Winter

by Rod Rees

  She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The man who had been the rock in her life, the man who had carried her through the loss of her mother, the man who had stood unflinchingly beside her when she had been Censured, the man who had taught her—convinced her—that she was the equal of any man, was talking of leaving her. That was impossible: she would live and, if necessary, die by his side.

  But her father was equally determined.

  “You must. It is imperative that I attend the séance this evening. If I were to disappear before then there would be a hue and cry, but your absence, Trixie, can be explained more easily. I can say you’ve been overcome by the excitement of meeting the Leader; you are only a girl after all.” Dashwood reached across and took Trixie’s hand in his. “There is no alternative, Trixie. If you stay we are both lost, but with the captain’s help, you at least might survive. Do I have your word, Captain, that you will do everything in your power to save and protect my daughter?”

  “You have my word.”

  Dashwood opened a drawer, extracted a file and passed it across the desk to the captain. “This contains the details of the mooring location of the barges.”

  The captain took the file and flicked through the pages. “Thank you, sir, thank you on behalf of the Polish people imprisoned in the Ghetto. This will give them hope.” Dabrowski shut the file and looked sternly at Dashwood. “You should be aware, sir, that it is my intention to try to make my escape during the séance. When Heydrich and his entourage are in the ballroom the garrison will relax and its guard will be lowered. I will try to organize some form of distraction, some sort of ruse to draw all the guards away from their posts.”

  “I think I might be able to help you there, Captain. I had been hoping—planning—to disturb Heydrich’s Operation Barbarossa, but now it seems I must bring these plans forward. I have already sent word to Royalist exiles in the Coven warning them that the ForthRight will attack in early Spring but now it seems I must take more concrete action.” Dashwood drew a small revolver from the drawer where the file had been lying. “Although, like my daughter, I am something of a RaTionalist and take Crowley’s talk of Spirits and Daemons with several grains of salt it is apparent that the Daemon, Norma Williams, is of great importance to the Party. Of course, all this talk of doppelgängers and infiltrating the Spirit World is moonshine but . . .” The comrade commissar split open the revolver and checked that it was fully loaded. “At Heydrich’s insistence I am to attend the séance this evening in full-dress uniform and that necessitates my wearing a sidearm. I will use this to assassinate the Daemon and, if I am able, Heydrich as well. That, I think, Captain, will provide a sufficient disturbance for you to make good your escape.”

  “And what about you, Father?” asked Trixie, a tear gently coursing down her cheek.

  “I, my darling Trixie, am a dead man. It is your responsibility to ensure that I don’t die in vain.”

  Chapter 24

  The Demi-Monde: 55th Day of Winter, 1004

  The afterglow of Seidr ritual and of Lilithian worship is found in the WhoDoo magic practiced by the mambos of NoirVille. Being so heavily suffused by Lilithian folklore, WhoDoo magic is a strongly sexual magic. Mambos (and all of the most powerful practitioners of WhoDoo are female) believe that the interregnum dividing the Spirit World from the Demi-Monde is most readily traversed when the body and the soul conjoin at orgasm. To the WhoDoo mambo at the point of orgasm all things magical are possible because that is the moment when they commune, albeit briefly, with ABBA, or as the WhoDooists know him, the Great Lord Bondye.

  —RELIGIONS OF THE DEMI-MONDE, OTTO WEININGER, UNIVERSITY OF BERLIN PUBLICATIONS

  So waddya fink, Wanker? Fucking big, innit?”

  For once in his life Burlesque Bandstand was guilty of understatement. The hounfo wasn’t big, it was huge. When Vanka had designed it never for the life of him had he thought it would turn out to be so monumental. It was one thing, he had discovered, to put measurements down on a piece of paper but it was quite another to see those measurements conjured up in wood and steel. Black and menacing, the hounfo took up over half of Dashwood Manor’s massive ballroom, the floor area of which must have measured a hundred feet by fifty. It was the biggest piece of flimflam the Demi-Monde had ever seen.

  “Yeah, it’s big all right.”

  “Sumwun wos saying they thought it wos the biggest illusion thingy ever built in the Demi-Monde.”

  “How many times have I got to tell you, Burlesque, not to say it’s an illusion? It’s a hounfo, a temple dedicated to the practicing of WhoDoo magic. I don’t want it called an illusion.”

  “Yeah, all right, Wanker. No need to get yer knickers in a twist. Only me an’ yous and, ov course, Miss Ella know it’s an illusion”—a withering look from Vanka—“a hounfo. The lads who built it didn’t ’ave a clue wot it is, ’cept, that is, for Alf an’ Sid an’ they’ve got to know cos they’re working the levers. But go on, tell us wot yous fink, Wanker. Me and the lads ain’t done bad, ’ave we?”

  In Vanka’s judgment Burlesque and his gang of workmen had done very well indeed. In the space of a day they’d built something quite remarkable. But then, he supposed, the half-million guineas Ella had promised Burlesque for his help in freeing the Daemon bought a lot of enthusiasm.

  The hounfo was made up of two forty-foot-long, ten-foot-high wooden walls arranged in a V shape, with the widest, open part of the delta formed by the walls extending from one side of the ballroom to the other and the delta’s point almost touching the furthest end of the ballroom, where the room’s windows looked out onto the manor’s grounds. It was within the open space enclosed by the arrowed walls of the hounfo that that evening’s séance would be performed.

  “No, you’ve done a good job, Burlesque; I’m impressed.”

  Burlesque beamed. “But do you fink it’ll fool the nobs?”

  “It might,” was all Vanka could bring himself to say.

  He knew he was right to be cautious. Despite the strange emblems and decorations that Ella had had daubed over the hounfo and the black netting covering the walls it was still just a piece of stage magic writ large. He had the feeling that any illusionist worth his salt would see through the flimflam in an instant. And Aleister Crowley was a master magician. All Vanka could hope was that its sheer immensity would persuade Crowley that it was simply too big to be just a prop in a vanishing act.

  He began a slow walk around the structure, pushing and shoving at the walls as he went, testing them for strength. “I never thought it would look this big,” he admitted, “or this strange.”

  He gave the hounfo a kick. The walls were so heavy—it had taken five steamers to deliver all the timber used in its construction—that it didn’t even vibrate when he booted it. But was it enough to fool Crowley?

  If Crowley should suspect for an instant . . .

  There had already been one heart-stopping moment when Crowley and Archie Clement had come snooping around earlier that afternoon, but fortunately that had been before the hounfo had been fully erected. After that Vanka had made bloody damned sure that the ballroom door was locked and he had spread the rumor that anyone who came near it before the séance would be cursed by the mambo Laveau. There had been no more snoopers.

  Vanka rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, it might just do. And all this WhoDoo mumbo jumbo Ella’s tricked the place out in is a distraction.” He nodded toward the kabbalistic designs painted over the black walls of the hounfo. “And, of course, it’ll be evening and we’ll have the lights turned low.”

  “Miss Ella tells me she’s planning to ’ave a couple ov braziers at the sides ov the ballroom burning stuff that gives off a lot ov smoke.”

  “That’s good thinking. Lots of smoke and mirrors, that’s what we need.” Vanka stopped alongside the gate that was hinged midway along the right-hand wall of the hounfo. “If you would close the left-hand gate, Burlesque, I want to check that the gates meet in the middle.”

&nb
sp; The two of them pulled the gates closed, Vanka surprised by how easily the ten-foot-tall gates swung on their hinges. They met perfectly, enclosing the pointed part of the WhoDoo temple from midway along the hounfo’s walls. Now Burlesque stood in the triangular space formed on the inside of the gates and Vanka stood on the outside, but even with the gates closed they could see each other clearly through the gaps between the thick wooden bars. What had Ella said? The gates reminded her of a gigantic version of the picket fence that had surrounded her grandmother’s front yard. Vanka had trouble imagining a district where there was so much space that ordinary people could have gardens.

  They reopened the gates and set them back ready for the evening’s performance. Vanka gave the hounfo a final pat and stepped back to admire the construction. “Yeah, I think it’ll do, Burlesque. It’s big enough to awe even the most dubious of cynics and clever enough to fox even the most hardened of disbelievers, including, I hope, Aleister Crowley. We’ll put the altar as far in as we can, right back hard against the pointed end of the temple.” He glanced around the room yet again making sure that, except for him, Burlesque and Ella, the ballroom was empty. “That’ll make the vanishing easier.”

  “I can’t wait to see the punters’ faces when yous an’ the Daemon disappear inna puff ov smoke.”

  “I wouldn’t hang around too long after we disappear, Burlesque. Chances are Heydrich will be a little bent out of shape when he finds his prize Daemon has done a runner.”

  “Don’t worry abart me, Vanka. Me an’ the Witchfinder are like that.” He showed Vanka a pair of crossed fingers. “They ain’t never gonna believe that their mate Burlesque Bandstand ’ad anyfink to do wiv it.”

  Vanka kept his face as bland as he was able; he found Burlesque’s optimism almost unbelievably naïve. “I hope you’re right, Burlesque, I hope you’re right.” He gave the hounfo another pat. “You know, this will make an amazing swan song to the career of Vanka Maykov: Licensed Psychic.”

  “Wossa ‘swan song,’ Wanker?”

  “BURLESQUE STILL HASN’T TWIGGED JUST HOW PISSED OFF HEYDRICH’S going to be,” said Vanka as he came up alongside Ella. She was staring out of one of the windows at the rear of the ballroom, watching the SS troopers marching up and down in the garden.

  “Oh, don’t worry about Burlesque, Vanka, he’ll be all right. He’s done so much work for the Witchfinder he’s practically a member of the SS so the way he sees it he’ll be able to talk his way out of any aggravation that might come his way. All he’s interested in is getting to a Blood Bank and laying claim to the half a million guineas I’m paying him.”

  “I just hope we survive to get to a Bank. To my mind making the Daemon disappear is the easy part; escaping through that gate is the real problem.”

  Through the ballroom’s windows Ella could see what he meant. Neither she nor Vanka, even in their wildest imaginings, had anticipated that the Daemon would be quite so well protected. The gardens were crawling with black-uniformed SS troopers, these goons supplemented by a detachment of red-coated regular soldiers. And as the only exit to the outside world seemed to be via the very heavy and very heavily guarded gate they’d passed through when they’d arrived that morning, the inevitable conclusion Ella was coming to was that escaping with Norma Williams would not be easy.

  Scratch “would not be easy” and substitute “would be nigh on impossible.”

  So it was little wonder that Vanka was so concerned. As he had so succinctly put it when he had first seen Dashwood Manor, Ella was giving him “a terrific chance to be the richest fucking dead man in the whole of the fucking Demi-Monde.”

  Ella felt Vanka shuffle awkwardly.

  “We haven’t got a prayer, you know,” he said in a conversational sort of way. “I thought the Daemon would be guarded, but this is ridiculous. It must be the presence of Heydrich that’s got them spooked. There’s a small army garrisoned here.”

  “We’re going to have surprise on our side, Vanka,” she suggested encouragingly.

  Vanka’s expression turned to one of disbelief. “Surprise, Ella? We could have total fucking bewilderment on our side for all the fucking difference it’s going to make. If this hounfo of mine works correctly and if we are able to wriggle through a window without being spotted we’ve still got to run fifty yards across a wide-open lawn that’s guarded by a hundred or so of the best troops in the ForthRight and if, by some miracle, we manage to do that”—a nod toward the gate leading to the world beyond the manor—“we’ve still got to find a way to vault over a fifteen-foot gate.”

  Ella was determined to remain upbeat. “It’ll be dark by then.”

  “I don’t want to be a party pooper, Ella, and correct me if I’m wrong but my understanding is that it’s fucking difficult to see in the dark. So difficult that I would give good odds on us all finding ourselves pitching arse over tit into one of the trenches these SS bastards have dug or getting entangled in the barbed wire these sods have been so enthusiastic about spreading around the garden.”

  Ella had never heard Vanka so pessimistic and she found his mood affecting hers. “Do you think we should call it off?”

  Vanka laughed ironically. “Nah. Life’s too short to pass up the opportunity to piss Crowley off as much as you intend to. Anyway, a million guineas is a million guineas. Don’t worry; something will turn up, it always does.”

  TRIXIE LEFT THE MORNING ROOM IN A STATE OF SHOCK. SHE HAD started the day as a schoolgirl, the daughter of a high-ranking and highly respectable member of the Party, a girl who expected her life to proceed in a well-ordered and predictable manner. She looked to be ending it as a fugitive, with her father arrested for being a counterrevolutionary and a Royalist, and with her safety—even her continued existence—depending on a Polack who was an admitted spy and would-be assassin.

  It was almost too much to bear.

  It was as though she had wandered into a nightmare. Drained and bemused, all she felt like doing was sleeping and crying. When she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom the temptation to throw herself onto her bed and abandon herself to despair was almost overwhelming, but something stopped her. In that moment Lady Trixiebell Dashwood: schoolgirl and closet RaTionalist, mutated into Trixie Dashwood: resolute young woman.

  With an act of will she took all her misery and all her heartbreak and sealed them up inside a ball of hate. It was Heydrich and the ForthRight who were intent on killing her and her father and she swore that she would have her revenge on them. And those seeking revenge had no use for regret or remorse, no use in squandering time and energy on if-onlys. Her old life was dead—gone—and if she was to have a new life then her first task was to survive. And to survive she had to be strong. She would never cry again.

  She stood up straight and threw back her shoulders, then, with a determined nod to herself in the mirror, went to her wardrobe and pulled a box from the bottom shelf. Inside was the costume she had worn in the Academy’s 1003 Spring Eve drama production performed in celebration of the Party’s defeat of the Royalists during the Troubles. Entitled “Forward to Victory,” Trixie had played the villain of the piece—a Royalist soldier—and as such she’d had to wear a uniform. It had been the first time she had ever worn trousers, and despite the rather spiteful teasing she’d endured from the other girls, she had thought them eminently practical. And if ever she was in need of a costume that was both practical and a good disguise it was tonight.

  She hauled herself into the black serge pants and strapped on the boots she wore when the RightNixes went on their “Winter Walks” into the Hub. She completed her outfitting by donning a thick woolen sweater and an old, but very serviceable, shooting jacket. Then, having packed a small haversack with one or two precious pieces—under no circumstances was she leaving the wedding daguerreotype of her parents for the SS crows to pick over—a change of clothes and a purse of golden guineas, she settled down to wait for Captain Dabrowski.

  And as she sat she wondered what her new life in the
Warsaw Ghetto would be like. The comfortable, pampered life she had enjoyed in this house was over and a new one, a much harder one, was beginning. She didn’t know a lot about the Ghetto except that it was the sinkhole of the ForthRight: it was where all the unclean races—the Poles, the nuJus and, ugh, the Shades—were confined; where all the mongrels, the reviled mixlings, hid themselves; where the HerEticals, Royalists, RaTionalists, Suffer-O-Gettes, ImPuritans, HimPerialists and all the rest of the disaffected and the just plain lunatic had scuttled off to in an attempt to avoid the attention of the Checkya. It was a cesspit where all of the ForthRight’s shit was dumped.

  It was most certainly not a place where a respectable young woman ventured. Trixie laughed; she wasn’t a respectable young woman anymore. If she was captured she would be charged with Complicity in the Execution of Crimes Against the State and that would mean she forfeited all rights as a citizen of the ForthRight. She would be nonNix, just like Lillibeth Marlborough. But the difference between her and Lillibeth was that the Checkya had caught Lillibeth. And if there was one thing of which Trixie was certain, it was that the Checkya would never take her . . . not alive anyway.

  THE SÉANCE WAS SCHEDULED FOR EIGHT THAT EVENING.

  Vanka checked his watch; there was less than an hour to showtime. As he strapped his mask over his face and wrapped his silk scarf about his neck, he took a deep breath, trying to settle his jangling nerves.

  He felt Ella snake her hand through his arm and when he turned toward her he found himself being given the broadest of reassuring smiles. He wasn’t reassured. He was beyond being reassured. But, by the Spirits, she was beautiful. He stopped himself. Surely, he wasn’t doing this because . . .

  He shook his head: Vanka Maykov didn’t do love.

  “I like your mask, Vanka, very dashing. Do you like my makeup?”

  “You look lovely, Ella,” he admitted. Even swathed in a neck-to-ankle, all-enveloping black cloak she looked lovely. Even with her face daubed with really quite outrageous stage makeup she looked lovely. Even wearing that strange half mask she looked lovely.