Shadowmancer

by G. P. Taylor

  Crane looked at the girl, knowing that he had stared into those eyes before, sometime not long ago. He shuddered with fear, not knowing if this was a spectre or a trick of the mind. It was then that he remembered. Six months before he had beached his ship at Baytown to repair the hull. A girl called Hester Moss had come with a basket of fish for the crew. He remembered the eyes and hair and warm smile. The Azimuth was that girl. She had vanished from the rocks, her body was never found. He was beginning to come to an understanding of how she must have died.

  ‘Give the child her rest, Demurral – send her to her grave and let her be in peace.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Mr Crane. The Azimuth is very rare, not every child can do this and its spirit has to span horizon to horizon. It took many children to find the right one. One who had died at the right time and in the right place.’ He spoke casually, as if discussing the price of bread, and not speaking of murder.

  ‘You mean a child that you had killed at the right hour and place. To fit in with your so-called magic. Murdered so she would end up as a slave to you, not allowed the mercy of being left in peace even when she was dead.’

  ‘What makes you think that I killed her? People can die without the help of anyone else.’

  Crane lunged at Demurral and grabbed him by the throat, throwing him against the wall. ‘I’ve a good mind to allow you to join her. To kill you here and now and to hell with the money.’ He pressed him to the wall, one hand around Demurral’s neck, the other pressing the knife into his cheek. ‘Promise me one thing, priest. When this is over you’ll let her go and put a stone on her grave.’

  Demurral couldn’t speak as he struggled for breath. He nodded his head in agreement and tapped the back of Crane’s hand to let him go. Crane released his tight grip and the priest slumped to the floor choking for breath. He turned to the Azimuth. The vision of her spirit began to fade before him. Her hands reached out, trying to hold on to this life. He called out to her.

  ‘Hester, I’ll set you free. He’ll pay for what he’s done to you.’

  Her image faded as the whirlwind blew round and round, swirling the dust. As quickly as it had appeared, it was no more. Beadle cowered by the wooden casket.

  Demurral rolled on the floor by the altar table holding his squeezed throat. Jacob Crane stood in the doorway to the tower room, knife in hand. He looked at them both in disgust.

  ‘I’ll be back in one hour and I will bring the children with me. Make sure you have the money.’

  Crane turned to walk away and then stepped back into the room. ‘One more thing. If either of you tries any tricks, my men will burn down this house with you inside. If you tell the Excise men I will come back and see that you are both hanged from a tree, cut into tiny pieces and left out for the crows.’ The knife blade glinted in the soft candlelight. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than that. Don’t make me.’

  He stomped down the spiral staircase that led from the tower. The sound of his footsteps on the stone stairs echoed through the cold night air. Demurral struggled to his feet, holding on to the altar table. He heard the large wooden door at the bottom of the stairs slam shut. Beadle still quailed by the wooden chest, his face buried in his hands.

  ‘Get up. Get up. He could have killed me and you just lie on the floor too frightened to move.’ Demurral tore the burning candle from its holder and threw it at Beadle. He picked up the candlestick, crossed the chamber cutting it through the air like a sword and hit Beadle several times about the body.

  ‘Don’t you ever let that happen again,’ Demurral shouted, as another blow thudded into his servant’s fat side. ‘Next time protect me instead of hiding like some guttersnipe.’ He thrust a blow into his back. Beadle gave a squeal and begged his master to stop, which was a mistake.

  Demurral began to lash out wildly with the candlestick, repeatedly hitting the wall, altar, and Beadle. He screamed with rage as he thrashed each double-handed blow into its target before falling in a heap on the floor. For several moments he did not move as he sat staring blankly at the patterns made by the leaded windows.

  ‘Go and get the boy and bring him here. We have an hour before Crane returns. We can see what pain he can endure before then.’ Demurral wrote with his finger in the dust on the stone floor.

  ‘But Crane said …’ Beadle spoke feebly, trying to recover from the beating.

  ‘I have no concern as to what that smuggler has to say. I am the master, not him. Now do it.’ He threw the candlestick at Beadle, hitting him in the chest. ‘Get off your fat backside and do it!’

  ‘Shall I bring the money?’

  Demurral thought for a moment as he looked around the chamber wondering what to do next.

  ‘No. There will be no need for money, the Varrigal will see to that. There are no pockets in a dead man’s shroud and nowhere to spend it in Hell.’ He began to howl with a shrill laughter. ‘Now get out, Beadle, before I send you to hell to show him the way.’

  Tempora Mutantur

  MIDDLE-NIGHT arrived, spreading a cold dampness over the whole mine as the dank mist seeped into the workhouse. Inside, everyone slept in cramped wooden beds; the older children slept alone whilst the younger ones went top to tail in the lower bunks. The men and women rested where they could, unchanged and unwashed. Mrs Landas had the bed nearest to the fire, separated from the rest of the room by a worn blue velvet curtain. A thick tallow candle on the long table gave a dim light, whilst the embers of the fire warmed the increasing smell of stale sweat.

  Raphah dozed in his bed, in between picking the fleas from his legs and thinking of home. The sound of snoring and the whimpers of the young children constantly dragged him back from the edge of sleep. He was tired and in pain. His back burned from the brand, his heart was filled with the anguish of being so far from home. Outside he could hear the noise of the wind rustling through the wood while sea breakers smashed against the base of the cliff, the sound of spray bubbling into the night.

  He tried to dream, to set his mind free from this place where he was now a prisoner and from the future that seemed so uncertain. He begged Riathamus to take him from this place, to allow him to see his home again. It had been almost a year since he had left his village. His last night there had been spent under the stars with a warm desert breeze invading the forest and brushing the wispy clouds across the deep black night sky. He had been lulled to sleep by the sound of the women singing psalms and the crackle of the fire that snapped and hissed almost in time to their music.

  Raphah allowed himself to think dangerous thoughts of his homeland, thoughts that he knew would bring tears for the place that he missed so much and the people he longed to embrace. He felt alone. He yearned for the touch of a friend and the warm African voice of welcome.

  Raphah knew he was a stranger, separated from those around him by the colour of his skin. These people, he thought, were poor in body and in spirit. That night they had seen a deaf boy hear again and yet they still could not believe. It was as if they were themselves blinded and deafened to the signs they had seen, or perhaps had been charmed with disbelief. They would rather put their trust in a dumb spirit of divining cards and the ramblings of an old maid than in the hands of Riathamus the living God. They appeared to be happy to stay in their poverty.

  Raphah lay back into his rolled-up coat, closed his eyes yet again and slipped into dreams.

  It was then that the man possessed by the Dunamez woke from his sleep. For the last long hour he had shared the mind of a creature from another world. He had been forced into the corner of his being to watch the imaginings of the Dunamez flick across his mind, completely out of his control. He had shared the scenes of each life that the Dunamez had tormented. This was a creature of death: one who revelled in the misery of human suffering, one who had flitted from life to life to possess and control, to drive mad and then chase to the edge of death each victim whose life it inhabited. This helpless victim was Samuel Blythe, farmer and indebted miner of the Rave
nthorpe Alum Works. He shuddered with each shared vision that the Dunamez forced him to see. They were more than the nightmares of childhood – these were like sharing the thoughts not only of the power that now controlled him but also every life that it had ever destroyed.

  Blythe fought hard to regain his own mind, to close his eyes to the torments. He wanted to call out to be saved but did not know whose name to call. The Dunamez whispered to him whenever he tried to recover his thoughts and grapple with his sanity. It knew his name. It knew his deepest fears.

  ‘Listen to me, Samuel,’ it now whispered softly. ‘Do as I say and don’t resist and it will soon be over. I may even let you live.’ Blythe felt the voice as it echoed through him making each nerve and sinew twitch. He wanted to reply but couldn’t even move the muscles of his throat. ‘I will speak for you,’ the creature said gently. ‘Just sit back and allow me. After all, you have nothing to lose and all the world to gain.’

  The Dunamez lifted him from his dreaming and opened his eyes. Controlled by the creature Blythe threw back the covers of the bed, got up and walked to the fireplace. He warmed himself against the fire and then peeped around the curtains to look at the sleeping Mrs Landas.

  ‘Fire, fire,’ it murmured softly. ‘I haven’t felt the warmth of a fire for many years. You humans have so much to be thankful for, bodies that can be warmed, touched and tingle with excitement. Life for me is so cold, so lonely. Oh to enjoy the warm embrace of another.’ The Dunamez reached out with Blythe’s hand to touch Mrs Landas on her cheek. ‘Oh my lovely, what a pretty woman you are.’

  It stopped short in its whispering to Blythe, as it was then that it saw the outline of Raphah asleep on the top bunk. Blythe was overcome with a sudden change in emotion. Gone the desire for Mrs Landas; now, overwhelming hate. He could feel the physical wrath of the creature. His body began to shake. He suffered the rush of the creature’s thoughts through his mind. The overwhelming urge to scream flooded through him, only to be stopped before he could make a sound. Thoughts of murder welled up.

  The Dunamez spoke to him again.

  ‘If you do this for me, Samuel, I will leave you again as quickly as I came. Take the knife and kill him. He’s not one of you, he’s a stranger. He deserves to die – and you’re the one to do it.’

  Blythe could not resist. This could not be controlled. He felt helpless, like a spectator watching some great tragedy. He walked to the side of the bunk bed, pulled up a chair from the table to stand on, then drew the knife from his jacket. He looked around the room. Everyone was in a deep sleep. No one so much as murmured. It was an unnatural sleep, as if they were all on the verge of death.

  He raised his hand above his head, unable to restrain the power of the Dunamez that now controlled every muscle in his body. This was it. Now was the time. The Dunamez spoke to him again.

  ‘Kill him now … They will never suspect …’

  Blythe wanted to scream and run. A farmer snared by his own folly, he had become indebted to Demurral for seventy pounds, but in ten months he would be a free man. If he obeyed now he would become a murderer. He looked down at Raphah, whose soft black skin shone in the candlelight. Blythe held the knife for as long as he could, not knowing why Raphah had to die.

  ‘Do it now.’ The voice grew stronger in his head. ‘Do it before I make you … For once in your life do something that you will be proud of … You’ve failed at everything else: don’t fail in this.’ The voice of the Dunamez became insistent. Blythe could feel the creature forcing his hand, wanting him to slam the blade into Raphah. He struggled against himself, holding his arm as stiff as he could and locking every muscle. It was as if his arm would be snapped in two, broken by the will of the Dunamez.

  ‘Let go, Samuel, let go. Do what I say.’ The unremitting voice in his head drowned out everything else.

  The door to the workhouse crashed open, waking Mrs Landas from her hot, itchy sleep. She sat bolt upright and with one movement pulled back the bed curtain and jumped to her feet. The Dunamez flung Blythe to the floor.

  Consitt and Skerry stood in the doorway in their muddy black boots and tricorne hats. They looked pitiful and ragged, covered in the damp chill of the fourth hour. Consitt didn’t smile or attempt any form of welcome to Mrs Landas. ‘He wants the dark boy at the tower and he doesn’t want to be kept waiting.’

  She tried to tidy her matted hair as she crossed the room to the bunk, where Raphah was now awake.

  ‘Don’t hurt him, or I won’t let you take him. He’s done a lot for me, changed my life and I won’t be having you or Skerry bullying him again.’

  Her raised voice woke everyone in the room. Faces appeared from under dirty blankets and stared out into the gloom.

  ‘I don’t care if he’s turned yer into the Queen of Sheba. Demurral wants him and what Demurral wants Demurral gets.’ Consitt stepped towards the bunk bed, pushing aside Blythe who had got to his feet and was walking to the door. ‘Stay here, Sam, I could be needing yer. You can come to the tower in case he tries to run off. If he does you’ve my permission to give him a good hiding.’ Blythe tried to move away, but the Dunamez intensified its grip on him, holding him in place.

  Consitt reached into his frock coat and pulled out a short, knotted club. ‘Wakey, wakey, my little lascar boy. Time to go and see your master.’ He waved the club menacingly at Raphah. ‘Let’s not have any games or we’ll have to bash yer to the ground every time you step out of line.’ He beat the club into the palm of his hand looking at Raphah from under the brim of his tricorne.

  ‘There’ll be no beating, Mr Consitt, no beating. If you touch the lad you’ll have me to deal with.’ Mrs Landas pointed her longest, gnarled finger at him, waving it under his nose.

  ‘And you’ll have Demurral turning you out of the place you call home for getting in his way,’ retorted Consitt, pushing past her. ‘Get down from the bed, boy. We’ll get the chains off you.’ Still brandishing his club, he hit the side of the bunk bed with a loud thud.

  ‘Come on, Sam. Help me pull the little blighter from his perch.’

  Blythe couldn’t reply. The grip of the creature had him by the throat. He nodded his head as if to agree, feeling like a puppet in the control of a clumsy master. Raphah meanwhile struggled to get down from the bed. The bandages and nettle ointment heavily applied by Mrs Landas pulled against his skin. The brand on his back scorched through his shirt with every movement of his body.

  He looked at Blythe, staring deeply into his eyes. He looked away, then back again, gazing even deeper. Raphah screwed up his face and searched every inch of Blythe’s skin as if he was looking for some hidden secret.

  The three men led him outside into the cold black night. Raphah had grown used to the warmth and limited comfort of the workhouse. Even though the bed was itchy and full of fleas it had been soft and moderately comfortable. Now he trudged through the cold of the night that penetrated through to the bone.

  They walked up the hill through the red mud, following the narrow, winding path to the Vicarage. The full moon chased thin black clouds across the sky.

  To the north and far out to sea a bright red and yellow glow hung in the sky as if the sea was on fire. Blythe held Raphah by the shoulder and with a strong hand pulled him up the hill. Skerry walked in front complaining under his breath and cursing the day he had met Demurral. Dragging far behind was Consitt, who stopped every few paces to draw breath and look out to sea.

  ‘It’s still there, Skerry; looks like the sunrise but it’s too far to the north and too early.’ Skerry stopped and turned to look.

  ‘That’s been there for two days and nights. Looks like the whole sea is on fire. It’s almost bright enough to read by.’ He turned and began to tramp slowly up the hill.

  ‘One problem, Skerry – you’re too thick to read.’ Consitt laughed to himself as he wheezed and panted whilst he walked. Blythe remained silent. Raphah continued to stare at him, knowing that there was something sinister controlling the man. He had
seen many people who had allowed their lives to be consumed by a manifestation of evil; he had been able to sense the presence of a wraith or incubus by the look of the eyes. They would stare straight through you as if they were in another world. They hated to be challenged and were tormented to destruction by the invocation of the One True Name. Raphah knew that with the power of Riathamus he had nothing to fear from any spirit.

  ‘You can’t control him for ever.’ Raphah spoke in hushed tones. ‘You have to let him go one day. After all, he’s not eternal.’ The Dunamez did not reply. ‘What’s your name, spirit? Tell me who you are.’

  Blythe pulled Raphah to him, face to face, tightening the jacket painfully against Raphah’s shoulder. He looked up the hill and saw Skerry on the brow of the hill in the distance. Consitt lagged behind a hundred yards below them. They were too far away to intervene – now was his time. The Dunamez spoke out loud. Its own voice spewing out into the night air. Blythe could feel the sounds vibrating in his throat, out of his control.

  ‘You can’t stop me, boy,’ he growled in a deep angry voice. ‘I’ve followed you for long enough and tonight I will have my chance to snuff out your light once and for all.’ The Dunamez twisted the jacket even tighter as if trying to squeeze out as much pain as possible.

  ‘At least you dare speak. Demons usually skulk in the darkness afraid of the light. What kind of power or principality are you? Or are you just some kadesh, a lap dog of some witch?’ Raphah looked straight into the creature’s eyes as they stared out of Blythe’s face. ‘What makes you think I won’t call on the name of Riathamus? Will he not send a whole company of Seruvim to come and destroy you?’ He paused and peered at Blythe. The incubus did not reply. ‘I know who you are, Dunamez … Now let me go before I call upon the secret name that even you must bow before. He may even let you live.’