Mirror of the Night

by E. C. Tubb

  Again Dene lifted his arms. Watchful Conway kept to the script, switching on another tape. Full, deep, echoing with rolling syllables, the reversed Lord’s Prayer sent sympathetic harmonics quivering from the trees. He had used too much power. The sound blasted the oaks and shouted at the very skies. The black cockerel Dene had lifted in his left hand twisted as it saw the gleaming knife in his right. With a tremendous squawk it burst free as the blade swept down.

  Helen shrieked as the edge nicked her side.

  Goggle-eyed Clark stared at what had appeared beyond the altar, the shape of oozing malignancy before which Dene grovelled in abject supplication.

  The brew, he thought wildly, or the tapes, or the whole general hodgepodge he had introduced for photographic effect. A combination that had, somehow, worked. Or perhaps it was more simple than that. Incredulously he stared at the altar, at the blood streaming from the shallow wound on her side. A real blood-sacrifice just as the ceremony demanded. But who could have guessed that she was a genuine virgin?

  “Well,” said Mark. “I’m damned!”

  For once he spoke the literal truth.

  THE WITCH OF PERONIA

  Doctor Edward Klien was not a superstitious man and he had little time for the rumours that floated into his little surgery down near the waterfront of one of the world’s largest cities. The population was mostly Italian, intensely religious but just as intensely hag-ridden with superstitions, which, so the doctor thought, would have well been left on the other side of the Atlantic. He said as much to Father Murphy, the big, red-faced priest with whom he spent most evenings playing chess.

  “Dirt,” said the doctor playing his knight. “Dirt and ignorance and fear. That’s what causes all the illnesses these people suffer from. I’ll bet that if they only scrubbed out their homes, burned their clothing and threw away their charms they wouldn’t have half the troubles they think they have.”

  “Something has upset you,” said the priest easily. He moved his bishop and smiled at the combination on the board before him. “Who is it this time? Mrs. Luzati?”

  “No.” Klien scowled as he moved his queen three squares, hesitated, then moved it two more. “She’s bad enough with all her talk of the evil eye, but this is worse. Old Petrocchio had a stroke the other evening. He should have sent for me but didn’t. Naturally he got worse and, by the time I knew he was ill, it was all I could do to save him.”

  “But you saved him,” said the priest. He looked at his friend. “Petrocchio is a good man.”

  “He’s a fool,” snapped the doctor. “Do you know what he told me? After I’d worked over him for three hours and was about to send for you, he opened his eyes and told me that nothing I could do would save him. And do you know why?”

  “Calm yourself,” said the priest. “You are new here. When you have been among these people for as long as I have you will understand them a little better. They are simple people and they cling to the old beliefs.”

  “They are fools!” snapped the doctor, but he calmed himself. “Petrocchio had the infernal gall to tell me that he had been bewitched! Bewitched! Can you imagine anyone believing that in this day and age?”

  “I can imagine anything,” said the priest quietly. “Did he tell you in what manner he thought the spell had been cast?”

  “Don’t tell me you believe in that rubbish!” Klien was so upset that he could no longer concentrate on the chessboard. “You’re joking!”

  “No,” said the priest seriously. “I am not joking.” He stared at the reddening features of his friend and smiled with the wisdom of a man who has seen much of the ways of the world. “Before you explode, doctor, remember this. When you give a patient a medicine, do you trouble to explain to him just what it is and what it will do? Do you bother to tell him just why it will do him good?”

  “Of course not. I haven’t the time for one thing, and they wouldn’t understand half of what I said, for another.”

  “So you just give him the medicine, tell him to take it, and then leave him to cure himself.” The priest nodded. “Has it ever occurred to you that, in a way, you are emulating a witch doctor?” He smiled and lifted his hand at the other’s protest. “I am not insulting you, doctor, never think that. I am trying to draw an analogy. Your patients believe that the medicine you give them will do them good, not because they understand what the medicine does, but because they have faith in you. Pink pills and coloured water would, in most cases, be as effective as the most complex medicine. Am I right?”

  “Yes,” said Klien reluctantly. “Every doctor knows that. Auto-suggestion we call it. The patient wants help, he believes that he will get it from a doctor. The doctor knows that there is nothing wrong with the patient but he also knows that his bare word for it will only antagonise his client. So he gives him some coloured water, gives him firm orders what and what not to do, and the patient goes away and cures himself of his imagined illness.” He stared at the priest. “But what has this to do with Petrocchio?”

  “If Petrocchio believes in spells,” said the priest quietly, “then those spells, to him, will be as strong as your medicine.” He made a slight gesture as he fingered the pieces on the board. “I have come across much of this superstition in my work. Most of it is harmless nonsense but some of it is the reverse of that. What spell does Petrocchio believe to be the cause of his illness?”

  “None at all.” Klien smiled his triumph. “It’s even sillier than that. He believes that someone has made an image of him and is slowly destroying it. As the image is defaced, so Petrocchio will suffer. I…” He broke off staring at the expression on his friend’s broad features. “Father! What’s the matter?”

  “The Devil is the matter,” said the priest thickly. “I have come into contact with this hideous practice before. Quick! We must get to Petrocchio at once!”

  He would listen to no excuses and, late though it was, he led the way from the snug surgery and out into the bitter winter’s night outside. A cab took them to the dingy tenement where the old man lived and, Klien leading, they ran up the seemingly endless flights of stairs to the mean room he occupied.

  The old man was dying as they arrived. He lay on a narrow bed, an old crone in attendance, and his face was distorted with a terrible agony. Klien glanced at him, swore as he realized he had forgotten his bag then looked around for someone to send for it. Murphy, moving easily despite his bulk, sat down beside the dying man.

  “In nomina Patris, Fidelis…” The old Latin seemed to calm the sick man for he opened his eyes and stared at the priest.

  “Padre!” He swallowed and tried to rise. “The old witch,” he gasped. “She made a doll and caught my soul in her web. She…”

  He stiffened, writhed, and with a smothered cry fell back onto the bed. Expertly Klien felt the thin wrist, raised the closed eyelids and felt at the scrawny chest for signs of life. He shook his head.

  “Dead. I warned him about undue excitement. His heart must have failed him.”

  “That,” agreed the priest, “or something else.” He sighed and made the sign of the cross. “May his soul rest in peace.” He stared at the old crone sitting by the tiny fire. “Listen to me,” he ordered. “Petrocchio was a good man. He would not have dealt with witches. Who is the person who trapped his soul?”

  “How would she know?” began Klien impatiently, then fell silent at the other’s curt gesture. The crone blinked rheumy eyes and tittered to herself as she stared into the fire.

  “The old lore,” she whispered. “It still lives! I warned him to pay but he would not heed me. He put his trust in other things. Even when the pains came he still would not pay.” She spat in the fire. “Much good will his money do him now.”

  “Was it you?” With one stride the priest had closed the gap between them and stood towering over the old woman. She seemed to shrivel beneath his gaze.

  “No,” she gasped. “I am a good daughter of the Church. See! I wear my crucifix always. Would a witch do that?”<
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  “I called you no witch,” said Murphy evenly. “But those who condone evil are evil themselves. Do you wish to roast in Hell when you die?”

  “I meant no harm,” babbled the woman. “All I gave was a lock of his hair and she promised me coal and food, for the winter. I told the old man to pay what she asked. I warned him of what would happen. Am I to blame because he refused?”

  “To whom did you give the hair?”

  “She came and collected it. She gave me fine words and many promises and I thought it no harm. After, when I knew why she wanted the hair, I warned the old man. He refused to pay and now he is dead. Dead! Dead!” The word seemed to upset her for she rocked back and forth and a thin crooning noise came from deep within her throat. Murphy sighed and beckoned to Klien to follow him.

  “We’ll get no more help from her,” he said when they were outside the room. “She is almost senile and probably doesn’t remember what the witch even looked like.”

  Klien remained silent until they had returned to the surgery and then, while he warmed water to make a rum toddy to beat off the cold, he faced the priest.

  “I’ve had enough of this nonsense,” he said. “Witches! Spells! Hair and dolls and all the rest of it! That old man died from natural causes. I’m surprised at you even pretending to believe in all their stupidity.”

  “It isn’t a question of pretence,'” said Murphy quietly. “I do believe.”

  “Rubbish!”

  “Is it?” The big man smiled and gestured to the cases of instruments, the racks of drugs and the few pieces of electrical equipment lying about the surgery. “You believe in this but, at the same time, you refuse to admit that there may be other powers than those of the strictly material. Petrocchio died because he was murdered.” He smiled at Klien’s expression. “I could draw you a dozen different analogies and, perhaps after a long while, I might even persuade you to admit that I could possibly be right. Unfortunately we haven’t much time. The witch must be caught and her Devil’s work destroyed before it is too late.”

  “You’re serious!” Klien shook his head in bewilderment. “You really believe in what you say.”

  “Unfortunately I have proof of the existence of such evil as we have seen tonight,” said the priest grimly. “There has been trouble down on the waterfront for some weeks now. The men are no longer happy, they work beneath a shadow, and many of my old friends no longer meet my eyes. They are ashamed of what they do, but they dare not do anything else. This witch, whoever she is, has them firmly in her power. Petrocchio’s death tonight will only strengthen her hold over them. We must act fast while we are still able.”

  “It’s incredible!” Klien poured hot water into two glasses, added rum and sugar, stirred the toddy and handed one of the glasses to his friend. “If anyone but yourself were to tell me these things I’d have him certified as insane. After all, this is the twentieth century, not the middle ages.”

  “Evil is the same no matter what the century,” said Murphy severely. “And you forget, intellectually and spiritually, most of these people are in the middle ages. They still place garlic around the necks of people suffering from anaemia. They still make the sign known as the Horns of Horus to ward off the evil eye. They believe in werewolves and vampires and the ghastly magic of the mannikin dolls. A magic which, I assure you, is very real to those who believe in it.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” admitted Klien slowly. “I’ve even read a little of it in the old books, but surely it can’t happen in a big city this day and age?”

  “You saw a man die,” reminded the priest. “He was murdered because he wouldn’t pay this witch a portion of his earnings. Others will learn of his death and hurry to meet her demands. Her power will grow until there will be no stopping it. She will virtually dictate to the entire waterfront.” He set down his untasted glass. “Come. We must hurry. First to my home, there are things there I shall require, then to find this evil creature who lurks in darkness and lives on fear and terror.”

  There was something about the expression on his face which made the doctor think of the stern men of the past who had faced fire and torture in pursuance of their faith.

  Finding the witch wasn’t easy. Klien followed the priest from home to home and in each case he forced himself to remain silent as his friend talked with the occupiers. They respected the big man, were a little afraid of him, and normally would have done anything he asked. But now they lived beneath a greater fear. Personally they had nothing to fear from the priest, he would only help them, but they knew that the terrible creature who lurked in the darkness and held the threads of their lives in her hands would do them nothing but harm.

  And so they denied all knowledge of the witch even while their eyes shifted to dark corners and they shivered in the heat of the fire.

  A woman, half frantic with fear, finally gave them the clue they sought.

  “She is a bad one,” she snapped. “At first she pretended to help and was always in the homes of the men. Then she told them who and what she was and laughed as she boasted of the skill she had and the dolls she had made. She frightened the men and terrified the women. Zamboni died while unloading a ship and she said that she had cursed it. Antonio was hurt and she showed him his doll with its foot all crushed just like his own. Others fell sick and were-injured and always she laughed and showed them what she had done.

  “And then she asked for money?” Murphy was very gentle though Klien could tell from the way his jaw-muscles twitched that he was cold with rage. The woman nodded.

  “Ten per cent of all wages to be given to her. The men pay, what else can they do, and the women go without in this bitter winter.” She shrugged with the age-old fatalism of her race. “Better to be hungry than dead, signor. But it is hard that we must suffer so.”

  “You need suffer no longer,” said Murphy evenly. “I will face this witch and stop her from doing harm. Tell me where I can find her.”

  The address was a small shop down in the slum area and Klien shivered as he followed his friend through the streets. Things were happening too fast for him. It only seemed a moment ago that they had sat in the snug comfort of his surgery playing their usual chess and now, incredibly, they were on a witch-hunt in the slum area of a great metropolis.

  “This is the place.” Murphy halted at a door set flush with the wall and, while he rang the bell, Klien squinted through the dirty glass of the window to see what it contained. He made out the vague shape of a doll, some clothing and little toys such as are sold to children. He was trying to make out what a shapeless mass was when the door opened and a voice bade them enter.

  Inside a red lamp glowed from the low ceiling and the man who had opened the door stared at them with hooded eyes.

  “You wish something?”

  “I have called to see the owner of this place,” said Murphy coldly. “Take me to her.”

  “Madame Peroni?” The man shrugged. “I am sorry but it is very late and I cannot disturb her. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

  “Tonight.”

  “I am sorry but that is impossible. Madame Peroni is fatigued. She has worked hard and deserves her rest.” He made as if to close the door then halted as the big man rested his hand against his chest.

  “Petrocchio died tonight,” he said gravely.

  “You bring no news,” said the man, and a hint of amusement tilted the corners of his thin mouth.

  “I wish to see the witch,” said Murphy abruptly. “Take us to her.”

  “Witch?” The man laughed. “Really, sir, are you joking? Madame Peroni makes little dolls and puppets, small things to amuse children. Must she be called a witch because of that?” He moved towards the door again and this time Murphy did not attempt to halt him.

  Klien guessed that the big man was at a loss. He could not force an entrance and, if he complained to the police, who would believe his story? The doctor had just resigned himself to a wasted evening when a woman’s laugh echoed from a back room.
/>   “I am intrigued, Toni. They may enter.”

  “But Madame!” The man licked his lips with nervous indecision. “It would not be wise.”

  “Admit them!”

  There was iron and ice in the snapped command and the man cringed as though he had been a dog. He bowed and gestured towards the inner room. Murphy nodded and passed through a bead curtain. Klien, after a moment’s hesitation, followed him.

  He found himself in a room more luxurious than he had ever imagined.

  Soft carpets covered the floor. Rich hangings hid the walls and little statuettes of silver and jade stood on crystal tables. Perfume rose from aromatic incense burners and the lights were a soft harmony of colour.

  A woman rose as he entered and the doctor caught his breath at her sheer beauty.

  No witch this! No evil old hag muttering over her cauldrons. No crone bent and withered with age. She was tall, slim, dressed in the height of fashion and with hair as rich and as glowing as burnished copper. Her skin was of alabaster whiteness and against it the ruby of her lips looked like a fresh-made wound. Her eyes, wide and flecked with drifting fires of gold, seemed to hold the knowledge of ten thousand years. She smiled and gestured them to seats.

  “So, a priest, now I understand why Toni was so reluctant to admit you.” Her voice was deep and with a peculiar resonance. Listening to it Klien thought of her as the dream of every man and boy crystallised into reality. He became aware that she was looking at him.

  “And a doctor. A man who does not believe in anything he cannot see or touch. Truly, a strange combination.”

  “How did you know that I was a doctor?” Klien smiled as she looked towards him. She shrugged.