Winter

by Rod Rees

  Vanka led the Daemon to the altar at the furthest end of the hounfo and indicated that it should lie on it. The Daemon tried to refuse but as Vanka pushed it forward he managed to get close enough to whisper in its ear. “We’re here to rescue you, so don’t struggle. Understand?”

  The Daemon’s eyes widened and it gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  Vanka moved back to the front of the hounfo. Skobelev was now whispering instructions to two Checkya guards.

  He was saved by Ella. As the drumming gained in volume, Ella, hidden under the cloak, began to twitch.

  The séance had begun.

  WHEN ELLA’S MOTHER HAD BEEN ALIVE, SHE HAD INSISTED ON HER daughter taking dancing lessons. But that was a long, long time ago. Now all Ella had to guide her in her WhoDoo dance was her own imagination, the remembrance of any number of music videos she had watched, the clips she had seen of Josephine Baker performing her danse sauvage and the beat of the drums. All this informed her that she should emerge from beneath her cloak slowly, sinuously, undulating her long supple body to the rhythm pounding through the ballroom. So, like some strange serpent sloughing off its skin, Ella wriggled off the cloak covering her, to emerge, spiraling and squirming, into the half-light. And as she emerged, she drew astonished gasps from the audience.

  The astonishment might have been because she was black. She knew from her discussions with Vanka that for a black woman to perform before that architect of racial purity Reinhard Heydrich was simply unprecedented. When she had met the man—the Dupe—in Fort Jackson she had seen firsthand how Heydrich felt about blacks and she had come to understand that he had poisoned the ForthRight with this hate. She could feel the audience’s revulsion. The vibes she was experiencing told her that Heydrich and his crew didn’t just hate blacks, they abhorred them.

  As she lissomed to her feet, stretching her arms up . . . up . . . up toward the ceiling high above her head, she wondered how intelligent, educated people, as those in her audience presumably were, could come to think like this. Maybe, as her mother had often told her, it was true that when people believe others are their inferiors all they do is demonstrate their concerns about their own inferiority. True or not, Ella couldn’t have made a bigger impression if she’d just stepped out of a flying saucer.

  But Ella knew that it wasn’t simply that she was black that had disturbed the audience. What they found equally disturbing was her costume, or rather the near-naked body they could see under it. When she had been designing her outfit for tonight’s performance she had wanted it to be so shocking that her audience would forget everything else. The last thing she wanted was for them to wonder whether what they were witnessing was just a piece of magical theater. And to do that she knew she would have to tantalize, to tease and show a lot of flesh.

  Not that Ella had any concern about being near-naked; what she had an objection to was her nakedness being exploited by people like Burlesque Bandstand. But she was perfectly relaxed about exploiting it to her own ends. She knew she was a good-looking woman and had no compunction at all about using her sexuality to control men, to bend them to her will. And from what she could see of the expressions on the faces of the men watching her, she had them all in the palm of her hand. Especially Heydrich . . .

  His eyes never left her. It might have been that he was entranced by her ephemeral costume—all the other men seemed to be—or by the salacious moves she was making, but it was more than that. It was as though Heydrich was trying to remember something. It was as if he recognized her, almost as though he remembered her from their meeting at Fort Jackson. But that was impossible. Well, she hoped that was impossible.

  She let out a wail to signal that her soul was in torment and spun on her heels, turning her back on him, taking a moment to settle herself. She gave her ass a wiggle, hoping that would distract him. The bastard certainly hadn’t seen that before.

  The dance she had choreographed was difficult as it necessitated the pretense that she had an invisible partner, that she was dancing with the Great Lord Bondye. For five long minutes she danced, imbuing her body with ever more suggestive, ever more lascivious moves, drawing her audience’s eyes to her, demanding that they watch her and her alone.

  And as she danced something remarkable seemed to happen. It was as though the Spirit of Lilith began to take hold of her. Now she wasn’t just dressed as Lilith; she actually was Lilith. She reveled in the power that her beauty and her eroticism gave her over her audience. She delighted in making her moves and her twists ever more wanton. She tantalized by snaking nearer to the limelights to let the light wash over her, revealing, for just a provocative instant, all the secrets of her body. She swayed and undulated across the floor, allowing her figure to flicker and shimmer in and out of sight under her flimsy costume. She screamed and she moaned, she sang and she wailed.

  And as she danced and ululated, so she edged closer and closer to Norma Williams, who lay on the hounfo’s altar.

  It was the first time Ella had seen Norma Williams in the flesh, though of course her picture had adorned the front covers of lots of gossip magazines. She didn’t disappoint. She was the epitome of the teenage rebel, all dyed hair, tattoos, piercings and an expression that seemed to suggest that she went through life with a bad smell under her nose. Even the bruise that covered half her face was a perfect complement to her whole demeanor.

  Without for one moment pausing in her undulating, Ella began to circle the altar, wailing and screaming as though locked in a struggle with the Spirit who had come to possess her. Suddenly she collapsed to the floor, shaking and moaning.

  That was Vanka’s cue. He made the sign to Burlesque, who was standing in the wings. Immediately the limelights were dimmed; now only the flickering candelabras illuminated the room, giving it a fragile, uncertain ambience.

  Once again Vanka addressed the audience. “Comrade Leader . . .Comrade Vice-Leader . . . Your Holiness . . . comrades and ladies . . . this edifice”—he waved his hands to indicate the tall walls of the hounfo—“is designed and constructed to confine and to concentrate the psychic waves which emanate when that most powerful of mediums the mambo Laveau communes with her subject. So powerful is the energy to be contained in this hounfo that, if the Spirits are willing, the mambo Laveau will merge with the Daemon and together they will journey to the Spirit World. This moment of merging will be signaled by a thunderclap and it will appear that the Daemon and the mambo Laveau have vanished. But, please, do not be alarmed; it is only that their physical presence in this realm of the flesh is cloaked by waves of psychic energy.” Vanka turned toward Burlesque. “If you will close the gates to the hounfo.”

  Ella watched as Alf and Sid shuffled across and pushed the gates of the hounfo shut, sealing Norma Williams, Vanka and herself inside. But though the gates were closed she knew that the three of them could still be seen through the bars. She waited until Vanka had come to stand behind her and the drumming from the trio in the minstrels’ gallery was as loud as it ever would be, then, confident that she wouldn’t be overheard, she leaned forward and whispered to Norma. “Norma”—the girl’s eyes started at the sound of her name—“my name is Ella Thomas, I’ve been sent here from the Real World to help you escape.”

  She pulled the gag away from the girl’s mouth.

  “Escape? How?” spluttered Norma.

  “In a few moments there will be a terrifically loud bang. As soon as you hear the explosion, I want you to get up and walk through the wall behind you.”

  “Walk through the wall?”

  “There’s a secret panel,” advised Ella. “Once through the wall, you’ll see the window at the back of the ballroom. It’s been unlocked. We must climb through that and then make our way across the manor’s grounds.”

  “That’s impossible. This place is crawling with soldiers.”

  “I’m sorry, Norma, but that’s the best we can do.”

  Norma was quiet for a moment and then smiled a triumphant little smile. “I thi
nk I can do a little better than that.”

  ELLA STRETCHED OUT HER ARMS, BEGAN TO MAKE A LOUD KEENING noise and screamed out, “Lord Bondye has come!” It was the signal to Burlesque to start the countdown.

  Five.

  Burlesque lit the fuse to the fireworks hidden in the walls of the hounfo.

  Four.

  Vanka released the catch securing the hidden door.

  Three.

  Sid and Alf took a firmer grip on the levers controlling the mirrors set in the bars of the gates.

  Two.

  Ella nodded to Norma to ready herself to move.

  One.

  BANG!

  The fireworks exploded, sheathing the front of the hounfo in thick, cloying smoke. Immediately Burlesque’s men threw the levers and the mirrors hidden in each of the wooden bars of the gates snapped across. With the mirrors angled so that they reflected the sides of the hounfo rather than the audience seated directly in front of it, what the audience would see when the smoke cleared was a reflection of the outside walls, which were, of course, a duplicate of the walls inside the gates. To the audience it would appear that those inside had vanished. Confident now that they couldn’t be seen, Ella leapt to her feet, grabbed Norma by the arm, cut the girl’s bindings and waited while Vanka scrabbled the concealed door open. As soon as he was through the door, Ella shoved Norma after him. Almost blinded by the acrid smoke from the fireworks, she was only just able to spot Vanka as he rushed to the back windows and threw one of them open.

  “Quickly, quickly, get out,” he whispered, seizing Norma by the waist and almost tossing her out through the open window. A second later Ella found herself sprawling on top of the president’s daughter. She had a moment to appreciate that a chiffon costume wasn’t an ideal outfit to wear during a Demi-Mondian Winter before there was a grunt to her right and Vanka landed in a heap by her side. He ripped off his mask and gestured to the drive that snaked out into the night, disappearing in the direction of the main gate. “Come on, you two . . . this way . . . keep to the shadows by the wall . . .”

  “No!” said Norma emphatically. And then she did something quite unexpected: she pulled Vanka’s silk scarf from around his neck and wrapped it about her head, hiding her black hair. “Follow me,” she ordered, and to Ella’s amazement, she started to walk toward the front of the house

  “What the fuck . . .” whispered Vanka, but before he could do anything to stop her, the girl had turned the corner and, making no effort to hide herself from the guards patrolling the manor’s grounds, sauntered up—hiding her limp as best she could—to the steam-limo parked puffing and panting at the bottom of the steps of the manor.

  “You,” she called out in an imperious voice to the steam-limo driver who was lounging against one of the columns enjoying a sly cigarette. “You. Come here.”

  The man nearly passed out. He threw his cigarette away and scuttled over to the girl. “Why, yes, m’lady.”

  Norma gave a contemptuous wave of her hand in the direction of the Leader’s steam-limo. “My father wishes me to return home early. I am to use his steam-limo.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that, my Lady Aaliz. My orders . . .”

  TRIXIE STOOD TO THE SIDE OF THE MANOR, SHROUDED BY SHADOWS and thickly falling snow, and guarded by the bulky presence of Captain Dabrowski’s sergeant. It was so cold that Trixie was shivering under her thick woolen traveling cloak.

  She stiffened her shoulders and in an act of will ordered herself to stop trembling; people would think she was frightened. She was a Dashwood and no one would accuse a Dashwood of ever being frightened, especially not this idiot of a sergeant. If an ordinary soldier could show no fear then neither would the daughter of a commissar.

  But it was difficult not to be scared. Up until a few moments ago the whole evening had had a surreal quality. It had been as though she had been caught up in a dream—a nightmare, really—that what was happening to her wasn’t actually happening to her. But the sergeant had brought her crashing down to earth: there was nothing dreamlike or whimsical about Sergeant Wysochi. He was a huge man, broad shouldered and with hands like paddles. He also stank, possessing that wholly masculine odor conjured from the mixed smells of tobacco, Solution, sweat and leather.

  Trixie hated him.

  “What’s happening?” she whispered. “Where’s Captain Dabrowski?”

  “Shut up.” As Trixie was fast discovering, Sergeant Wysochi was a man of few words and most of them curt and unpleasant.

  There was a crunch of snow under a boot to Trixie’s left and Dabrowski, wearing a camouflaged dublonka and toting a repeating rifle, stepped out of the shadows. “The occultists are in the ballroom, Sergeant, so it’s any moment now. Are the men ready?”

  “Yes, sir.” It seemed that the Sergeant wasn’t any more garrulous with his captain.

  “And the bombs?”

  Bombs?

  “Zajac is manning the detonator. As soon as he hears the shot he’ll blow the gates.”

  By the pale moonlight Trixie saw the captain work the bolt of his rifle, sliding a round into the breech. He flicked off the safety catch and gave Trixie a meaningful look. “You will do exactly as the sergeant here tells you, Miss Trixie, nothing more and nothing less. That way you’ll survive. Understand?”

  Trixie’s throat was suddenly so dry that all she could do was nod.

  “May ABBA be with us,” muttered Dabrowski.

  And then things really became surreal.

  A window next to where they were standing was thrown open and a small figure fell through it onto the soft snow. Trixie jumped back in shock.

  The sergeant thrust out a strong arm and pushed Trixie protectively behind him. From behind Wysochi’s comforting bulk, she was amazed to see this first fugitive being followed in short order by two others, one of them a girl wearing not very much at all and the other a tall, long-haired man. The three of them began to sneak around the side of the building, and as they did so light from a lantern caught the face of the smallest of the three. It was the Daemon!

  A wide-eyed Trixie watched the Daemon march around to the front of the house and begin shouting orders.

  With a silent signal to Captain Dabrowski, Sergeant Wysochi, with Trixie following him, began to creep after the three escapees. As they reached the corner of the manor, Trixie could hear the Daemon speaking with the driver of Heydrich’s steamer, but before she quite realized what was happening, Sergeant Wysochi strode forward to take control of the situation.

  FOR ELLA, EVERYTHING SEEMED TO BE COMING UNRAVELED.

  As Norma began arguing the toss with the steamer driver, a red-jacketed sergeant came marching up.

  “Do as the Lady Aaliz . . .”

  Lady Aaliz?

  “ . . . orders, you fool, and jump to it,” the sergeant snarled as he turned to address Norma. “I have been asked to accompany you, m’lady. Your father ordered that I bring two men with me to act as escort.” He nodded to the two soldiers standing in the darkness behind him.

  Ella had to admire Norma Williams’s aplomb: she handled a situation that was fast descending into farce with a degree of imperturbability Ella had never seen equaled. “Very well, Sergeant, I suppose you can serve drinks,” Norma sneered, “whilst I and my friends play bridge.” This girl, Ella decided, was a Vanka-class bullshitter.

  For a second the steam-limo’s driver was paralyzed by confusion. It might have been that all of a sudden the Blood Hounders patrolling the grounds of the manor began to howl or that he wasn’t used to being given orders by Poles, but whatever it was, this confusion cost him his life. Ella had never seen anybody killed before, but she had never imagined that murder was an act that could be performed with such cold-blooded efficiency. The enormous sergeant conjured a long, vicious-looking knife out of nowhere and drove it straight through the driver’s throat, forestalling any noise or protest he might have been inclined to make.

  “I’ll drive, Captain.” Without waiting for a reply th
e sergeant stepped over the still-twitching body of the driver, hauled himself up into the steam-limo’s cabin and began to shift levers. Immediately the puffing of the steamer’s pistons increased in tempo.

  “Get in,” the captain ordered. They needed no second telling: Vanka bustled first Ella and then Norma into the passenger compartment and then dived in after them. They were joined an instant later by the captain and a second soldier.

  “Are you ready, Sergeant?” called out the captain as he scrabbled inside.

  An answering grunt came from the sergeant, who immediately pushed open one of the steamer’s windows and fired a single shot into the air. In reply there were two explosions. The first ripped open the large wooden shed that was serving as a temporary barracks for the SS garrison and the second—the larger one—smashed open the gates that guarded the manor’s grounds.

  The steamer gave a lurch and began to shudder forward, steam from its mighty cylinders enveloping the vehicle. It seemed to take an age for it to pick up speed. As the huge wheels crunched over the gravel, all Ella could hear through the armored glass windows was the ringing of alarm bells and the yelling of running men. It was the sergeant who seemed to know what to do: he leaned out of the window and calmly shouted at the SS guards who were streaming out of the manor, “Don’t shoot, you fools. I have the Leader’s daughter with me.”

  As the steam-limo sailed unopposed around the manor’s drive and out through the shattered gates, Ella sat back, stunned by the realization that she had done it, she had rescued Norma Williams.

  She had really, really done it!

  She looked up to congratulate Vanka and was surprised to see him leaning out of one of the steamer’s windows giving the finger to a white-uniformed officer who had just emerged on the steps of the manor.

  Part Three

  Warsaw

  Chapter 25

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

  “UnderMentionable” is the ForthRight term for an individual who has—because of supposed racial deficiency or religious, political or sexual deviancy—been illegally stripped of all rights and protection he or she formerly enjoyed as a citizen of the ForthRight. However, the deprivations suffered by the ForthRight during the Troubles—it is estimated that over two hundred thousand fighters died during this vicious and senseless civil war—has resulted in the relaxing of certain of the criteria normally used in determining whether an individual is or isn’t an UnderMentionable. The major concession made was with regard to the GoldenFolk—a highborn sector of the Polish race—who have been retrospectively reclassified as Aryan.