The Witch and Warlock MEGAPACK ®: 25 Tales of Magic-Users

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Here Grace got up, slowly, stiffly, and sternly. She stood aloof from the chained girl, in the remote corner of the prison-cell near the door, ready to make her escape as soon as she had cursed the witch, who would not, or could not, undo the evil she had wrought. Grace lifted up her right hand, and held it up on high, as she doomed Lois to be accursed for ever, for her deadly sin, and her want of mercy even at this final hour. And, lastly, she summoned her to meet her at the judgment-seat, and answer for this deadly injury, done to both souls and bodies of those who had taken her in, and received her when she came to them an orphan and a stranger.

  Until this last summons, Lois had stood as one who hears her sentence and can say nothing against it, for she knows all would be in vain. But she raised her head when she heard her aunt speak of the judgment-seat, and at the end of Grace’s speech she, too, lifted up her right hand, as if solemnly pledging herself by that action, and replied—

  ‘Aunt! I will meet you there. And there you will know my innocence of this deadly thing. God have mercy on you and yours!’

  Her calm voice maddened Grace; and, making a gesture as if she plucked up a handful of dust off the floor and threw it at Lois, she cried—

  ‘Witch! Witch! Ask mercy for thyself—I need not your prayers. Witches’ prayers are read backwards. I spit at thee, and defy thee!’ And so she went away.

  Lois sat moaning that whole night through. ‘God comfort me! God strengthen me!’ was all she could remember to say. She just felt that want, nothing more—all other fears and wants seemed dead within her. And, when the gaoler brought in her breakfast the next morning, he reported her as ‘gone silly’; for, indeed, she did not seem to know him, but kept rocking herself to and fro, and whispering softly to herself, smiling a little from time to time.

  But God did comfort her, and strengthen her too. Late on that Wednesday afternoon they thrust another ‘witch’ into her cell, bidding the two, with opprobrious words, keep company together. The new-comer fell prostrate with the push given her from without; and Lois, not recognising any thing but an old ragged woman, lying helpless on her face on the ground, lifted her up; and lo! it was Nattee—dirty, filthy indeed, mud-pelted, stone-bruised, beaten, and all astray in her wits with the treatment she had received from the mob outside. Lois held her in her arms, and softly wiped the old brown wrinkled face with her apron, crying over it, as she had hardly yet cried over her own sorrows. For hours she tended the old Indian woman—tended her bodily woes; and, as the poor scattered senses of the savage creature came slowly back, Lois gathered her infinite dread of the morrow, when she, too, as well as Lois, was to be led out to die, in face of all that infuriated crowd. Lois sought in her own mind for some source of comfort for the old woman, who shook like one in the shaking-palsy at the dread of death—and such a death!

  When all was quiet through the prison, in the deep dead midnight, the gaoler outside the door heard Lois telling, as if to a young child, the marvellous and sorrowful story of One who died on the cross for us and for our sakes. As long as she spoke, the Indian woman’s terror seemed lulled; but, the instant she paused for weariness, Nattee cried out afresh, as if some wild beast were following her close through the ‘dense forests in which she had dwelt in her youth. And then Lois went on, saying all the blessed words she could remember, and comforting the helpless Indian woman with the sense of the presence of a Heavenly Friend. And, in comforting her, Lois was comforted; in strengthening her, Lois was strengthened.

  The morning came, and the summons to come forth and die came. They who entered the cell found Lois asleep, her face resting on the slumbering old woman, whose head she still held in her lap. She did not seem clearly to recognise where she was, when she awakened; the ‘silly’ look had returned to her wan face; all she appeared to know was that, somehow or another, through some peril or another, she had to protect the poor Indian woman. She smiled faintly, when she saw the bright light of the April day; and put her arm round Nattee, and tried to keep the Indian quiet with hushing, soothing words of broken meaning, and holy fragments of the Psalms. Nattee tightened her hold upon Lois, as they drew near the gallows, and the outrageous crowd below began to hoot and yell. Lois redoubled her efforts to calm and encourage Nattee, apparently unconscious that any of the opprobrium, the hootings, the stones, the mud, was directed towards herself. But, when they took Nattee from her arms, and led her out to suffer first, Lois seemed all at once to recover her sense of the present terror. She gazed wildly around, stretched out her arms as if to some person in the distance, who was yet visible to her, and cried out once, with a voice that thrilled through all who heard it, ‘Mother!’ Directly afterwards, the body of swung in the air; and every one stood with hushed breath, with a sudden wonder, like a fear of deadly crime, fallen upon them.

  The stillness and the silence were broken by one crazed and mad, who came rushing up the steps of the ladder, and caught Lois’s body in his arms, and kissed her lips with wild passion. And then, as if it were true what the people believed, that he was possessed by a demon, he sprang down, and rushed through the crowd, out of the bounds of the city, and into the dark dense forest; and Manasseh Hickson was no more seen of Christian man.

  The people of Salem had awakened from their frightful delusion before the autumn, when Captain Holdernesse and Hugh Lucy came to find out Lois, and bring her home to peaceful Barford, in the pleasant country of England. Instead, they led them to the grassy grave where she lay at rest, done to death by mistaken men. Hugh Lucy shook die dust off his feet in quitting Salem, with a heavy, heavy heart, and lived a bachelor all his life long for her sake.

  Long years afterwards, Captain Holdernesse sought him out, to tell him some news that he thought might interest the grave miller of the Avon-side. Captain Holdernesse told him, that in the previous year—it was then 1713—the sentence of excommunication against the witches of Salem was ordered, in godly sacramental meeting of the church, to be erased and blotted out, and that those who met together for this purpose ‘humbly requested the merciful God would pardon whatsoever sin, error, or mistake was in the application of justice, through our merciful High Priest, who knoweth how to have compassion on the ignorant, and those that are out of the way.’ He also said, that Prudence Hickson—now woman grown—had made a most touching and pungent declaration of sorrow and repentance before the whole church, for the false and mistaken testimony she had given in several instances, among which she particularly mentioned that of her cousin Lois Barclay. To all of which Hugh Lucy only answered—

  ‘No repentance of theirs can bring her back to life.’

  Then Captain Holdernesse took out a paper and read the following humble and solemn declaration of regret on the part of those who signed it, among whom Grace Hickson was one:—

  ‘We, whose names are undersigned, being, in the year 1692, called to serve as jurors in the court of Salem, on trial of many who were by some suspected guilty of doing acts of witchcraft upon the bodies of sundry persons: we confess that we ourselves were not capable to understand, nor able to withstand, the mysterious delusions of the powers of darkness, and prince of the air, but were, for want of knowledge in ourselves, and better information from others, prevailed with to take up with such evidence against the accused, as, on further consideration, and better information, we justly fear was insufficient for the touching the lives of any (Deut. xvii. 6), whereby we feel we have been instrumental, with others, though ignorantly and unwittingly, to bring upon ourselves and this people of the Lord the guilt of innocent blood; which sin, the Lord saith in Scripture, he would not pardon (2 Kings xxiv. 4), that is, we suppose, in regard of his temporal judgments. We do, therefore, signify to all in general (and to the surviving sufferers in special) our deep sense of, and sorrow for, our errors, in acting on such evidence to the condemning of any person; and do hereby declare, that we justly fear that we were sadly deluded and mistaken, for which we are much disqu
ieted and distressed in our minds, and do therefore humbly beg forgiveness, first of God for Christ’s sake, for this our error; and pray that God would not impute the guilt of it to ourselves nor others; and we also pray that we may be considered candidly and aright by the living sufferers, as being then under the power of a strong and general delusion, utterly unacquainted with, and not experienced in, matters of that nature.

  ‘We do heartily ask forgiveness of you all, whom we have justly offended; and do declare, according to our present minds, we would none of us do such things again on such grounds for the whole world; praying you to accept of this in way of satisfaction for our offence, and that you would bless the inheritance of the Lord, that he may be entreated for the land.

  ‘Foreman, THOMAS FISK, c.’

  To the reading of this paper Hugh Lucy made no reply save this, even more gloomily than before—

  ‘All their repentance will avail nothing to my Lois, nor will it bring back her life.’

  Then Captain Holdernesse spoke once more, and said that on the day of the general fast, appointed to be held all through New England, when the meeting-houses were crowded, an old, old man, with white hair, had stood up in the place in which he was accustomed to worship, and had handed up into the pulpit a written confession, which he had once or twice essayed to read for himself, acknowledging his great and grievous error in the matter of the witches of Salem, and praying for the forgiveness of God and of His people, ending with an entreaty that all then present would join with him in prayer that his past conduct might not bring down the displeasure of the Most High upon his country, his family, or himself That old man, who was no other than justice Sewall, remained standing all the time that his confession was read; and at the end he said, ‘The good and gracious God be pleased to save New England and me and my family!’ And then it came out that, for years past, judge Sewall had set apart a day for humiliation and prayer, to keep fresh in his mind a sense of repentance and sorrow for the part he had borne in these trials, and that this solemn anniversary he was pledged to keep as long as he lived, to show his feeling of deep humiliation.

  Hugh Lucy’s voice trembled as he spoke: ‘All this will not bring my Lois to life again, or give me back the hope of my youth.’

  But—as Captain Holdernesse shook his head (for what word could he say, or how dispute what was so evidently true?)—Hugh added, ‘What is the day, know you, that this justice has set apart?’

  ‘The twenty-ninth of April.’

  ‘Then, on that day, will I, here at Barford in England, join my prayers as long as I live with the repentant judge, that his sin may be blotted out and no more had in remembrance. She would have willed it so.’

  THE SIX SKILLS OF MADAME LUMIERE, by Marissa Lingen

  Originally published in Beneath Ceaseless Skies * * * *46, July 2010.

  1. Keys Without Locks

  Since Madame Lumiere’s passing, many tales are told about her skills. Most of them are false. I knew her as few others did. I know her secrets—some of her secrets. With Madame Lumiere, it was not so much what she could do as what else she could do with it. Not the sex, but the smile; not the contraband, but the government’s blessing; not the fairy magic, but the continuing human life afterwards.

  Whatever world you wanted to work in, Madame Lumiere could make it work for you. Underworld, Underhill—it didn’t matter.

  Of course, there was always the price.

  Most of her associates thought Sukey and I worked for Madame because she’d asked a price we couldn’t pay any other way. They were wrong; she would never have trusted one of her debtors as close to her as she trusted Sukey and me. We could have brought her down at any time. We probably would have, too, if not for love.

  Not love of her—loving Madame was about as pointless as loving a crystal chandelier. But we loved each other, and we loved the secrets. And we trusted Madame and each other, and that was more important than love.

  Sukey ran the house in those days—as she does now, but the profits went into Madame’s purse, not ours. We didn’t mind. Madame took good care of us. In those days, no one was quite sure what I did do, but they knew I did it all for Madame.

  In truth, I was the gatekeeper. A woman like Madame has a lot of use for a supernatural concierge, and I was a natural. No one ever mistook me for one of the girls of the house, with my cropped hair and my sensible shoes. I was safe. So when a man clutching his scarf to his nose to hide his face came up to my desk, I knew it might be tedious, but not in that particular way.

  “I have a friend in need of assistance,” he said.

  “In which room?” I said. “And is natural or supernatural assistance required?”

  “She isn’t here,” he said, dropping the scarf for long enough to look indignant. He was the middle son of a rather stuffy family in the city, the first of his house to visit Madame’s as far as I was aware, but we keep track of the lineages just in case. If any grandee or scion or fae noble had come to me, I would have known them without a formal introduction—although, of course, we pretend otherwise in situations where a formal introduction might be called for.

  “In that case, what do you expect me to do?”

  He faltered. “I was told—I was told that Madame Lumiere knows how to handle difficult cases.”

  “Difficult cases are the specialty of the house, but we really must have some idea which/what sort of difficult case we are discussing.” I eyed him sternly. “If you are looking to place a foundling, I must tell you that once you have done so, you may not—”

  “No! Nothing like that.”

  I raised an eyebrow, no less stern than before.

  “My cousin has been—put in a delicate situation. Not the kind that results in foundlings,” he hastened to add. “The kind that results in diplomatic difficulties. She needs to stay out of the eye of the public for the season. Certain parties may be tracking her movements if she leaves her home.”

  “Hmm,” I said.

  “The season ends in four days,” he said, looking suddenly less like a stuffy scion and more like a puppy.

  “It is part of my position here to have some idea when a season ends,” I said stiffly.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “How old a cousin?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he repeated.

  “How old is your cousin?”

  “I can’t see how it—”

  “If you knew what mattered, you would not be here asking for my assistance, would you?”

  He looked still more abashed. “Twenty-three.”

  “Maiden?” When I asked it, I thought there was a good chance he would turn indignant on me again, but apparently he had decided he was asking for my help and might as well receive it. He simply murmured, “I expect so.”

  “Well enough. And you can bring her here, or did you want that to be part of the service as well?”

  “If you could fetch her,” he murmured. “Her name is Josine. Josine Valdecart.” He gave me her address also.

  My tact returned to me, or at least my delicacy. “Will she be expecting…persons of our situation?”

  “She knows that I am sening aid. She is no missish ninny. She will go if you come for her.”

  It would be well enough. I sent him off to wait in one of our parlors, guided by one of the bare-chested boys who were ubiquitous around Madame’s establishment. The customers were honor-bound to leave them be until they had hair on their chests, even sparse hair, and our charming Sukey turned into a shrieking harpy on any customer who forgot the rule, the more so on those who pretended to forget. Other customers proved willing to help her in her wrath. The boys were both sweet and decorative in their full silk trousers; even I was protective of them, and I was notorious for my hard heart.

  Oh yes. Even then, men spoke of Lucy Brown’s heart
of steel. Not for me the heart of stone of ballads and tales; stone is not hard enough.

  But I was not particularly heartless with this man, though I had not yet determined whether he might deserve it. I would find that out when I found his cousin Josine. In the meantime I would have to figure out which of our staff would help me shift her, and with what tools.

  Madame’s keys open a great many things. Foremost they open locks that did not exist, or that only thought of existing. Josine Valdecart was in such a lock. It would be a matter for me of choosing the right key.

  2. Fairy Vegetables

  Heretofore neglected in the discussions of our complicated relationship with the lands beyond are the fairy vegetables. Much has been said, by many, about the fairy fruits that tempt and change the children of man. Very little has been devoted to their more stolid cousins.

  And why not? Who, indeed, can wax poetic, breathless, with lips parted, on the fairy rutabaga? The fairy cabbage, while it will certainly change your soul, will also result in the sort of undignified personal emissions that its more earthy relation produces. Even the fairy cucumber is faintly eccentric, more odd than enchanting.

  And yet.

  And yet that same fairy carrot, the very same fairy turnip that seemed so uninspiring, carry with them at least the same power as the fairy peach, the fairy strawberry, the delicate fairy pomegranate seeds that were once so much trouble.

  If she was like other rich young ladies, Josine Valdecart would not know much about fairy vegetables, which was all to our benefit, for we could feed her enough of them to blur her identity while we moved her. The stuffy young man had claimed that his cousin was not a missish ninny, but given the outstanding magnitude of missish ninnies he had to compare her to, in his social situation…better safe than sorry. And better a willing girl than a balking one.