Other Kingdoms

by Richard Matheson

  “But she led me out of the woods,” I said, still uncertain about that.

  “She must have been so sure of her control over you that she felt she could afford that,” Magda said.

  “Afford?” I said, pettish now. “Am I a piece of furniture?” Eighteen-year-old logic.

  “No, you’re a beautiful young man,” she said.

  “Beautiful?” I snapped, “Come on.”

  And yet I knew I was. Give me my due. Have I even mentioned it till now? No, I’ve never “utilized” my looks. Well, now I’d be stupid to try. But then? Despite my snapping rejoinder, I knew that Magda was right. And, fully, expected her to embellish the point. Which she did.

  “You know you are,” she said. Was that an impish smile? It was. “Do you think I would have taken you to my bed if you looked like Mr. Hyde?”

  I had to smile at that. But with the utter lack of timing I possessed at that age, I said, “I thought you wanted a son.”

  Incorrect. Pall spreading. Magda looked disturbed. “Is that what you really think?” she asked.

  I knew (instantly; at least I was sensitive enough for that) that I had misspoken. Although I knew that what I had said was, basically, true, I also knew it was misguidedly hurtful. So, once again, I apologized. (I did a lot of that, in those days.) “I’m sorry, Magda,” I told her. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  I didn’t wait for her forgiveness. Maybe I assumed it would be forthcoming. “Something else,” I went on. “You said black magic. Are you saying that Ruthana was using black magic against me?”

  She didn’t answer at first. Was she still upset about my remark?

  I guess she was. “Do you really think I brought you into my house because I wanted a son?”

  Yes, I do, my brain responded, devoid of hesitation. Or grace. I think you wanted another Edward.

  “No,” I lied. Hoping, to God, that she took it for the truth. My brain emerged with a mollifying addition. “I know how much you miss Edward. I just wish I could replace him.”

  That did it. Mercifully. Her features softened, and she said, “I do miss him. Terribly. But I have never thought of you as a substitute son.” Another impish smile. If she had been a man, I would have termed it a wicked grin. “I had no interest in taking my son to bed with me,” she said. A few moments of silence before she continued. “Black magic? She must know about it. Obviously she practices it. How else explain those attacks?”

  “What is it?” I asked. I had a damnable time trying to visualize that angelic-faced creature involved in manipulating dark forces. But Magda was right: How else explain those attacks?

  At which point, flashing across my mind—harshly contradicting her denial of any intention of bringing Edward to her bed—was her profane injunction to me while we were coupling. No interest indeed! Yet more confusing inconsistencies in my mind. How was I to deal with them? I simply did not know.

  Chapter Twenty

  At this point in our conversation, Magda—who seemed to have recouped the stability of her nature—began to explain the nature of black magic. As I surmised (pretentious word, that; well, I probably have become at least semi-pretentious in my old age), black magic was, fundamentally, the manipulation of dark otherworldly forces for some, most likely, devious purpose. The Wicca belief (they do utilize black magic, Magda told me) was, not for harmful purposes but good, positive. Otherwise the preparations were pretty much the same, arcane rituals marked by the use of mystical symbols—on their costumes, on the utilized environment—and chants invoking the presence of whatever forces were judged to be desired for the good (or bad) intention.

  For instance, in the negative black magic, a feeling of hatred (for whatever reason—jealousy, envy, et al) resulted in an evil elemental (whatever they may be) to be dispatched, hover above, then attack the victim in whatever weak spot the victim might possess. As long as the attack persists—and the Sender must be cautious about that—the victim will suffer protracted distress if not demise (distress—demise; not bad A.B.). The Left-Hand Path, it’s called.

  The drawback is that the attack will evoke no result on the targeted victim if that person (he or she) hasn’t the sort of character vulnerability to provide enough open flaws in which the elemental can make itself at home.

  The very existence of these evil elementals, Magda pointed out, engenders the possibility that—without the assistance of black magic—they can prey on victims for their own malevolent reasons. Such attacks may consist of nightmares (dream variety), hallucinations, paralysis, grisly manifestations—blood, slime, and the like—extreme cold, et cetera, et cetera.

  “And you think Ruthana has the power to do all these things?” I asked. In genuine pain.

  “I’m convinced that she has,” Magda answered.

  “Dear God.” My eyes were tearing. I really was in pain.

  To consider that a sweet-faced angel like her could, willfully, consort with evil elementals and do all these terrible things to me was agonizing.

  Magda took me in her arms; she had forgiven my remark, I decided. She kissed me on the cheek. “I know,” she told me softly, “faeries can be very dangerous. I’m a witch (she said it so casually now), and I have to use as much caution with them as anyone does. I can summon the powers they have, I know how to banish them from my home and even to destroy them if I must. Still…”

  “You’d destroy Ruthana?” I couldn’t accept it.

  “If I must,” she said. Seeing my expression as I drew away from her, she added, “I won’t, of course. Unless it was to protect you. And you’re safe as long as you’re with me.”

  I put my arms around her now. I did feel safe in her renewed embrace. The thought that, despite her enchanting manner, Ruthana was a powerful—and menacing—being chilled me. Magda instructed me to lie down and try to physically relax myself. Breathe slowly and evenly, visualizing each inhalation as drawing in a flow of energy from my feet to the top of my head. Imagine that energy gaining in strength as it streamed through my body. Finally, visualize a sphere of white light floating over my head and trust that divine love was protecting me.

  While on the subject, to my surprise, she told me that my remark had disturbed her because her loss of Edward still pained her deeply. As a matter of fact, she confessed, she’d tried to “bring him back” through the use of black magic.

  Perhaps because her motive was confused, a mixture of positive and negative, the result was dreadful. An image of Edward, a white-faced corpse, his body half gone, the remainder drenched with blood.

  “It was the most horrible moment of my life,” Magda told me. “A perfect example of the danger of misusing black magic. Don’t ever try, Alex. For God’s sake, don’t ever try.”

  “I won’t,” I said. As though I’d even thought of it.

  “And please—please,” she said, “don’t think for a moment that it was ever my intention to replace Edward with you. It simply isn’t true.”

  I had to believe her. Could such pained emotion be feigned?

  I still wasn’t sure.

  * * *

  Magda consolidated her position in my life by introducing me to scrying.

  When I mentioned Veronica several times, Magda asked me if I wanted to see her.

  “She’s alive?” I asked. Naïvely, of course.

  “Somewhere,” Magda said. “Somewhere. In the spirit world.”

  “So—” I didn’t really understand. “Are we going to have a—séance?” I guess I knew the word at the time. Maybe I expressed it in another way. I don’t remember.

  “No,” said Magda with a smile, “we’ll use scrying.”

  Scrying is a method by which hoped-for images may be seen in a mirror. Any kind of mirror is usable, though round hand mirrors work best. Full-size mirrors, Magda informed me, are of use only if the mirror is being used as a doorway into the astral world. (I did not intend such.)

  Mirrors, Magda explained, are usually linked to the moon. They are backed with silver, the so-c
alled lunar metal. The glass front is a “lunar substance,” frames are best in silver. The round shape resembles the full moon. None of which was of any interest to me. I listened patiently to Magda’s descriptions, waiting to hear about my seeing Veronica again. “You did love your sister,” Magda tested.

  “We loved each other very much,” I answered, remembering how gentle and kind Veronica was. “Good,” said Magda. “That’s important.”

  Magda had purchased her mirror in a Gatford antique shop. It was an old cosmetic mirror, slightly tarnished, with a silver frame. She took it from a cabinet in her study. The first night of the experiment, she put it outside so that the surface would reflect the light of the moon. She then wrapped it in black velvet, black being a lunar color, she said. Did I mention (no, I forgot, old age again) that the back of the mirror was painted black? This was so that the mirror would not reflect anything, distracting the eyes. That way the viewer would be, as it were, gazing into a black pool, making it easier to “see things,” as Magda put it. Scrying regulations, I figured. I was sure I’d “see nothing” but I went along with it nonetheless, my yearning to see Veronica outweighing any dubious frame of mind.

  The night arrived for my scrying test. In spite of my continuing doubts, I felt uneasy, with no idea of what exactly was going to take place.

  Before I started, Magda gave me the handled mirror and told me to hold it carefully, noting whether it brought on any intuitive responses in me. In brief, did the mirror “speak” to me? When Magda said that, I felt inclined to snicker. I held the mirror up to my right ear and pretended to listen. “Not a word,” I said.

  Magda frowned. “Are you going to take this seriously?” she asked. “If not, we’re wasting time.”

  I winced at that. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I really do want to see my sister.”

  “Very well, then,” she said. “Place the mirror on the table. [We were in the kitchen.] Lay it flat and look into it steadily, imagining that you’re looking through its surface, deep into the darkness. Concentrate your mind on the blackness, focusing your thoughts on the astral world where Veronica is. Stare into the darkness and your thoughts.”

  I did what Magda told me. Losing track of everything but the blackness in the mirror, the total darkness. Nothing else. Minutes went by. “Keep looking,” Magda said quietly. “Stare into the darkness. See nothing but the darkness and your thoughts about Veronica.” I sensed, in the back of my mind, that she was hypnotizing me and wondered fleetingly if it was her hypnosis that was going to make me see Veronica. Then, all was lost in the blackness, my need to see Veronica—and Magda’s soothing murmur.

  I don’t know how much time passed before anything happened. Maybe an hour. Maybe two. There was no way to register passing time.

  Then, suddenly (and I do mean suddenly) the mirror brightened to a light gray, and colors began flashing across its surface. The abrupt transition made me catch my breath.

  “What is it?” asked the voice; I’d forgotten who it was.

  “Colors,” I muttered.

  “In clouds?”

  “More like moving shadows.”

  “Moving water?”

  “Moving shadows,” I repeated, getting pettish.

  “What colors?”

  “Blue. Purple. Green. Pink.”

  “Which way are they moving?” asked the voice.

  “Left to right,” I answered.

  “Is one of them persisting?”

  Persisting? I thought. Oh, yes. Returning again and again. I twisted restlessly on the chair.

  “Are you uncomfortable?” inquired the voice.

  I knew then it was Magda. “Yes,” I told her, “nervous.”

  “Visualize white light around you,” she told me.

  I tried. It didn’t work.

  “Color?” Magda insisted.

  “Red,” I said.

  “That’s anger,” she replied. So patiently, it galled me.

  “That’s enough,” I declared. The mirror went blank in that instant. Magda made a sound of disappointment. “You’d gone so far,” she said.

  I sat up straight. Without realizing it, I had been bending over, my face inches from the mirror. I looked at Magda, I’m afraid accusingly. “I’m sorry,” I said. I wasn’t.

  Clouds, or moving shadows, moving water, whatever, traveling from left to right signified the approach of spirits, she told me. If only I had stayed with it …

  That especially I didn’t want to hear. Or that the movement of the shadows in the opposite direction—which they were beginning to do when I broke off—meant the withdrawal of spirits.

  As for the colors (I barely listened to her as she recounted their meaning) they were yellow, willfulness; orange, indignation; purple, brooding, obsession; and, of course, red, anger. I’m surprised I didn’t see a rainbow of those colors. I’d become increasingly rattled and irritable.

  As for the clouds—in my case, the shadows—forming on the left meant manifestations; on the right, spiritual insights; rising, revelations; falling, negation; I’ve already told you about the left to right and vice versa.

  While I should have asked questions during observations of the moving shadows, I might have gleaned some desired information before reaching the vision stage. During the questions, the clouds (the shadows) would likely have changed direction. In my case, dropping like lead balloons.

  I gave up scrying after one more night’s attempt. I’d never see Veronica again, it became obvious. The realization (heartbreaking to me) embittered my persona toward Magda for more than a week. To her everlasting credit, she did not retaliate. I know now that she could have. Easily.

  Actually, on my second scrying venture, I thought I did see Veronica. Not her, but an aged, yellowing photograph of her. Which, as I tried to see more distinctly, seemed to alter to an image of (I was stunned by the sight) Ruthana. When that occurred, I gasped and drew up sharply from the blanking mirror. With the abrupt decision, angry now, never to try scrying again. I never told Magda what I thought I saw.

  She alienated me further by explaining additional information about scrying. Spirits may engage directly with the scryer. Never attempt to converse with them. Not audibly, at any rate. Thoughts are as “audible” to them as spoken words.

  The notion that I might not only have seen Veronica but also communicated with her—in whatever netherworld she now resided—came close to maddening me. Not at myself, of course (I was eighteen, remember), but at Magda. More than that, at life in general. Society. Culture. The world and its hateful citizens. (I’ve told you more than once: I really wasn’t thinking straight.) Magda gave an extra twist to the blade in my heart telling me that evidently I had attained the first degree—seeing shadows (aka clouds). Only those in the fourth degree would be capable of seeing detailed visions of spirits; and, even those, irregularly. It took a fifth degree to summon visions at will; the sixth degree enabled the scryer to engage the visions as a participating actor. I felt great about that sarcasm.

  * * *

  As supplemental evidence of my muddled thinking, that night as I lay in bed beside my might-as-well-be-called bride, I went over and over my cerebral lamentations about the world at large. The world “out there” in all its rotten glory.

  Which world was real? The world I was presently in—lying naked beside a witch? Or the world I’d been in from birth up to and including my time in the French trench; now, that was reality, horrible reality. The months in the trench. That certainly seemed real enough—the mud, the explosions, the gore, the rats, the endless stench. Wasn’t that reality?

  It certainly seemed to be in contrast with the gold lump becoming a lump of gray dust. My two experiences in the woods. Ruthana. Magda. The miraculous healing. The God-awful manuscript. The hideous night attacks. Was all that madness reality? It certainly seemed to be so at the time.

  That lumped-together thinking did nothing for my sleep. Instead, I began to think about the world at large. Still embroiled in war. Th
ank whatever stars were in my favor (precious few, I imagine) that I had no knowledge of WWII as I now have. If it had even occurred to me that the damned Boche—becoming damned Nazis—were going to rise again after losing WWI—and threaten the world once more—not to mention the ghastly Holocaust—I would have gotten out of bed and hanged myself. Or, at the very least, opened a few veins and quietly bled to death.

  I didn’t know, thank God. So I was merely miserable, stressed out by my experiences in ye trench. I tried to rationalize it away but with limited (none) success. Maybe Magda could summon up some out-of-this-world forces and heal my stress. I’d be embarrassed to ask. The leg and hip wound—that was visibly acceptable. Stress? Sorry. Doesn’t show.

  For a while I amused myself—maybe “bemused” would be more accurate—with memories of the rat wars we enjoyed (we did enjoy them, God help us) in the trenches. We took trips to connecting trenches for more rats in the event that our immediate supply ran out. We threw the rats at each other (yes!), laughing like crazy all the time (we were crazy), or if we could lay our hands on a pistol, stealing it or confiscating it from the body of a killed officer, we would shoot the rats. Did I already tell you that? I may have. And that the rats exploded “nicely” when struck? Probably did.

  Despite my hours of brooding wakefulness, I must, eventually, have slipped off into some kind of REM doze. Because, immediately, I dreamt.

  About Ruthana.

  It didn’t seem to be a dream. It was as though she stood in front of me emblazoned in a dazzling white light. She was crying. Her lips were moving. No sound. I tried to understand what she was saying. Finally I got the words.

  “Please. Come back to me. Please. Come back to me.” Again and again. Without sound. As though she couldn’t speak aloud. Or was prevented from speaking the words aloud by some invisible barrier.

  Created by Magda; it came to me.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  How long the light (the dream) persisted, I have no idea. All I remembered was Ruthana’s exquisite face wet with tears that never stopped flowing. Her glorious tear-glistening eyes directed at me. Her lips trembling as she repeated endlessly: “Please come back to me. Please. Come back to me.”