and glasses that cast images over the wall. Images of writing. Magic, apparently, is no longer considered quite in good taste in this day and age; spirits are another matter.
“Here we see a photographic slide made using the red portion of the spectrum… and here the green…” he explained, switching between images which were, according to Rafe, slightly different.
A fat man across the table from me cleared his throat. “This mottling. It’s due to the fire?”
Rafe paused. “No, not fire, Morrison. Damp. It’s not widely known, but an ancestor of mine received the Avicenna manuscripts from Cotton’s collection, in exchange for some debt or other – this was before the fire occurred. Also the eponymous bust. This particular volume,” he said, touching a brown and scarred codex before him on the table, “is apparently an anthology of geographical works, collected in Arabic. I’ve yet to have it translated. It is the legibility of these glosses,” he said, indicating the luminous scribbles with a stick, “in Medieval Tuscan, which I have been endeavouring to improve with my technique. It was only some years after the collection was split that the Ashburnham House fire occurred. I’m afraid that, since those days, my family has not always been conscientious in its care of the Avicenna manuscripts.”
How typical it is of these obtuse, modern people, to deny the existence of fate and mystery to such an extent that they would consign a treasure trove of priceless books to a house with the inauspicious name Ashburnham. What did they expect would happen? Children, the lot of them. It’s what comes of allowing immigrants to take over the country – these Jutes, and Angles, and sundry Saxons. The Norse men, and all the rest. No regard for the workings of fortune, any of them. No sense. At least Maddox is a scion of the true Britains, whatever else may be mixed into his blood.
We came, betimes, to the end of the talk. Rafe was attempting to disengage himself from an associate with a brass machine and the maniacal look of the enthusiastic inventor – a look with which I have become very familiar after several visits to this club– when the footman entered, bearing a card on a salver. He resembled a sad and dissipated legionary, this footman, and something about his silent, looming bulk made the inventor’s gabbling tail away.
“Messenger for you, Dr Maddox.”
Rafe took the card and examined it with slight interest.
“His master is waiting, Billingsly?”
“There is a carriage at the door, sir.”
Rafe nodded. “Pack away my slides and projector, would you, Billingsly?” Taking Rafe’s proffered arm, I accompanied him towards the doorman’s nook, where a strange man in a colourful coat and short trousers stood. He did not look English, or even British.
The man bowed with sullen care. He wore an absurd white wig that was on the verge of tumbling off. A long queue of his own black hair ran down his back.
“Lord Mo Gui deeply regrets his being unable to attend tonight’s lecture,” said the man, thickly pronouncing the words with the same careful deliberateness with which he managed his wig. “Lord Mo Gui sends his carriage, and invites you to kindly do him the honour of accepting his hospitality this evening, to discuss certain facts concerning the…” The man hesitated, dropping his eyes to the book tucked beneath Rafe’s arm before enunciating “the Cotton Avicenna B iv.”
“How curious,” said Rafe. “A student of ancient manuscripts, is he?”
“The master has special knowledge of it.” He looked again to the book, though whether in questioning or covetousness I could not judge.
Rafe turned to me. “If you have no objec
tion?”
I shook my veil.
Outside, the night street was alive with clattering wheels and iron-shod hooves. Foot-travellers surfaced in ones and twos at the gaslights, then sank back into the river of shadow.
“Whitechapel Slaying!” keened a child on the pavement, a bundle of papers piled in his arms. “Vigilence Committee Baffled!”
They can shout in square capitals, these modern Londoners.
As though overcome by his own eloquence, the boy’s eyes fluttered, then rolled away, white, into his head. He tipped back in a rigid fit, nearly striking the pavement before Rafe caught him.
I watched, appalled. “Come away, Rafe! This is a black omen!”
My attention flew from the boy to the far street corner. A gaslamp had winked out. A couple, tall, fair, in dark cloaks rounded the turn.
“Rafe…”
But he never heeds me. Instead, he carried the boy, with difficulty now the seizure was in full force, to the bland footman who still stood in the open club doorway.
Something Wicked Anthology, Vol. One Page 17
