Urban Witch

by R. L. Giddings

  When she could wait no longer, Stahl pulled at the edge of the cloth. Once she’d pealed part of it away the actual weight of the material took over and the whole thing dropped to the floor. What she was left with was less than inspiring. A long, piece of ugly, black wrought iron work with some blobby details along the shaft. Only the pentagram at the head seemed to have any potency.

  There was a palpable sense of anti-climax. I’m not sure what we had been expecting but it wasn’t this.

  Was this really one of the Seven Testaments of Witchcraft?

  “The Iron of Fortitude,” Terence tried to inject the correct balance of reverence and awe into his voice but didn’t quite manage it.

  Behind me, I could hear people spilling out of the house, no doubt anxious to examine it for themselves. Stahl held the object up so that they could all get a better look.

  Up close, it was an entirely different proposition. What had looked like bobbles from a distance transformed themselves into naked human figures which defied gravity, hanging there like drowned sailors, intertwining with one another in unspeakable agony. The black figures writhed along the central shaft in a never-ending orgy of chaos and despair. It seemed like the perfect implement for the job: a mixture of the cruel and the divine, strangely reminiscent of Dante’s Inferno. Indeed, at the business-end, beneath the pentagram, one figure could be plainly seen pulling himself up as if onto a ledge, aspiring to higher things yet doomed to an eternity of suffering.

  I felt dizzy, the more you looked into it, the more you saw. It drew you in. Made you want to touch it.

  “How do we know that it’s genuine?” someone behind me asked.

  Stahl spun around in the direction of those who’d just joined us, the Iron clenched in her fists.

  “That’s what we’re here to find out.”

  Then she offered it to me.

  *

  I drew back. The Iron wanted something from me I was sure of it.

  “We need you to verify that this is the genuine article, Bronte,” Stahl said stolidly. “That’s why you’re here.”

  I looked at Terence for some kind of re-assurance. “What’s going on?”

  This was every foul thing I’d ever feared as a teenager snarling at me from under the bed.

  “Your special ability,” Stahl explained. “Your power of divination. It’s time.”

  I laughed at that. “Divination! I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You have the ability to verify the true nature of antiquities and artefacts. It’s the skill you were born with. It’s what sets you apart from the rest of us. Your mother can do it and so, it would seem, can you.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course you do. Ma Birch might have been weak in the head but she knew a unique skill when she saw one. That’s what she said when she wrote to the Dean of Newton. Those were the Special Circumstances she specified when requesting your admittance. How else do you think you got in? You haven’t even passed the Burden Conundrum.”

  It was like I was sixteen again. I couldn’t have felt more exposed if I’d been standing there naked. How did she know all this? The biggest lie of my life exposed with just a few, well-chosen words.

  And was it true? Was that really how Ma Birch had managed to get me into Newton in the first place?

  “Who told you?”

  “I haven’t always been an M.P. you know. I started out as a humble academic before I started my long climb up the slippery pole and became Dean of Newton College. It was me that Ma Birch appealed to. I was the one who cleared the way for your admittance. But for me, you’d probably be out touting your skills as a hedge-witch right around now. No need to thank me but I would appreciate it if you would oblige me on this one occasion.”

  She held the Iron out towards me, an inscrutable look on her face.

  I didn’t want to touch its ugly beauty but could think of no way to resist. Everyone had gathered around expectantly but I was still reeling from Stahl’s revelation. To what extent had she been secretly grooming me all these years? And how far did her influence extend? Had she been instrumental in getting me my job at the Bear Garden? It felt as if I’d stepped outside my own existence and could suddenly see my life for what it was – a terrible sham supported by a talent which I saw as more of an inconvenience than a skill. That’s what I was thinking when I accepted the Iron and turned it over in my hands.

  My head rolled back and I found myself looking up at the pin sharp precision of the night sky. The moon was starting to wane but was still bright enough to illuminate the tree tops. I wondered about who else was regarding the moon at that self-same moment in some other part of the capital and wished them better luck than I enjoyed myself.

  It was at this moment that I became aware of just how heavily the Iron seemed to weigh in my hands. Although I couldn’t be sure, it felt as if it were increasing in weight the longer I held it. It was becoming an effort just to stand upright, pulling me so far forward that my back started to hunch over. I regarded the Iron with a growing sense of bewilderment. Everyone was looking in my direction. Through a grey fog, I became aware of Stahl’s lips moving almost imperceptibly although I failed to make any sense of what she was saying.

  I don’t belong here, I thought.

  Around me, the other guests looked on, their heads little more than skulls watching me with hollow eyes, talking their silly talk.

  All the time the real world was fading fast. It was like I was falling backwards down the deepest darkest well and all I had to concentrate on was a small circle of star speckled darkness which was quickly diminishing. The sense of falling was marked and, though I could make out little in the darkness, I could hear the sound of voices all around me.

  When I came to my senses I saw that the sun was setting, bathing me in a brilliant golden light nostalgic for the day that had passed. So bright was it that I had to shield my eyes to see where the noise was coming from. A row of squat, sombre buildings defined the square where I was standing surrounded by a large gathering fronted by various sheriff’s officers and aldermen. A number of officers were arrayed around the square seated on tired looking horses their breast plates reflecting the last of the sun’s rays. Either I’d struggled into some Medieval Theme Park or I was in serious trouble.

  A light wind gusted, feeling chill against my damp skin. It was only when I came to brush my hair away from my face that I realised that the colour was wrong. Far too dark to be mine. Almost bluey black. And my hands and arms were also different: slim and dark, my palms rough and calloused.

  A bell started tolling nearby, the sound picked up around me.

  It came from a thin, tall church with two precarious bell-towers which stood at the western edge of the square. Figures were busying themselves on the steps and what looked like a fairground stalls was being readied.

  Not a dream then. So where was I?

  It felt very real. The crowd was taking shape now and I could make out individuals. Smocks, stained aprons, headscarves. They all shared the same swarthy features, the same dark hair. Either Spanish or Portuguese, I guessed.

  The crowd had spread out, parting like a shoal of fish as a priest stepped through.

  He wore a beautifully worked black cassock under a long, red velvet vestment, a set of rosary beads bunched in his fist. The priest nodded at me, something almost conciliatory in his eyes.

  He selected a number of men to come forward and began giving them instructions. The men looked around, inordinately pleased to have been chosen as defenders of the faith whilst, at the same time, being anxious about what might now be asked of them.

  They came forward taking special care not to meet my gaze. The youngest of them shivered at the enormity of his task though, once he had lain hold of me, he quickly grew in confidence. There was no hope of appealing to these men. For most of them – I had no doubt – this would be the defining moment in their spiritual journey, a test which they wo
uld look back upon with pride. They were the priest’s willing servants and they wanted nothing more than to do their duty. None of them wanted to be accused of abetting a witch.

  A thick loop of rope was slipped over my head and I accepted it with mute resignation. It was so heavy that it immediately pulled me off balance.

  Two men took hold of the rope whilst two others marched alongside me gripping my arms so hard that it hurt. This wasn’t a dream, then. I could feel pain. I wasn’t sure how that was even possible.

  Our procession set off across the cobbles but we had only gone a short distance when a well-aimed stone arced out of the crowd. I ducked and the stone missed me hitting the man standing to my left. Everyone stopped, the stone having opened up a bright wound over the man’s ear which bled so profusely that he was obliged to relinquish his role in the procession. The priest passed him a handkerchief and, while he was still dabbing at the blood, a second stone flew past our heads, struck the cobbles and skittered away. The priest said nothing but his eyes raked the crowd and from then on we continued in virtual silence, the crowd following at a polite distance.

  My escorts were so close that I could smell their sweat and the sourness of their breath and that was when I realised that they were frightened of me.

  The rational part of my mind should have known where all this was heading: to a final reckoning which could have only one possible outcome. But my rational mind wasn’t functioning at that point. Fear can do that to you. Sometimes the mind misleads us as a way of protecting us from the inevitable. Sometimes we just need to block out all sources of possible unpleasantness.

  This time it was the glare of the setting sun which had helped preserve the illusion, keeping my fate from me right up to the last moment. And as the sun dropped beneath the roof-tops I finally caught a clear sight of what stood to the left of the church steps.

  What I’d seen earlier wasn’t a fairground stall but a crude viewing platform separated into an upper and lower gallery erected at the far edge of the square. In the various galleries rows of clerics sat in stoic silence. The sight of them caused me to stumble but the men on either side were quick to catch me, keen to ensure that I was delivered safely.

  Clustered around in front of the platform, was a knot of priests. They were moving about two upright wooden posts.

  Off to one side, stood a brazier a curlicue of smoke rising from it. A nondescript figure in a leather jerkin ministered to the fire as the coals shifted, dumping a rain of sparks on the ground.

  The men coiled the thick rope drawing me forward until I was standing just in front of the brazier. I felt the heat across the back of my legs and sweat broke out all over my body. But it wasn’t simply down to the temperature.

  Two officials in red silk gowns oversaw the next stage of the operation. The rope was fed between the two posts and, when I hesitated, one of the men yanked it so hard that I was nearly pulled off my feet. The men either side pulled my arms out towards the posts. Two loops of white cord were then slipped over each wrist and cinched tight before being knotted.

  With my arms drawn up at such an angle, it was difficult to draw breath. I had to stand on tip-toe just to relieve the strain on my rib-cage. Even when I did manage to inhale I could only draw shallow breaths, the bitter taste of ash hanging in the air.

  The wind had dropped and my mind turned to the thing lying at the heart of the brazier.

  Because of where I stood, I couldn’t look directly at the blacksmith but I could tell, from his animated movements, that his work was nearing completion.

  I am not here, my mind was saying.

  Oh, but you are.

  The taller of the two officials moved around behind me and approached the open fire. The blacksmith didn’t look up but rattled the coals once for good measure and extracted a familiar black rod. If I had any doubts of what it might be they quickly disappeared when the rod came clear. Swivelling the head-piece round with a showman’s flourish, he held it away from his body so that the official could take the handle. The five pointed star glowed white hot, the heat giving it a legitimacy which it lacked in dull, cold steel.

  I heard the sound of a woman sobbing and realised it was me.

  The words of a Latin prayer were being intoned by the men housed in the viewing platform. Six men in all, two of them monks, followed the words in their prayer books. All in readiness, their eyes hungry for what was to come.

  With the figure in red out of sight I had only the mounting hysteria of the prayer to indicate how close we were to the climax. I squirmed as I felt the heat building against my back, my body eager to be free.

  Is this really happening?

  It seemed that it was. Hands were pulling at the back of my smock, tearing it up the centre in order to better reveal my flesh.

  Then a glorious moment of calm as the wind blew across the square, raising goosebumps and I became aware that I was looking out through someone else’s eyes; experiencing this through their body.

  I had never felt so alone.

  The prayer came to an end and I existed for a moment in a no-man’s land between pain and pleasure, hot and cold, past and future.

  You will feel no pain.

  But then the heat rippled across my back.

  And the Iron was driven home.

  The hiss as metal met the sheen of my flesh acted as a kind of consummation. My fundamental disbelief at what was happening was no match for the pain that seared my nerve endings.

  The heat was a re-learning. As different from the pain I’d known before as the difference between a picture of the sun and the sun itself. It was an education in what pain could be and it was all consuming. Nothing could stand before it.

  Not even the reality of the square.

  It started to shrink away until it was only a tiny circle of silver which was retreating so quickly that I wondered how I’d ever be able to catch up with it again. My hands had come free and I swept them forward into a high arcing dive. The sense of falling through the air was exhilarating but I feared that I would miss my aim.

  Then slowly, insolently slowly, the silver circle of light began to grow in size. I knew that I had to close with it before it was lost to me forever.

  It winked at me as it grew, became the bulbous face of a silver mirror looming up in front of me which slowly resolved itself into a vibrant moon. And then it changed again and there I was: staring into an overblown version of Melissa Stahl’s face which flexed and contracted like the reflection in a car’s bonnet.

  She was holding me by my wrists when I came round.

  “Well?” she sounded triumphant. “Was I right? I take it I was. Is it the Iron of Fortitude?”

  My head was so heavy that it was all I could do just to nod.

  She let out a shriek of triumph and clutched me to her. “I knew it.”

  *

  When I finally opened my eyes I found I was looking at a ceiling which had been carefully upholstered in purple velvet. I felt no reassuring sense of recognition: this was all new to me. There were short curtains at the windows and through them lights twinkled, remote and far off.

  I was no longer scared and that was a relief. The darkness outside looked cold but cold was good. I could work with cold.

  It was only as I rolled over that the remnants of my dream tumbled around in the back of my head, half glimpsed but quickly losing their power. The ordinary nature of my surroundings seemed to have cured me of my nightmares and for that I was grateful.

  Cobbles. Gritty and soiled. There had definitely been cobbles.

  My fingers probed my back, fingering a scar whose kiss was quickly fading. Soon it would just be a memory.

  Had it been real? The pain? It had certainly felt real enough.

  I attempted to sit up on the narrow settee, a blanket bunching under my arms, my legs exposed. There was a residual smell about the place which I struggled to recognise.

  Kerosene.

  I was on a boat. Through the curtains I could m
ake out a distant shoreline, probably the Thames but I couldn’t be sure. The boat pulsed through the water, the lift and drop of the waves reverberating through the hull.

  Crossing over to the other window I could see the regular shapes of riverside apartments, broken up every couple of hundred metres by the dark chasm of tiny inlets which would have been there when Dickens was a boy. By pressing my head against the glass I could just make out the lights of Canary Wharf in the distance.

  I was fully clothed still, only my shoes had been removed. It was as I searched for them in the various cabinets that I heard snoring and saw that Silas was asleep on the settee opposite mine. One hand was bunched at his chest whilst the other was hooked around his neck.

  Pulling back his blanket, I was delighted to see that someone had cleaned and dressed his wound, having cut away the leg of his jeans in order to do so. It was a very competent job but I wasn’t sure if that meant that they’d also removed the bullet.

  One look at Silas’ face was enough to confirm my suspicions. He looked a lot different to the last time I’d seen him: much more relaxed, much younger even.

  I considered waking him, unsure as to how to progress. He obviously needed to rest but I was also struck by the necessity of formulating a plan. I didn’t know where we were being taken but I had a pretty good idea that, once we arrived, we were going to have to fight for our survival.

  Could I rely on Silas for support or was I going to have to think for us both? Was he even capable of walking on that leg of his? It didn’t appear likely but then I’d heard so much about the remarkable recuperative abilities of shape-shifters that I was willing to believe anything.

  I crouched down to get a view through the panelled windows which gave out onto the front of the boat. There were a number of people out there dressed in thick anoraks against the cold of the Thames. It was impossible to identify individuals but I was willing to bet that Melissa Stahl was out there somewhere. She hadn’t finished with me yet.