Mirrorman

by Trevor Hoyle

  The breath fluttered in Saraheda’s nostrils, and, against all odds, feeling herself lost and abandoned in a bottomless pit of fear, she found a withering smile. ‘Is that the best you have to offer, sir? You ought to equip yourself with a decent instrument before you venture to play a tune. Yours is a penny whistle.’

  Six Fingers stifled his giggles.

  In the smoky flickering light the stringy cords of Elder Graye’s neck stood out, taut as bowstrings. Under the bony ridge of his brow, his eyes were hidden in deep black sockets. He was incapable of speech. When eventually he managed it, his voice was hoarse with a consuming and remorseless rage.

  ‘We shall see how readily you jest and make sport of us woman, in a little while from now, when you have been split asunder.’ He gripped his erect penis. ‘Hold her fast!’

  The eyes of the Spanish Woman were green and flecked with gold, like splinters of sunlight through green leaves. With an effort Cawdor looked away, blinking, not seeing the cabin with its pools of light and darkness, the oak beams curving down where they formed a rounded corner of the vessel. He was dazzled by the woman. Mesmerised, He didn’t seem to have any power over his own faculties, as if he had entered into a dream state, all proper motion suspended in time.

  He felt to be a stranger to himself.

  She patted the bed beside her. ‘Why are you suddenly so restless? No one observed us coming here. Are you frightened that your honour may be compromised?’ The idea amused her, and she laughed, her teeth very white against her dark skin.

  She arched back, pushing the tangle of black hair from her face, a languorous movement that raised her breasts and made the valley between them deeper and more shadowy.

  Against his will, Cawdor was drawn back to stare at her, a compass needle aligning itself to some mysterious planetary influence it couldn’t resist, much less comprehend. His chest felt constrained with the air he couldn’t expel. His heart beat leadenly.

  ‘Is it any man you want, or is it me?’ The words tasted foggy in his mouth. ‘I’ve seen you watching me, several times, as if you knew what the upshot between us would be. Is that a true fact, or did I imagine it?’

  ‘You are generous in granting me the powers of the mystic, señor. Do you believe the future can be foretold?’ She shrugged expressively. ‘Perhaps so, perhaps not. But no, I simply looked at you as a woman looks at a man, reading the message in your eyes, as you read it in mine. That much of the future can be foretold.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware that my eyes transmitted any message.’

  ‘That is the statement of a fool, whether or not you believe it to be true.’ She sighed, examining her nails. ‘It isn’t necessary to play the role of the good, honest Englishman, of fine principles and straight conscience. The part is a parody, as well you know.’

  ‘I don’t know that I do know,’ Cawdor said distractedly. ‘I seem to know less and less. My wife …’ He faltered.

  ‘What about your wife?’ The Spanish Woman raised her eyebrows, which were as fine and artful as a water-colourist’s brushmarks. ‘She is Señora Cawdor today; she will be Señora Cawdor tomorrow, in spite of all. I am most discreet in these affairs. Your reputation is safe with me.’

  Cawdor knew that she was mocking him. He was quite clear and rational about that. But another part of him had taken over, was now in charge. Something instinctive and compelling from the very root of his being. A deeper, darker strain of emotion sweeping him along in its current, and against which he felt weak and powerless.

  Especially when her green, gold-flecked eyes were fixed upon him, as they were now. Black curling lashes. Dark complexion and the vivid redness of her lips. Bare shoulders and the swelling softness above her gown, rising and falling, bathed in a sheen from the lamps which made her flesh glow.

  Cawdor moved towards the bed.

  Her eyes and lips filled his world, from horizon to horizon. No other thought, no other person, entered his head.

  The Spanish Woman watched him standing before her.

  No longer smiling, no longer mocking, she unfastened the front of her gown, down to the waist. She moved one shoulder, and then the other, easing herself free. The material collapsed in folds around her. She placed her hands under her heavy breasts and lifted them slightly. Her thumbs touched her nipples, teasing them, until they grew stiff and jutted out, casting shadows which rippled like waves over her fingers.

  ‘Give me your hand.’

  Cawdor put out his hand. The Spanish Woman guided it to her breast and pressed her hand over his, increasing the pressure until his palm was full to overflowing. Reaching out with her other hand, she traced the hard shape of his penis with the tips of her fingers, then took a firmer grip of it through the material, pulling him forward.

  ‘Come, señor’, she breathed. ‘Come to me,’ and Cawdor tumbled dizzily down and down into the depths of her green eyes flecked with splinters of golden sunlight.

  3

  Surrounded by the elders, Saraheda was made to kneel in front of Elder Graye. At his bidding, Kershalton held fast her lower jaw while Graye forced himself into her mouth until she gagged and choked and almost fainted away. To revive her, Kershalton slapped her neck with the back of his hand, four or five times, raising bruises and drawing blood. He was jumping up and down, beside himself with frenzy, having watched with growing impatience the young woman being dispassionately used as a receptacle. This excited him beyond measure – the fact that Saraheda wasn’t a common whore, but a respectable married woman. And Cawdor’s very own wife to boot! That upright, decent, smug self-appointed defender of the weak and the lighter of wrongs. God’s teeth, this was supreme justice indeed, and with a vengeance! Kershalton did a jig. He was aching to get at her, to such an extent that he had to undo his flies and hold himself tightly, all the while in agony as he fought against a premature finale.

  It was like an oven. The trapped heat between the straw-littered floor and the low bulkhead was heavy and pungent with the smell of sweat and other bodily fluids. Six Fingers watched in rapt silence, his quick eyes darting everywhere, missing nothing.

  Elder Graye thrust himself in grunting rhythm into Saraheda’s mouth, his face a wet, stony mask. Surrounding her in a close circle, the other elders bucked to and fro, jabbing at her head, rotating their hips to strike her across the face, blunt truncheons smacking with a flat, glutinous sound.

  ‘Wanton temptress!’ Elder Graye panted, his body shuddering as he drove into her.

  ‘Brazen sinner!’ He thrust again, panting.

  ‘Lewd defiler!’ And again.

  ‘Blaspheming bitch!’

  ‘For your sacrilege –

  ‘You shall be anointed –

  ‘With the sacred seed –

  ‘Cleansed within and without –

  ‘Until your lures and snares –

  ‘And lustful thoughts –

  ‘Are swept out –

  ‘And washed away –

  ‘As on a flood –’

  He groaned and quickened his pace.

  ‘Cawdor’s bitch wife!

  ‘Cawdor’s lewd wife!

  ‘Cawdor’s whore wife!

  ‘Now! Yes, now! Now! This instant –

  ‘NOW!’

  He grunted and released himself, as did the others, simultaneously, in accordance with his instruction. The deluge erupted. Saraheda was coated. Her hair was stuck to her head and glued in slimy strands to her shoulders. The stuff bubbled from her mouth and hung from her chin. Blindly, she raised her head, as if to cry out, and Kershalton struck her a stinging blow that knocked her sideways. She lay sprawled, moaning insensibly, on the filthy matting of straw.

  ‘My turn, my turn,’ Kershalton gibbered. Falling to his knees, he forced Saraheda’s legs open to take her from behind. He heaved at her thighs, raising her buttocks into position. ‘Feel that, my little lovely honey-cup,’ he crooned, sliding in. ‘I’ll give you good firm measure. What a snug little home, Mrs Cawdor. Tight as a sword in its s
cabbard. On my oath, what a sweet little snatch!’

  In less than a minute he flopped back, having spent himself.

  Elder Graye was anxious to complete the ceremony. He pushed his foot under the inert body and lifted it over on to its back. Saraheda’s elbows and knees were bleeding from having been scraped on the rough boards. Her nose had been broken from Kershalton’s last blow.

  ‘Come here, boy.’

  Six Fingers scrambled up at Elder Graye’s bidding.

  ‘Make water.’ Elder Graye indicated where, and the boy gushed a stream of steaming yellow piss over her face and breasts.

  ‘Drop your breeches, boy, and squat.’

  Six Fingers doubled over, the white moons of his buttocks almost resting on Saraheda’s face.

  ‘Empty your bowels, boy.’

  Six Fingers strained, farted, and ejected a long thin turd. It lay curled like a soft brown snake. Elder Graye pushed the boy away. He took a piece of splintered wood and used it to smear the ordure over Saraheda’s face, poking some of it in her mouth. He then daubed her body, dragging the sharp point so that it snagged her flesh, raising bloody weals. With the blood he scrawled symbols and words across her breasts, stomach and thighs. His face was ashen, the lines etched deep, eyes black as pits.

  ‘Whore!’ Elder Graye spoke the words as he scratched them, working himself into a demonic rage. ‘Harlot! Slut! Bitch!’ The straw on which Saraheda lay became a bloody mat. Weakly, she tried to fend him off, which gave Kershalton the opportunity to wrench her arms backward and stand splay-footed on her wrists.

  Elder Graye inserted the sharp point between her legs and thrust it in with all his strength as far as it would go. He straightened up, clasping his hands to his chest, and intoned solemnly:

  ‘I call upon you all to witness that this woman, Cawdor’s wench, has been cleansed and purified. Her wanton lust will never again defile our creed. Let her be cast away, in shame and ignominy, and never more offend our sight.’

  He made an abrupt gesture of dismissal.

  Saraheda’s legs were raised and forced down either side of her head. A rope was tied round both calves, looped round her neck and pulled taut, so that she was trussed up like a fowl, hands bound tightly at the back of her thighs. Six Fingers went to find a sack. The woman was shoved inside, and the sack fastened securely with strong rope. Kershalton did most of the work, and by the time he’d finished he was pouring with sweat.

  ‘Don’t say I haven’t earned your favours, your lordships. I’ll wager I have – in spades!’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ Elder Graye nodded his shaven head, impatient for an end to the business. ‘We do not make promises we cannot keep. Now listen – the ocean is calm, a splash will attract attention. Lower her in by degrees. You will need a weight to sink her deep.’ He raised a warning finger. ‘And take care you are not observed by the night watch.’

  ‘I know my business,’ Kershalton said, grunting as he hoisted the sack over his shoulder. He glanced back at Elder Graye, one eye glittering, the other a dulled fishy stare. ‘I trust i’ faith that you know yours as well, your lordships.’

  4

  Had he dreamt it? Daniel wondered.

  Scuffles and hoarse breathing and footsteps fading away.

  In the dream that perhaps wasn’t a dream, Daniel remembered raising himself on one elbow and trying to listen through his tiredness. Then he’d yawned; his head had lolled forward; and he had curled up on the straw pallet and fallen fast asleep.

  Had that been minutes ago, he puzzled, or hours?

  He was wide awake now, sure enough, heart thudding wildly in his chest, eyes straining through the darkness. The bed was empty. Both his parents gone. He threw the covers back to make sure and ran his hands over the lumpy mattress, as if his mother and father were lying there invisibly and he could make them reappear by willing it.

  Cold.

  Daniel opened the door and crept barefoot into the narrow, creaking passage. The ship was asleep. Hugging his elbows to his sides, he climbed up the companionway, a thin pale ghost in his long nightshirt. A voice in his mind was telling him to be calm. The reason his parents weren’t in bed was perfectly simple, if only he could think of it.

  ‘They’re with Mr Gryble, looking at the stars,’ he said aloud to himself. This was comforting, so he repeated it. He thought of another explanation. ‘They’re having supper with the captain!’ But this was less satisfactory, because Daniel well knew that the captain didn’t associate with anyone from the middle part of the ship.

  His heart started its furious beating again. It drowned out the quiet, calm inner voice. Tears started to sting his eyes.

  On deck, despite the torpid warmth, he shivered, feeling clammy and cold. Visions of scaly sea serpents with eyes as big as dinner plates reared up in his imagination. His mother and father had been gobbled up. They were in bits and pieces, chewed and mangled in the beast’s belly, at the bottom of the ocean.

  Of course they weren’t. Daniel laughed to convince himself what a ridiculous notion that was. But the laugh came out weak, more a nervous gasp, a quavering giggle. It only made him feel worse.

  Then he found himself smiling, with immense heartfelt relief. Yes, he was sure of it – he could see his father standing at the rail, holding his mother in his arms. Two dark shapes silhouetted against the black sky and faint winking stars. How silly and childish he had been – getting fretful over nothing! He felt ashamed, disgusted with himself, but also very glad. The world was a friendly place again. All was bright and beautiful!

  Light of heart, Daniel jumped down into the gangway and skipped towards them, smiling.

  The night was perfect. Inky black. Moonless.

  Kershalton swung the sack from his shoulder on to the rail. The sack nearly slid over of its own accord, and Kershalton had to make a quick grab. It was soggy, that explained it, blood seeping through. He’d have to remember to wipe the rail clean. Come the morning, his lordships would inspect the ship for signs from end to end.

  ‘Hurry it along.’ Kershalton spoke out of the corner of his mouth. Crouched at his feet, Six Fingers was threading the rope through the iron lug in the canister of lead shot, and taking his time about it. ‘Come on, Sam, come on! Let’s to our beds.’

  ‘Franklin – hist!’

  ‘What’s to do?’

  ‘Someone’s coming.’

  Kershalton clutched the soggy bundle to his chest. He daren’t let go. On such a peaceful night the splash would cause an alarm. Hell’s teeth, the watch would have to be deaf as posts not to hear it.

  He squinted over his shoulder with his good eye.

  Six Fingers gave a low whistle of surprise. ‘Mary’s bastard! Look who comes, sprightly as a lamb in spring.’

  Then Kershalton made him out. Cawdor’s brat, a chip off the old block. He couldn’t help grinning. Double helpings. Two for the price of one. He murmured sideways, ‘Keep down. Get a march on him from the rear. Not a peep, Sam!’

  Daniel had stopped a few feet away, peering uncertainly into the darkness. Kershalton kept his back to him, concealing the sack.

  ‘Father?’ Daniel said hesitantly. It seemed then as if he had second thoughts. He shuffled his feet and backed off a pace. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I mistook you for my father, Mr Cawdor. Have you seen him hereabouts?’

  ‘Not tonight. But I’ve seen your mother.’

  ‘You have, sir? Where – where is she?’

  Kershalton choked on his laughter. ‘In the near vicinity. Not an arm’s length away.’

  Daniel looked around. ‘I don’t see her.’

  ‘You don’t? That’s strange.’ Kershalton hugged the sack to him as he felt the contents squirm and struggle. God’s teeth, she was trying to break free! He tightened his grip, afraid he might drop it. ‘By chance I had intercourse with your mother not many minutes ago.’

  Daniel frowned. The word seemed to perplex him. ‘You had intercourse with my mother?’

  ‘We exchanged pleasantries
. Bade each other a peaceful good night and sweet dreams. Now I expect she has retired.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Daniel said with evident relief, the obscure made plain, it seemed. ‘I expect she has. Thank you, sir.’

  He turned away with a shy, grateful smile. Six-Fingered Sam rose up silently behind him and locked his arm round Daniel’s neck. There was a dull thud as the two of them fell to the deck, locked together, and rolled over into the gangway. A figure turned on the bridge, the yellow lamplight glinting on brass buttons. Kershalton’s eyes widened in alarm. He stared down into the black well of the gangway, from where scuffles and grunts and the slithery sounds of bare feet issued. To him it sounded like pandemonium. He thought at once of lights going on and hatches being slammed back, people surging up from below. He held his breath, waiting for it to happen, thinking he’d drop the sack overboard, weight or no weight, and make himself scarce. But no lights went on; no people appeared.

  The buttons winked out as the figure on the bridge turned away.

  ‘Sam!’ Kershalton hissed it into the black well. ‘D’you have the snotty brat? Get him by the bollocks, boy, and be done, afore you wake the ship –’

  One of them let out a strangled cry. Kershalton strained to see, but it was a dim, hopeless confusion of limbs and threshing bodies. Evidently the Cawdor boy was tougher than he looked. He was certainly tougher than Kershalton had reckoned on, because it was Daniel, and not Six Fingers, who staggered to his feet. The boy tottered to the rail, holding his head in both hands, shaking it muzzily from side to side.

  Keeping one hand on the writhing sack, Kershalton curled the other into a huge knotted fist and delivered a roundhouse that exploded in the dead centre of Daniel’s forehead. The white nightshirt billowed to the deck as if filled by a gust of wind; the gust of wind died suddenly away, leaving the nightshirt crumpled and still. ‘Drag him here,’ Kershalton snarled, as Six Fingers raised himself wearily. ‘You’re getting as soft as a tart’s snatch.’

  Kershalton looped the rope several times round Daniel’s bare legs, jerked it tight, and lifted him up under one arm. ‘Get the weight.’ He lowered the struggling pulpy sack over the side, then the dangling boy, then the canister of lead shot, taking the strain now that both hands were free. One by one – sack, boy, canister – they went under, causing barely a ripple. Then, leaning right over, Kershalton let go of the end of the rope. It snaked into the darkness, making the faintest splash.