H C Turk, page 36
Necessarily we slept in the bog one night, on the firmest ground we found. The sole dry area available to collapsing witches, however, was scarcely large enough for our bags, much less our bodies. Therefore, we both accepted immediate, total stillness, since any tossing about would have us rolling down a slope toward appalling circumstances. And fully static I easily remained after falling asleep, for my mud coating dried to stiffen me, the sporadic drizzles that night only enough to irk my face from the moistened mud drooling into my eyes, such an annoyance as to attack me unconsciously; for one drop of mud I thought a blinding torrent set me into a common state of nightmarish foolishness wherein I believed that a water snake was eating my eyes as I proved myself the sinner by swimming hellishly away. Then I semi-awakened only long enough to comprehend that the true difficulty was no more than stinging rain even as I rolled over to shield my face with my fingers, finding better use for that hand as I lost balance and began tumbling down the slope with no ability to cease, a mere witch's limbs inadequate for overcoming God's own gravity, into the muck, through the layer of slime, gagging at once in anticipation of having the stuff on my tongue and therefore spitting it out in advance, which only opened my mouth and thereby allowed a true ingestion, a most effortful gagging thus ensuing as I threw myself upward in a harsh awakening; for at first I thought myself in a dream wherein I slid from a sinners' ship into the Irish Sea to drown along with Elsie, whom I had adjudicated the witch for failing as a servant to clean the Thames's sludge flowing under my bed and over me. But so common was this nightmare that I ignored it until finding myself asleep breathing mud, up and awake and gagging in a flash, clambering up the slope to collapse face down, arms spread across God's mediocre Earth for support, mouth in the dirt, but how to tell with all the muck on the tongue from immersion? Marybelle did not bother to awaken through this, my only consolation being that at least my bag had not accompanied me, for I was determined to retain it, not losing nor abandoning it until Marybelle lost hers. But being so superior a witch as to sense a sister's thoughts in her sleep, Marybelle next rolled over, retaining her balance though she nudged my bag with her sinners' shoes enough for it to roll away and down, lost in the mud, the entire remaining night finding me concerned with the horrors of retrieving it in the morning, of having to dig through the muck and not discovering the bag for hours, having to search the slime with my lace below the surface in order to reach bottom, eating scum all day only to sleep above it at night and again swim within the sludge during dreams of eating slime and swimming in muck the evening long. Therefore, at first light, having suffered through the unending night with partially-conscious though exhausted anticipation of waking horrors, up like a frog I leapt to tear myself from thoughts worse than nightmares or even operas in being true, worse for their describing not the past left behind, but the future to suffer through twice, once in the foretelling and the second in the upcoming experience, the former always worse by seeming endless and being repeated throughout the era of worry. To end this nightmarish foreboding, up I leapt at dawn to throw myself into the scum and thereby begin my torment immediately so as to end it as soon as possible, God willing, which He was not, though in a manner I was most successful, easily reaching upward from my position mired to the guts in the mud to grasp my case where it had lodged on a stone, remaining dry and muckless. But a failure I was by attempting to crawl out of the sludge with the bag instead of tossing it upward or asking Marybelle to remove it from my grasp, for too great was the weight for me to overcome the slippery bank, sliding backward and down, both myself and the bag well mired again in the sludge, this another instance in my doomed life of finding a nightmare come true to torment me, Marybelle by then awake and on her way, surely having reveled in the finest night's sleep of her lifetime, I bloody well hoped.
By noon we had exited the bog to enter less slippery land where we discovered a gritty creek that to the muck-witch sisters was surely God's most graceful river. Lolling within completely unclothed, we became decently clean and laughingly pleased, washing all our apparel including the semi-lady's underthings she would not bury, not if she had to dig in the mud, dry the frillies then into the bag for later secreting. First wash the luggage. Marybelle opened hers beyond my good view, though I saw items wrapped with waxen paper. Only her bag she cleaned, not its contents, which had been made impervious to mud not from the owner's great experience as a witch, but due to her opportunity to prepare, though I would have thought of no such wrapping regardless, therefore being inferior to this person as a witch even in a situation wherein such superiority seemed circumstantial. When we had been wet in the creek so long as to shrivel, out we came to lie on the stone bank, drying in the luxurious sunlight. And all the world was perfect, except for the starvation of those two witches somewhere in God's wilds whom Satan had not allowed to eat in days.
"Might I suggest, miss, if only in the way of fond, optimistic impression, that the worst of our travels be ended," I mentioned.
"You might not," Marybelle replied, "in that Satan has ears."
Again we walked, no longer approaching the mountains. From ahead, a light breeze brought a greater smell of animal warmth. As the land became less moist, our spirits became less slimy, especially when we smelled wild food, our small company of traveling theater witches moving up a rise to find and uproot groundbean plants, not a grand meal for Man's Isle, but wonderful after eating Satan's slime. Handfuls of the pale tubers we consumed, thereby gaining sustenance to support our further endless walking. Perhaps this eating was most satisfying because all our senses told us that the food ahead would be superior. Though bloated, we raised our bent torsos and attained a hearty rate of travel.
The marsh edge we traversed led to hilly land, gentle slopes of God's greenery, not the devil's stone. Eventually the gritty, grey earth changed to richer loam supporting plant life: clumps of the no-hue brush and wild grasses whose roots precluded a loosening of the soil with each rain. Low rock-wood trees and brown oaks for birds and squirrels began appearing in our noses. Into the day I became concerned again, as though a business person worried of invoices and income. So improved was the land that I wondered of proceeding so far as to find worse. Unfit for sinners in that no flat space was available for them to drag their horses and carts upon, the locale revealed to me no gross features detrimental to our living. Then I sought my missing thinking, wondering what inferior trait of this region I had overlooked that Marybelle would instantly fling before me after I revealed myself as foolish. None found, I proceeded with my mouth.
"I might ask, Miss Marybelle, whether we are so set in our traipsing that we can no longer understand settling."
would seek a stream instead of these wet ditches," she informed me.
"Yes, miss, thank you, miss," the fool replied.
The next day we found an excellent brook flanked by bright grasses and numerous trees. Into the rising ground the brook inversely disappeared, its source revealed by our walking: a bubbling spring producing a lovely pond with tiny fishes in clear water infinitely superior to Pangham Gardens or the Irish Sea.
So pleasing was this perfect water that my continued walking became lighthearted, for I hoped to discover further aspects of this land equally rewarding. Next encountered were bright blossoms and shading trees, and, yes, various berries and silkshoots for the nibbling. Most important was the greater fact of our being within rich forest land promising fine living for God's good animals-and what could be better? To find my own answer, I proceeded ever more rapidly, bag on my hip, happy strides carrying me onward, ever onward, only to become aware in the following moment that I was walking alone.
I turned. Behind me stood Marybelle by the pond, her bag on the ground. In the speckled shade of a yew, with the water's crisp music behind her, Marybelle stood looking toward me, toward bright Alba in a spot of sunlight on her endless way.
"Why go farther?" spake loquacious Marybelle.
Since her speaking was obviously a witches' test of some cruel nature, I paused to consider the ramifications hidden within Marybelle's apparently simple verbalities, convinced that cryptic notions lay therein to flog me with my own ignorance. From my brilliance, I thus gained full comprehension, replying with an idea to save me.
"We stand on the sight line of a sinners' roadway under construction and approaching this very moment."
"I smell nothing of them."
"Immediately beyond our sight, hidden by high ground and prevailing breezes to carry the smell away, lies a small village populated only by bishops, magistrates, and tormented lovers."
"Doubtful, but yonder tree will tell with its climbing," Marybelle returned, and pointed toward a grand hill some distance removed that held a towering plane tree with branches reachable by a flexible witch.
"No taller tree nor higher hill I find about," she added. "No better view would be afforded."
"True, miss, but a journey will be required for me to achieve the hill, its upperside, and then the treetop."
"Yes," verbose Marybelle replied. So I dropped my bag and moved away with firm strides and the semi-satisfied sense of having appeared less of a fool than possible, for my possibilities were boundless.
What an odd hill was this to become no larger in appearance as I approached, my impression due to the hill's being so removed and huge that I traveled an era and was blind from exhaustion by the time I reached its slopes. Around me I saw only forest. Taking no rest, I began the steep climbing, looking behind until espying Marybelle, for her sight was my first goal. Halting to look toward my sister, I was surprised to find her so tiny as to be viewable by only birds and witches. Again I was thrilled by God's great creation of distance, that substance of space, as tactile as water and wind, especially cherished by me then because nothing but distance separated us witches, no sinners' smoke nor haze nor city street, only God's singular color of multiple greens, only waving leaves and impassive tree trunks, only insects and birds and hiding marmots. With a brief wave to my sister, I turned to the hillside and continued climbing, cackling loudly, foolishly, so lustful to be so pleased.
Once on the hill's upper level, I became childish, intending to reserve my best sight for the end. Therefore, I only glimpsed the vista about me as I chose a tree and clambered, determining to be less giddy lest I miss a step and take a tumble down the hill to receive a greater beating than inconsequential Rathel had delivered. And this thoughtfulness was required, for the climbing was difficult with limbs too thick to readily grasp. So I proceeded in a businesslike manner, as though a widowed English lady plotting a bit of vengeful death for the day. But once up the tree and lodged in a crotch, I laughed at the thought of Rathel; for no sinner was in sight, nothing but a perfect view of home. The mountains were so near as to induce my gasp. Here was God's greatest exemplar of space, the mountains in fact being so distant that trees on their slopes seemed buds, though that impassive mass of grey and streaked green crowned with white seemed at the end erf the limb that held me. And I laughed from the joy in my life and my pride in great God, then ceased cackling upon slipping to nearly fall and break my back on a limb below. Then behind I turned, seeing far away a bog, then a swamp, and I laughed at Satan's rejected land, turning again toward God's. The remaining views about me presented only forest like the land below, perfect land to require no more endless walking, only endless life.
No words had I for these sights, for this total experience-and none was needed, for I was composing no opera. I was alive as though only now living. The details of shadow and light, of dark green and wilted grass, of bugs and birds and furry creatures, were all delightful. Nothing seemed static. The trees had rustling leaves, the animals and clouds were moving uniquely, and the Earth itself seemed to vibrate with life, as though having heart and lungs, fluids flowing warmly within.
Though joyous and well satisfied, I understood my position to have been mandated by serious, saving, concerns. Apart from a vantage of pleasure, I had the business of searching for sinners. Therefore, I carefully looked and smelled for any sign of sinning bodies and their products: cut trees, paths in the land, smoke from cooking, smells of droppings, unsensed activity causing poor growth in plants and fearful activity in animals. Thorough I was in waiting a true extent, long enough for the breezes to shift as they might and bring fragrant news: of a dead squirrel and a fox eating it before the carcass rotted, of the wild potato flower blooming, of a salt lick and some unidentifiable animal there I knew to be anything but a sinner. Then, being satisfied that creatures of God were alone in these wilds, I turned to glimpse Marybelle, the woman yet to move. Then down the tree and the hill I moved and through our home to my sister.
Twenty-three
"Either an especially damp, especially unseen cloud had passed by, or the beginning of cool weather I sense; do I not, Miss Marybelle?"
"Fall coming," she replied.
"Now that we have tacitly accepted this locale for living, I must suggest that shelter of some nature be sought; for although I well appreciate the advantages of our wild environment, let us not suffer therefrom. Let us not become inundated by the rain and snow, the hail and sleet, the ice and slush of winter."
"A cave mi^ht be sought."
"Having familiarity with such cliff holes from my past on Man's Isle, remaining within enough for a telling experience, I have come to understand that against my preference, the average cave is not only damp from nonabsorbency, but also too often dripping and puddling."
"Not so wet as the Irish Sea," Marybelle replied.
"No abandoned hut is to be found?"
"Not where sinners have never been."
"We thus concede that the sinners are alone amongst humans in their ability to use God's given materials for their own sheltering benefit."
"Say you this after condemning me for a single lizard eaten?"
"My meaning is not to promote the destruction of God's complex creatures with our teeth nor the vanquishing of trees with any extremity. However, not only multiple limbs but entire trees are known to fall without a witch's aid, and lesser branches can be broken away without crippling the bearing plant. As well, have not the sinners displayed the alternate possibility of laying stones together?"
"No mason am I nor carpenter," Marybelle mentioned.
"But fine cave-finders we shall prove to be," I declared, "even though our days here have not revealed the first crack expansive enough for a half-eaten lizard," and I stomped toward the nearest hillside.
Together we sought a stone cave for our dwelling. An era was required to search the local hillsides, Marybelle having to overcome her difficulties with climbing; and how fit for the Earth she was in her solidity and stiffriess, like a stump. And though I desired no cave, neither would I accept defeat in another challenge, having previously lost those of exiting London, selecting the proper town in Wales, determining the best direction for walking, halting *at the obvious locale for a home, surviving the bog, and so on. But after too many days of seeing countless fallen limbs and stones of a size to be handled, no more than several cracks in the hills had I found, some large enough to hold a single, folded witch, but no chamber to make even a cramped, uncomfortable dwelling.
Marybelle concluded our search by saying, "The land never did smell like one for caves this far from the mountains."
"Yet by your own suggestion we passed weeks or months in fruitless search when you never expected to achieve success?" I wondered.
"My expectation was to be on Man's Isle until my death."
"Mine was for you to reside in the Irish Sea forever, and praise God for that mistake. And since we've both been proven imperfect in our expecting, let us attempt to progress with intellection instead of dreams. Rational examination of the lost past you mentioned is that on the former island, you had a home of sorts as built either by yourself, some other witch, a herd of sinners, or other living creatures, did you not?"
"Built by God Himself, in that it was a cave," she said.
"Ah, and thus your predilection for wet holes. But since we'll not be transporting your former home here for our usage, and lacking both a selection of caves and a desire to live on the bare mountainside, might we not activate some further attainment of shelter? Though of course you be no carpenter nor mason-as I surmise from the great randomness of my guesswork thinking-might your vast and deservedly gained though less than ebullient collected knowledge contain details of how we might construct a type of shelter without being considered sinning carpenter nor blinking mason, neither of which you likely are, as I might presume without further intimations on your part?"
"Yes," she replied.
"And thank you, miss, for such relief, in that no longer do I fear becoming either a craftsman or an ice floe."
"You're welcome," she replied.
During the following days or decades, we proceeded to construct an unnatural shelter. My first notion was to duplicate Mother's cabin on Man's Isle, having scant desire for such an oppressive manse as the Rathel's. First we selected a reasonable locale.
"Here, miss, where the ground is firm and flat to allow us space without interference of growing trees," I suggested.
"Too low, it'll flood."
"Thank you everso, Marybelle, for saving us from a bog of our own making," I replied.
After further search, I offered an additional proposal.
"Up yon, Miss Marybelle, might be an acceptable locale, in being high to obviate flooding and the onset of glaciers, though protected from blowing snows by the surrounding trees and additional thick foliage."
"They be the runningvine bush, which grows so fast as to overrun us during first spring."
