Mrs. Woodcot did something with her dress and her breasts. Carl embraced her. Lizbet heard them laugh together, a chuckling sound. Carl’s hands were inside Mrs. Woodcot’s clothing. He was kissing her mouth. Together they crossed the room.
Lizbet had hoped Mrs. Woodcot would slam the door in Carl’s face and lock it, and let Lizbet wait in her house until Carl went away. This sudden development of friendly relations worried her.
She had about decided that Mrs. Woodcot was the witch. She tried to remember what they said about witches in stories. It wasn’t safe to tell them your real name, they said. Don’t eat anything in a witch’s house. Never sleep in a witch’s house. Never give a witch any article of your clothing, or a strand of hair, or even a nail paring. Never look a witch in the eye, or she will ensorcell you. Lizbet had looked Mrs. Woodcot in the eye. Was Lizbet ensorcelled? What would it feel like if one were ensorcelled?
She noticed the rest of the room’s furnishings for the first time: a countertop like a druggist’s shop; racks all around the room, filled with bottles and urns (also just like a druggist’s); in the back, a staircase leading upward. One item was unlike any druggist’s though: a shining circular brass machine, about a yard wide and a yard high, with a hinged brass lid and a capstan on top. Some years before, during a time when her father was briefly prosperous, Lizbet had been taken to an expensive restaurant. It had a duck press. They put a roast duck in it, turned a lever, and essence of duck flowed out the bottom, to be whisked into a delicious sauce by a chef in a white apron and toque who came to your table.
Mrs. Woodcot’s device reminded Lizbet of the duck press. Only it was much larger, and it was decorated with brass carvings of a boy and a girl, instead of a duck.
Mrs. Woodcot and Carl approached this device. Mrs. Woodcot broke from Carl’s kiss, giggled, and gave him a playful shove. The edge of the press caught the back of his legs. Carl lost his balance, tipped backward, and fell neatly into the device.
“Oopsie-daisy!” Mrs. Woodcot said cheerfully. She clanged the brass lid shut and locked it with a silver hasp.
The capstan had four long brass spokes. Mrs. Woodcot grasped one. “Here,” she said to Lizbet, “take the opposite end, dear, and help me turn.” Her pale finger beckoned.
It was all too obvious what was about to happen to Carl.
Lizbet shrank back. “No,” she said. “No, I can’t. I don’t want to.”
“What?” Mrs. Woodcot released the spoke and put her hands on her hips. “But you lured him here, after all. Therefore, his fate is your responsibility. He’s an evil fellow, out to despoil your virtue, have his way with you, lead you down the primrose path of dalliance, and doubtless many other euphemisms as well. It is your moral duty to help administer his just desserts. Come, don’t be lazy, child, grab the lever and put your shoulder into it.”
“But I didn’t lure him here,” Lizbet wailed. “He followed me. And I don’t think his fate is my responsibility. I was just walking down the road. And anyway, maybe he meant to do something bad, but he never actually did anything.” She shook her head. “What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake, it’s not supposed to make sense,” Mrs. Woodcot said with exasperation. “I’m trying to exploit your youthful innocence, deference toward adults, and sexual fears to trick you into doing something you would not do otherwise. Why can’t you just play along? Mortals are so tedious. If you won’t help me, I must find someone who can. Strix!” she called in her musical voice. “Strix, my darling poppet, come and help your mother!”
A girl stood at the bottom of the stairwell, not a dozen feet away. Lizbet drew her breath. The girl had not been there a second before. She had not come down the stairs, or entered the room. She was just suddenly there.
The girl’s arms were crossed over her still-boyish chest. She scowled. “You’re not my mother,” she said.
“I am speaking metaphorically, Strix,” Mrs. Woodcot said.
“And don’t try to exploit my youthful innocence, because I haven’t got any.”
“I know that. So if you don’t grab the lever and help me squish the lustful lout, I will beat you.”
“Well, that’s more like it,” Strix said.
She stared at Lizbet with disdain. She looked about Lizbet’s age. The first thing Lizbet noticed about her was her color: while Mrs. Woodcot was whiter than any person Lizbet had ever seen, Strix was browner. Lizbet had heard that in the pagan kingdoms of the uttermost south men were brown because the sun baked them like bread in an oven. But she had never seen one.
Strix was lighter than bread crusts, but darker than tea with milk. She was the brown of autumn leaves swirling in the breeze, the brown of speckled trout, drifting among the shifting shadows of a brook. On one cheek, faint parallel lines swam beneath the surface, as if she had been tattooed. She had large brown eyes which didn’t match, a small turned-up nose, and red-auburn hair, curly and wavy, like a bird’s nest of rusted wires, half gathered on her head with hairpins, the rest tumbling down her back. Her dress was brown too, a simple shift but covered with layers and layers of gauzy mantles and overdresses, all in shades of brown, tan, taupe, sand, umber, charcoal. All the colors of the rainbow, if rainbows ran from brown to black. She wore high black lace-up boots. There was something unnatural and disturbing about those boots, but Lizbet had no time to figure out what it was.
Strix gripped the capstan lever that Lizbet had refused. She and Mrs. Woodcot bent to their work. With a sound of groaning metal, the capstan moved. The thick, threaded shaft connecting the capstan and the press slowly turned. From within, Carl’s muffled voice. “Mrs. Woodcot, darling, I seem to be trapped!”
“Yes, honeybunch,” Mrs. Woodcot called. “Don’t worry your little head, I’ll fix that soon.”
“I knew I could count on you,” came the voice from the press.
“Speed, Strix, speed,” Mrs. Woodcot said, huffing with effort. “If we don’t do the job quickly, we’ll get nothing from him but Timor.”
Strix grumbled, but pushed harder. Round and round went the capstan. The threaded shaft sank into the press. Mrs. Woodcot said to Lizbet, “Do you know it works the same with chickens? If you get a chicken drunk before you chop its head off, it will be more tender when you cook it, because it died relaxed. It’s also helpful to get seraphim and incubi drunk before entering into negotiations with them. Drink incapacitates them for sexual intimacy though. They’re much like chickens that way.”
“Darling? It’s getting tight in here,” came Carl’s voice from inside the press.
“Almost finished,” Mrs. Woodcot chirped.
“Uh,” Carl grunted.
“Do you know any sea chanteys?” Mrs. Woodcot asked brightly. “They’d be just right for this kind of work.”
“No,” Strix said. “I hate the sea. It’s too wet.”
“Oh, pooh,” Mrs. Woodcot said. “There’s nothing more boring than a picky child. Strix, go away and come back when you’re forty.”
A shining trickle of fluid appeared in a trough at the base of the press. “Lizbet,” Mrs. Woodcot called. She pointed to a rack of apothecary jars. “Run like a good girl and get the jar marked Libido, if you please. Surely that’s not too much for you?”
Lizbet thought about it, and decided that she might as well. Carl’s fate was definitely out of her hands. In truth, she wasn’t all that unhappy that he had come to a sudden end. Was she terrible to feel that way? Probably. She decided that she liked feeling both smug and guilty at the same time. The two contradictory moral sentiments complemented each other, like the sweet-sour tang of lemonade.
The Libido jar sloshed a bit when she took it down from the shelf. It was black porcelain, and warm, almost hot to the touch.
“Hurry!” Mrs. Woodcot called. She took the jar from Lizbet, held it under a brass spout at the base of the press, and turned
a tiny spigot. A curved stream of seething crimson liquid hissed into the jar. Steam rose from the jar’s mouth. Lizbet wondered what it smelled like, and bent to sniff it, but then drew back. Maybe that wasn’t a good idea. She had studied enough Latin in school to know that libido meant “lust.” Lust was still a largely unknown quantity to Lizbet. She thought she might have felt lustful once or twice, but wasn’t exactly sure. She felt certain that feeling lustful at this particular moment wouldn’t be helpful.
Carl certainly had a lot of Libido in him, Lizbet thought. It almost filled the jar.
“Now, hurry and get the jars for Pax, and Misericordia,” Mrs. Woodcot said.
Pax meant “peace” and misericordia meant “mercy.” Pax proved to be tiny opaque azure gems that fell into their apothecary jar with a pleasant clicking sound. There was very little Pax in Carl though. He had even less Misericordia, a sweet-smelling gray-green dust: no more than a teaspoonful.
As she watched Mrs. Woodcot fill the jars, Lizbet said, “You’re the witch, aren’t you?”
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Woodcot said.
When Lizbet first opened the door, Mrs. Woodcot had thought she had a baby with her. “People bring you babies?”
Mrs. Woodcot nodded. “Yes.”
“I thought you stole babies.”
“Is that what they tell you? Mortals are full of lies, dear.”
Now that Lizbet thought of it, babies who were “stolen by the witch” tended be from families who were having difficulty feeding the children they already had. And they tended to be girls.
“People are awful,” Lizbet said.
Strix gave a contemptuous laugh. “Mortals are good-for-nothing. Including you.” She stuck out her tongue at Lizbet.
Lizbet clenched her teeth. However horrible Mrs. Woodcot might be as a witch, at least she was courteous. Lizbet was glad she wouldn’t ever have to see Strix again.
Next out of the press came bubbling Felicitas, and Amor, that smelled like roses, both in very small amounts. There was almost half a jar of Ira though, hot, black, and sticky like tar. Spes came next, a small quantity of glistening white beads, like tiny pearls.
Lizbet had seen the Margrave take a pill just like that. In Latin, spes meant “hope.”
The last affection to come out of the press was Timor, an almost weightless clear liquid with an unpleasant chemical odor that permeated the room. Timor meant “fear.”
“That’s the end, we’re done,” Mrs. Woodcot announced. “Strix, clean up please.” Strix grumbled. Mrs. Woodcot frowned at Lizbet. Her wingy eyebrows tilted like a hawk stooping on its prey. “All done, dear. By the way, why are you still here? Most mortals would have fled in terror when we started to squish the late Mr. Such-a-One.”
“Carl.”
“Whoever. Run along now. Bring me a baby when you get too many. Boys will make sure you get too many, then they will complain about it.
Boys are hypocrites.
Girls are too.
Mortals are vile.
Toodle-oo!”
She had maneuvered herself behind Lizbet somehow, and her cold, bony hands were gently but irresistibly urging Lizbet toward the door.
“Wait!” Lizbet said.
“Oh, you’re so demanding! What now, love? Make it quick, or I may squish you too.”
“No,” Lizbet said, “you won’t.”
Mrs. Woodcot let go and put her hands on her hips. “What! How dare you contradict me!”
“You said if I came alone, I had to go in the press myself. You said that was the rule. But I didn’t come alone, and you got to squish Carl. So now you can’t put me in your press.”
Mrs. Woodcot spanked her hands together, as if she were knocking dust from them. “For a mortal, you’re annoyingly perceptive. It’s true, it’s against the rules to squish you. Still, it’s time to go. I declare you personna au gratin. Good-bye!”
Lizbet stood her ground. “Not until I get what I came for.”
“What? I got rid of Carl for you. What else could you possibly want?”
“It’s not about Carl. He was an accident. I just sort of picked him up on the way.”
“That was careless of you. What is it, then?” Mrs. Woodcot yawned. “Be quick! I’m already bored with you.”
“I came to ask your help,” Lizbet said.
“That’s easy enough,” Mrs. Woodcot said. She smiled beautifully. “Refused!”
“You don’t even know what I want!”
“And I don’t care.” Again, her hands propelled Lizbet toward the door. “Get along with you, now.”
The next moment Lizbet was standing on the step, and the big red door slammed closed behind her. Immediately she turned and tried to open it. This time, though, it was locked, and resisted her efforts.
Lizbet yelled, as loudly as she could, “I need your help in crossing the Montagnes du Monde!”
The door popped open. Mrs. Woodcot looked out. “What did you say?”
“I said,” Lizbet said, “I need your help in crossing the Montagnes du Monde, because I’m trying to find a book of magic that the Margrave lost, so he’ll free my father who’s in prison, and people say witches fly on brooms, so I was thinking that maybe you could fly me over—”
“That’s what I thought you said,” Mrs. Woodcot said. The door slammed shut again.
Lizbet assaulted the door with both fists. “Please!” she yelled. “Please, please, PLEASE, PLEASE PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE!” She lifted with knocker and slammed it down again and again.
No response.
When she was exhausted, Lizbet sank down onto the cold stone step, her back to the locked door, and let her mind go numb.
The pigs in the yard stopped rooting up the grass for a moment and oinked at her. The geese honked. From a shed, two cows batted their lashes at her mournfully.
Chapter 5
When snakes walk,
And horses talk,
Then I shall wed the air!
When fire’s cold,
And newborns old,
His scion shall I bear.
—a rhyme of Strix
After some time, Lizbet rose to her feet again. She walked to the edge of the dooryard, and turned for one last look at the house. It really was a remarkable house. And Mrs. Woodcot, for all of her being a witch, was just as strange and funny as her house. Under other circumstances she thought she might have liked to have tea with Mrs. Woodcot, or listen to her stories about being a witch. Mrs. Woodcot was different from anyone Lizbet had ever met.
But she wasn’t safe at all.
Lizbet retraced her steps, turning right at every fork, until she came out of the woods and found herself at the bottom of Abalia-Under-the-Hill, and daylight again.
Barely daylight. Even after she emerged from the Grove of Frenzy, its long chilly shadow covered her. Behind her, the sun had almost sunk behind the trees. In the purple-black eastern sky above Abalia and the Montagnes du Monde, the stars had begun to come out. A breeze blew trash around Lizbet’s feet: scraps of brown paper, a discarded teabag, a bird’s nest of rusty wire.
Lizbet was still determined to cross the Montagnes du Monde. She would walk, if necessary. It didn’t seem hopeful she would succeed, but she had nowhere to go, and no one else to ask for help. She wasn’t going to let the magisters put her in the Asylum, and if she had even the slightest chance to save her father, she wasn’t going to let it slip away.
From the eastern edge of Abalia, dirt roads led up into the mountains, past sheep crofts and cattle pastures, into the fir barrens. She would have to climb higher than that, though, if she hoped to find a way through the mountains.
But first she had to get through the town. It would be night soon. If Abalia was not quite safe for a child during daylight, it was perilous at night. Lizbet had less to fear from the Magisters o
f Children and their marshals than from common criminals. Most immediately, the road back to the Wall of Virtue led past the tavern where Carl and his friends had been drinking. The friends might still be there. She might detour through the surrounding countryside, but that held the same perils as the city itself, and danger from wild animals to boot.
Lizbet decided she needed advice. She sat on the ground and fished from her skirt pocket one of the hosts she had stolen. She slipped it into her mouth and let it dissolve on her tongue. When she sensed God’s presence (He always made her nose stuff up, rather like hay fever), she said, “Hi, Lord.”
“Good evening, Elizabeth,” God said.
“Lord, I need advice.”
“My advice,” God replied, “is to obey lawfully constituted authority, and not to consort with witches. But you don’t want to hear that, do you?” He sounded peeved.
“I need to know how to get over the Montagnes du Monde,” Lizbet said.
“No, you . . . excuse me a minute,” God said.
Her nose cleared out. What could God be up to? Bit by bit, the host dissolved. Lizbet fretted.
Finally, the Divine presence returned. Lizbet acknowl-edged this event with a sneeze. “I’m sorry for the interruption,” God said. “Satan’s armies had a bit of luck—just luck, nothing more—and things were touch and go there for a moment. It’s advice, you want? About the Montagnes du Monde?” His voice became stern. “Elizabeth, now see here. You haven’t any reason for crossing the Montagnes. The whole idea’s cracked. You’ll most likely die. I regret that your father’s imprisoned, but it’s all perfectly lawful. As for you, you can’t just go gallivanting around the countryside. The Orphan Asylum is the proper place for you, until you are of age. Now, I want you to go straight to the Chambers of the Magisters and turn yourself in.”
“No!” Lizbet protested. “The Asylum is awful! They beat you for no reason! They’ll turn me into a highwayman, or a strumpet. My father will die in prison!”
“I am aware of the horrors of the Asylum,” God said soothingly. “Two of its recent Chancellors and any number of its inmates are now in Hell, and not enjoying it one bit, I might add. My advice to you is to brace up and make the best of the matter. Suffering is part of My Divine Plan. ‘The Problem of Pain,’ it’s often called. It’s a question that the greatest theologians have never satisfactorily addressed: why a loving, omnipotent Deity permits the innocent to suffer. Your time in the Asylum will allow weeks, months, even years of reflection on this important question, with the bonus of personal experience. Elizabeth, this is an unparalleled opportunity for spiritual growth.
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