*
"I simply can't go through all that again," says Bella plaintively. "Not with John. I just can't. Please don't tell me to do it again."
"You don't have to do it again," says Hester.
"Really?" cries Bella. "Oh God, I'm so relieved. You can't know how relieved. But what about the next priestess? Can I make her with Thurston? She'll be lovely, I know she will. I'm actually quite keen on it now; being pregnant I mean. I was terribly disappointed when I wasn't."
"Good, because now I know you're going to behave yourself and do as you're told I'm going to tell you who it really is."
"Really is? What do you mean? Do you mean it wasn't John at all?"
"Of course not. You didn't honestly think it was, did you? Just imagine the effect of five thousand years of Rook genes, the mind boggles!"
Bella makes several false starts, mentally opening her mouth and closing it again before replying. "But . . . why?"
"Just a test, dahling, but a very important one. I couldn't risk you messing up the real thing until I was sure of you. Anyway, it was fun, wasn't it?"
"Fun! No, it bloody well wasn't fun!"
"No? Well I enjoyed it. He was so deliciously angry in the wood; I really wondered what he was going to do. And then in the Land Rover, when that funny little Scotsman turned up with his fiddle . . ."
"Then you're sick!"
Bella can feel her mother chuckling. It is a very strange sensation because it makes her want to laugh as well and there is absolutely nothing to laugh about.
"Don't you want to know who it is, then?" asks Hester archly.
"Not much."
"Should be obvious if you think about it: tall, dark, handsome, good brain, and, more importantly — every generation has one."
"Sorry, you've lost me."
"Don't be thick, dahling. It's Michael of course. Not quite top drawer in his case, but you can't have everything."
"Michael!"
"Aren't you pleased? I thought you'd be pleased."
"But, Mummy, I can't! Not Michael. I mean, I just can't!"
"Why? You fancy him, don't you? Well, I know you do."
"How?" frowns Bella. "How do you know? . . . Oh I see." It's hateful to think of her mother feeling the same things she does, especially things like that. It's just too embarrassing. "Anyway, that's not the point," she says. "He's my sister's husband. It's wrong!"
"Oh pooh to wrong. I told you, we priestesses are above all that. We do what we have to do."
"But if it's Michael," protests Bella, "that means . . ."
"Well, you had to know sooner or later."
*
At a muffled cry of "Come in," Bella walks into the nicotine fug of Rat's study.
"Can I have a word with you, uncle?"
"You may," says Rat. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"It's a bit difficult, actually."
Rat smiles, his teeth gripping his pipe. "Better sit down then."
They sit and stare at each other, Bella feeling deeply uncomfortable. "Um, I'm not sure how to start really."
"I find coming straight to the point is usually best," suggests Rat gently.
"All right then." She glances towards the door and lowers her voice slightly. "It's about my father actually."
Her uncle gazes at her for a few moments. "Yes, what about him?"
"I just feel I want to know something about him: what he looked like and so on. Did you know him? I mean, do you know who he is, or was?"
Rat draws heavily on his pipe and exhales slowly, almost disappearing in the dense cloud of bluish, aromatic smoke. Bella is pleased to notice that it's her gift tobacco.
"You've certainly taken your time," he says at last. "Miranda came to me when she was about twelve."
"Gosh, really? What did you tell her?"
"I told her to ask her mother. She didn't come back so I assume she did."
"Well it's a bit late for that," says Bella. "That's why I'm asking you. Who was he? Do you know? Is he still alive?"
Again, Rat does not immediately reply. "Your mother had a legion of admirers. She was a very lovely young woman."
"You mean, you don't know which of them it was?"
"She never told anyone who it was."
"Did she know?"
"Yes, I'm sure she knew."
"Wasn't there a terrible scandal?"
"No-one left to make one, fortunately."
So you really don't know who my father is? Does aunty? Perhaps I should ask her."
Rat shakes his head. "No, don't do that." Leaving his pipe on the ashtray he gets up and walks to the window, his hands thrust deep in his blazer pockets. "Suppose I did know," he says, addressing his remarks to the moorings and the jetty, "would it make you terribly unhappy if I didn't tell you? You've managed perfectly well until now."
"But why? Is there something awful?"
"No, not awful, but I promised someone a long time ago I wouldn't tell, and I'm honour bound to keep that promise."
"Mummy, do you mean?"
"No, not your mother. I know how you must feel, but I'd really appreciate it if you didn't press me on it, or anyone else."
"I expect you think it's a bit strange," says Bella, "my waiting until now to ask. But when I was young I simply never thought about it. I was a bit dreamy I suppose and I sort of took things for granted. And anyway I had you. You were all the father I needed."
Rat, turns and gazes down at her. "That's a very nice thing to say, Bella. A very nice thing to say. I really appreciate that." Clearly moved, he pushes aside his glasses and wipes the corner of one eye.
Bella regards him fondly for a moment. She cannot bear to make him break his promise, although she knows she could if she wanted to. She wouldn't need to be an adept in the dark arts to do that. Getting up to go, she fondly kisses him. "I won't mention it again, promise."
Just as she reaches the door, Rat asks: "Have you ever wondered about your sister?"
"Miranda? Why? What do you mean?"
"Well, who her father was."
"Er, I suppose so, yes,"
He gazes at her thoughtfully. "And do you think perhaps it was the same man, given that you're so alike?"
Bella's heart does a little flutter. She doesn't want to hear this. She doesn't want to share her father with Miranda, whoever he was. "We're not that alike," she protests. "And anyway, if we are, we're both like Mummy." Rat doesn't reply, and for a moment she stands silently by the door, considering the implications. "So if you're saying we've got the same father that would mean he must have been around for five years at least. Or went away and came back. It wasn't just a couple of one-night stands, or anything."
"No, it certainly wasn't that," says Rat, looking meaningfully at her.
"Did you really love Mummy very much?" asks Bella gently.
"Yes, I did."
"And was I, you know — wanted?"
"Enormously."
She goes and kisses him again. "I love you . . . Uncle."
Rat smiles sadly. "Love you too."
I don't understand," says Bella. "He's not tall enough and he's bald. How could he possibly have been right for us?"
"He's an old man. You shrink when you're old. He must have lost two inches. And he wasn't always bald, he had a nice head of jet-black hair once. He was really rather pretty."
"Did you love him?" asks Bella.
"Perhaps a little."
*
"I love you," breathes Michael. "Do you love me?"
"No," says Bella. "But you can do that some more if you like."
"Do what?"
"What you just did."
Better than Rook anyway, she tells herself. I could put up with quite a lot of this.
"Michael."
"Yes?"
"When I go to the Stones, will you come with me? I mean, I could ask Thurston, but he gets bored and he puts me off."
"If I'm home, yes."
"Even if it's raining?"
"Sure, e
ven if it's raining."
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
To the eternal Stones a young girl's terrified whimpering is nothing new. In their five thousand years of existence they have seen much horror and suffering, have mutely accepted the blood that flows from Yesod – which is Foundation or Justice – on behalf of a whole pantheon of false gods. Patiently they wait for man to achieve enlightenment, to become whole, but still he seeks to influence, to propitiate; though whom he does not know and why he does not understand.
There is no moon tonight, no stars. It is pitch-dark and eerily silent but for the mewling of the girl. Then, one by one, a circle of flaming torches flares into life, dimly illuminating the sinister hooded figures that carry them.
A nod from the High Priest and they begin a low chant. "Take this our sacrifice, oh Lord Lucifer and manifold thyself unto us. Take this our sacrifice, oh Lord Lucifer and manifold thyself unto us —"
"Wait a minute," says Dave. "Shouldn't it be manifest? I think you'll find it's manifest, not manifold."
Everyone groans. There is a choking sob from the sacrifice, callously ignored.
"All right, manifest, then. As if it matters," snaps Darren irritably. "Do you have to keep interruptin'?"
"Course it matters," persists Dave, "Otherwise he's not going to know what we're talking about, is he?"
"Well that's just where you're wrong, clever clogs. He'll know because he can read our minds. The Devil can read minds; everyone knows that. He's probably reading yours right now and thinking, 'What a stupid pillock!'"
"Then why do we have to chant if he can read our minds? Why can't we just get on with it?"
"Listen, who's the High Priest here?"
"You are."
"Yes that's right, I am. So shut up. Now we're going to have to start again."
"We can't," says Brian, "we've run out of matches."
"Oh for Chrissake! Okay, leave the torches lit then. Just make with the fuckin' litany. On the count of three — one, two, three."
The coven begins dutifully to chant again: "Take this our sacrifice, oh Lord Lucifer and manifest thyself unto us. Take this our sacrifice, oh Lord Lucifer and manifest thyself unto us," while in a louder voice Darren slowly intones: "heaven in is it as earth in done be will your come kingdom your name thy be hallowed heaven in art who father Our."
As he speaks, he begins to move towards the altar stone over which Bluebell – for it is she – lies spreadeagled and stark naked, her wrists and ankles secured by binder twine to four stout stakes.
"No, no, please don't," she sobs. "I want to go home."
Darren steps forward. "In the name of The Lord Lucifer I defile thee," he cries, and the chanting stops. Falling to his knees, he draws aside his robes, causing Bluebell to cry out and struggle even harder, her writhing body glistening in the flickering, red light. Several torches are lowered to give a better view.
"Here, Careful what you're doin' with that fuckin' thing," complains Darren, pushing one aside.
"Go on, then, get on with it!" says Aaron eagerly.
"Yeah, go on. Let's see you give it 'er."
Darren fumbles about for a few moments, then stops. "I can't, not with you lot watching," he grumbles. "Back off."
"That's not fair," says Aaron. "It's supposed to be witnessed by the coven. You said so."
"Not from fuckin' six inches away! Go on, back off."
They back off. Darren kneels forward again and feigns a few lacklustre thrusts. No one is fooled.
"What's the matter, Darren, can't you get it on?"
"I'd like to see you bloody get it on, with you lot watchin'," says Darren. "Just give me a minute will you?"
Bluebell abruptly sits up, pulling two of the stakes out of the ground as she does so. "I'm fed up with this," she says crossly. "I've gone off it now. I'm cold and I've got the cramp."
Everyone groans.
"For this I missed Blackadder," says Brian, rolling his eyes heavenward.
"It's all right. My dad's recording it for me," says Dave. You can come round to mine and watch it."
"Have you got a video, then?" says Brian. "I didn't know that."
"It was a stupid idea anyway," says Aaron. "She's not even really a virgin."
"I am, nearly," says Bluebell indignantly.
"Oh great, the Devil's really gonna want a nearly-virgin, I don't think! Anyhow, it don't count cos she wanted it. She's gotter not want it. We oughter tie her down properly and all have her and then kill her. Then the Devil might come."
Bluebell jumps up. "I'll bloody kill you, Aaron Whimbrel," she says, and pushes him over.
*
"Do you really do magic at the Stones?" asks Bluebell.
Bella regards her suspiciously. "Has that Darren been watching me again? Because if he has, I'll —"
"Of course he hasn't. I wouldn't let him. I don't want him looking at other women, do I? I just wanted to know, that's all. Does it work?"
"Yes, sometimes," says Bella grudgingly.
"What sort of magic is it? Do you, like, do spells?"
"I'm not sure I should tell you."
"Oh go on. I'm really interested."
"Well yes, it's spells; that's all I'm saying."
"Can't you give me an example? Just one."
Bella sighs. All right, I once got rid of an embarrassing wart that I'd had for ages."
"Where was it?" demands Bluebell.
"Just somewhere embarrassing," says Bella primly.
Bluebell considers this. "How do you do it then? I mean, is every spell different?"
"The words are different, obviously, but they don't seem to matter very much as long as you get the form right. You always start the same: you have to make a pentagram."
"How? Do you pace it out, like the mystic circle?"
"No, you draw it, with a stick or something, and you have to do it from the inside, that's important, and you don't step out of it until you've finished the spell, or else you'll get the opposite, and when you're finished you have to un-draw it by going round again widdershins, which means backwards. And you have to use something that looks like what you want to do the spell on; like, if it's a wart, you make a little doll and put a lump on it where the wart is and then you say a suitable spell and rub off the wart and then it goes."
"Like sticking pins in someone you don't like?"
Bella frowns. How does she know about that? "Yes, because they're linked: the thing is the symbol and the symbol is the thing. That's the whole basis of it really. Of course, I'm the Priestess of the Stones. It probably wouldn't work for anyone else."
"The thing is the symbol and the symbol is the thing," repeats Bluebell thoughtfully. "And have you ever done anything really dark and evil?" She hesitates. "Like raise the Devil?"
Bella immediately jumps up and heads for Roz's door. "You must think I'm stupid," she says. "That Darren put you up to this, didn't he?"
"No, honestly!"
"Yes he did. That's all he ever talks about — black magic and the Devil. He's obsessed! If you'll take my advice, young lady, you'll stay well away from him and find someone your own age. Someone nice."
With which Bella sweeps out, feeling about fifty.
*
It's a sleepy, weekday afternoon. Bella is at work, Veronica is on the veranda, dozing over her book, and Rat and Thurston are doing some final odds and ends aboard the Queen, now resplendent as ever. There is no one else about. Slipping in through the kitchen, Bluebell makes her way to the airing cupboard, closing the door behind her. It is quite a large cupboard, more like a room, with its own electric light and tiny, high-up window. In a corner, languishing among the spare blankets and towels, is Carol.
Using a piece of Primrose's chalk, Bluebell draws a pentagram on the floor, muttering: "The thing is the symbol and the symbol is the thing." Then, taking out a box of matches, she strikes one. Holding the flame to Carol's left hand she watches the grubby pink wool shrivel and blacken and the stuffing start to smoulder. Almost
immediately, from the direction of the travellers' encampment, comes a faint but deeply gratifying scream.
"Wicked!" breathes Bluebell.
*
"Aunty," says Bella. "Have you been tidying my room?"
"No, why?"
"It's just that I can't find my grimoire."
"I wouldn't know it if I saw it," says Veronica, not looking up from her sewing. "What is it?"
"It's a book of spells."
"Then I certainly haven't seen it. You should take more care of your things."
"It's most peculiar. It's definitely not there. I've searched and searched. Are you sure you haven't been tidying up? It was in my bottom drawer."
"I wouldn't dream of going through your drawers, especially now you're married."
"Why should that make a difference?"
"I don't know, it just does.
Bella looks thoughtful and a little worried. Aunty, I'm just going to pop out."
"At this time of night? What do I tell Thurston?"
"Tell him I've gone to see McNab. Something urgent."
"I knew it!" whispers Bella. "I knew she was up to something. I wouldn't trust that little madam as far as I could throw her."
They have used the darkness and the noise of the chanting to creep unnoticed to within a few yards of the Stones and are now lying prone among the heather, the long shadows of the circling coven passing and re-passing over them.
"Oh Lord Lucifer, we pray you accept the life of this innocent virgin," beseeches Darren.
"Kill her! Kill her! Kill her!" cry the others, excitedly.
"Did you hear that?" says Bella. "There's going to be a murder!"
"Och, they're jist messin aboot," whispers McNab. 'They'd no really hurt onybody."
"Do you want to chance it? Come on!"
The sight that meets their eyes fills them with horror. Sprawled across the altar stone, her clothing all awry, is Carol. The coven now stand with their torches bent towards her and Darren, in his robes, is brandishing one of Ho's razor-sharp kitchen knives. It glints in the flickering light as he raises it high above his head. "Oh Lord Lucifer," he repeats, "hear our prayer. Take the life of this woman as our offering and appear before us."
Isabella: A sort of romance Page 48
