H C Turk, page 42
"Your minister would be guiding her soul to Hell with his immoral pointing," I retorted. "My grand-uncle and myself with our hands and hearts will bury our beloved Marybelle, and for your death box and the conveyance I shall pay you coin. Being Christians loved by God as we love Him, we shall pray her poor soul to Heaven ourselves, as aided only by Jesus."
"No price need be paid," the magistrate responded with more kindness than before, "in that we accept responsibilities beyond mere law."
"Beyond mere life, so it seems, Lord Holiness," I harshly returned. "But I thank you true for requiring no payment, in that all our funds were in my aunt's bag, which is not in my possession."
"Yet it is, miss, yes," Waingrow quickly replied, stepping away to a tall cabinet, removing Marybelle's bag, which he provided me. "As well I say you shall find the contents undisturbed."
"God bless you, sir, for your aid, but neither you nor a decent minister will relieve me of the grief within me that I pray God I might survive. And since my heart will not begin to heal until my aunt is buried and her soul released to Jesus, I would accept her . . . person . . . soon, please; for truly the more I consider this dying, the more agony I feel."
"Within moments, Miss Alba Landham, your aunt's remains shall be brought before this office in a wagon. Then you might go at your own speed, your own manner, and . . ."
Waingrow found himself alone at his sentence's end, for I had grasped Marybelle's bag and walked away. Stepping outside, I waited on the walkway, the magistrate sending a constable to accompany me, but he remained apart. When a wagon came with the box, I was surprised at the fine construction of this pauper's coffin. Smooth but not polished with wax, its craftsmanship approached the Rathel's furniture, but made to contain no linen, no life. Should its color therefore have been red, or black?
Waingrow's man instructed the driver and his assistant to convey me and the casket wherever I desired. And though the constable placed my bags within the wagon, when he offered his hand that I might sit with the two sinners ahead, I stepped around to climb into the rear unaided, settling myself beside the casket.
"I sit with my love, sir," I told the male quietly; and with a salute from him as though I were an officer, I was taken with my love away. *
The village sinners stared at me as though I were royalty expected. Since no smoke nor smell of blood was rising from the box, why did I achieve their attention? Only due to my odd position behind with death? No grieving did I display, no spastic weaving of hands before my weeping eyes. No interest had I in feigning sufficient grief, for interval was my only challenge, this contest akin to that of the previous night in which I had survived duration. Fearful of the subject, I avoided thoughts of Marybelle's plan, fearful because my solitary actions would be required, and I remained ignorant. But would a vapid state provide adequate love for Marybelle, and what quantity could be proper for her condition? Was she alive or dead, retrievable or returning? And poor was my heart that my best hope was to find Marybelle in only two pieces.
Past the farm we moved and those sinners who had allowed my ruin by cooperating with my lustful journey to their town. Far from the trail, the family stood before their home as though official folk. Looking to me, the girl raised her hand in a gesture filled with a pity sad enough to smell. Then she bowed her head, covering her face with both hands. Not touched by either parent, the girl looked up to see me blow her a kiss. This was no aid, for her shoulders and all her body shook with weeping; but, yes, aid it was, for the mother then drew her daughter near.
As though a dream, I suffered a reliving, but this as inverted as I. Again I was in a wagon dragged by horses to the edge of the sinners' land with Marybelle and our baggage. As kind as our previous driver, these males asked of the casket after placing it on the grass, or was this mere curiosity? As far as possible we had traveled before coarse land stopped the wagon. My great-uncle comes, I lied, and they asked his source. A cabin yon, I replied, and waved my arm nowhere. How is the box carried? they asked. By a sled for dragging, I said, and if they had further queries, to ask Jesus for inspiration; and the sinners knew to depart.
I waited for them to leave my sight. This was my initial decision. Next I looked toward the coffin, for the first instance with deliberation. Then, with no forethought, I achieved unspoken words, and was this scream in my head not a prayer? When can I love her last? I thought. When can I grieve in my heart to myself, and not with a lying mouth to sinners? Then, as though granted revelation by God Himself, I knew that I would have to earn my grief by disposing of my guilt.
I was staring at this box, another wooden cave Marybelle slept in, like that home of her own conception. I was staring at her bag, then grasped it as though food required for my survival, understanding how easy examining this container would be compared to the other. So I opened it greedily, needing an action to begin, for the sooner started the sooner complete. Within were Marybelle's garments and shoes, her Bible missing because it had been given me, and one of those wax-wrapped items, narrow and dense. Of course, Marybelle's knife. Another wrapped parcel held coins, but the luggage held no magic. None besides the knife, for with its sight I understood the future, and that was the casket. I would have to open the box, but nailed tightly it was, like a crate, as though containing porcelain items shipped from the Continent. Whatever shattering had occurred therein I had to see, for repair thereof was my expected expertise. I imagined opening the thing even as sinners rode by to ask in Jesus's name of my actions. I imagined opening the coffin even if alone in the
world, and found I was not prepared to think further.
I would have to move the coffin deeper into the wilds. Alternately I could remove Marybelle's. . . person ... and carry her and our two bags, leaving the casket to be found empty by sinners. Or I could drag the crate far enough for it to be hidden from easy view, leave the bags temporarily, then move Marybelle to a remote locale and . . .
I discerned its asymmetrical shape. The coffin's narrow end was literally fit for legs placed together, the other broader for shoulders. I approached the former, presuming it lighter. Grasping the lumber's edges, I lifted the coffin, stepping firmly, but had to drop the weight after only two paces. With further attempts, I learned that long, reverse thrusts wherein I grimaced and nearly ran were most effective; so into the bushes I moved and through, deep, deep breaths not of effort but pain, around this tree in a final spurt before dropping the box, and me.
I sat on the casket where I had placed the bags, which had fallen off. Standing to retrieve the luggage, I found my legs as heavy as the coffin and as limp as water. Only to the far end of the casket did I move before collapsing to bend double, breaths moving through me as though the sea currents in a nightmare. But no longer was I on the narrow end. I imagined the box below, imagined sitting on Marybelle's face, on her head that was no longer. . .
My body was the next burden I dragged, to the paired bags that I could scarcely move. So I hid them in the brush, for not all of these containers could I be conveying at once. Then I returned to the coffin. Lifting the narrow end, I attempted to pull, but could not; so I dropped the box, nearly smashing my feet. Since holding up the coffin was no longer possible, I jerked it along with low, wrenching moves. In this manner I proceeded over rocks to trip me and vines to entangle my feet, jerking along until I collapsed onto my back, so exhausted as to be astounded by the thought that ever again I could lift my arms. Too uncomfortable to be still, I rolled my head every way as though to find an angle whereby air might more easily enter. Racked with pain I lay as though I had just killed another man; but, no, not so great was my distress. Why, then, did I receive the impression that pain of this nature would come?
I opened my eyes, rising on one elbow to look about for a new path. To the incline past the thickets down the slope. There I walked with a slowness unmatched in my recollection. Yes, at the bottom I would find easier passage. Then proceed north, deliberating my further course upon reaching that bend. Return to the box to continue dragging.
This lifting had become die same as a blow, as though I were hitting myself with timbers instead of moving them. For a moment, I nearly smiled, so ludicrous were the sounds I produced, as though animal croaks or muted curses spoken in no language known. I nearly laughed from the absurdity of so punishing myself; and again I found a connectivity between humor and madness I could not quite comprehend, not while experiencing it.
To the slope I struggled with the coffin, hoping to recall the location of the baggage. How far had I gone? What distance had I dragged my impossible burden, what interval or era? At the incline with the box, I decided to push the thing with a controlled sliding, God's natural force of downward attraction to aid me. But after the lift and pull was a required drop, and here the box I sat heavily upon my feet, immediately struggling to lift the casket before I was crushed. But not flat enough on the slope's edge was the coffin for such rough handling. Once lifted from my feet and dropped, the crate came down on a corner, then fell unbalanced to one side, angling to slip down the slope uncontrolled. Grab for it and hold I did until the box was lost, tumbling loudly twice; and with the second, had I not heard a thumping from within?
Gently the casket landed. Sliding down with care, I found the box inverted, and then I had to right it. Though a difficult task without the constraints of cautious handling, even greater was my stress from rolling the coffin so gently that nothing inside would be jostled; yet as the box rolled came another thud, and this I felt within me.
At once I began dragging the casket so as not to ponder that sound, so that die pain in my body would overwhelm the pain in my heart, my spirit. To the bend of the terrain I moved with the box, falling motionless only twice, gaining my latest goal late in the afternoon to find beyond a ledge, one much lower than my height, but as possible to climb with the coffin as a tree.
I wished to go farther. I wished to move the casket that entire day, and the next, and next; because when finally I ceased, I would have to open it. Then I would find Marybelle within. But I knew I could not continue forever, could not allow Marybelle to go long without repair; for eventually would she not truly be dead, permanently dead, and become spoiled the same as any old meat?
I had to open the box at that instant, no longer at some indefinite end. I had to open the box immediately, but could not, for so securely nailed was the lid that no human hands could pry it up. Only thick splinters split by nails could I remove with my fingers. In a grand feeling of mad relief, I came aware that I had left the knife with Marybelle's bag, and would have to return for this prying implement. But my return was a holiday, a mad emotion in which I delayed the true end of my journey. Satisfying was the excellent distance I had traveled, and no difficulty was encountered in my finding the hidden bags. But returning with them was a chore, though I valued the pain, the torment of my arms hiding the horror of my journey's cqpclusion; for there was the box, and since I had the knife, I could open the lid, and must.
Dusk had approached. With further delay, I would find myself in darkness. What thoughts were these to consider night beneficial for its blindness, rendering me unable to see dead, half-dead Marybelle, see her parts? But wherein the disadvantage when I had no idea how to proceed with her . . . person? But I required no idea, for eventually I found feeling.
With a lethargy of the mind fit my exhausted body, I began removing the coffin's lid. Holding the knife was unpleasant, for in this natural land, its metal smell seemed perverse-yet how fitting this trait was considering the usage. And why did I feel a distress like drowning when I began to pick at the casket's lid, feel as though I were stabbing myself?
My lethargy decreased in proportion to my failure, for the lid had been fitted so well that even finding a beginning was difficult. At the end split by nails, I managed to insert the knife, but my initial prying was fruitless because I split more wood away without forming any gap between lid and box. This useless poking then became intimidating, for would I be knifing the thing until Marybelle rotted and the sinners found me robbing graves? Replacing anxiety with activity, I began pounding on the hilt, first with my palm, then with a rock. I pried by leaning on the knife with all the force I could apply. And when I had formed space enough for my fingers to be inserted, I understood this end of the casket to be the wider; so I moved to the opposite and successfully pried until breaking the knife.
Exactly at the hilt it snapped, and I was astonished to find this sinning metal little stronger than wood. Attempting to use the implement with no handle, I cut my palm, bleeding on the sticks I next gathered, inserting them into my gap and prying, then using larger limbs that functioned better because of their length. And though my hand was a viscous, reddish mess sticking to the wood, the pain was not important, not with the greater pain to come from within that box when I opened it.
Limb after limb I broke, others I had to discard, being too brittle or too flexible, like a frail and weak witch. Up the slope, slipping and crawling into the forest time after time, during my later returns simply sliding down and scraping myself bloody. In another contest was I, a failing challenge with the sun, for I would not be repairing the dark. And I did not wish to fail. I did not wish to fight nightfall and magic and Satan and the sinners' work all together against me. So I sought limbs, but the best was too large for my narrow gap, and those thinner broke and broke. Therefore, I used my hands and nearly broke them, so that as well as cut and bloody, the one became so swollen and sore I could scarcely close it. Crawling to the trees again, I returned with as fine a limb as any, but too large. So I entered the crack with my bent arm, and with my shoulder at the lid's edge, I stressed every muscle in my back and side until some part of my flesh came loose enough to have me gasp and go rigid; but there was a space as though part of God's sky, enough for my best tree limb. Inserting the stick, I was pained by my side and my hand as I pried along the lid's perimeter in a strong continuity of movement, aware that this great effort was required merely to open the coffin; and there was the lid on the ground and Marybelle before me.
Not so dim was the remaining day that I could not see perfectly, see all of Marybelle's. . . person. Her parts. Everywhere within were lengths of broken tree limbs, on Marybelle's legs and torso, one on her neck, her empty neck. There on her crotch was
Marybelle's head, askew, the cut end a plane of red flesh and vessels as though from a beast half eaten by predators, but cut so cleanly, like a butchered animal in a sinners' shop. But the first astonishment was her face, the lips partly open, eyes closed, but the cheeks and nose were smashed and bruised, and must have been terribly painful-but what could she feel? And I knew the source. Marybelle's thrashing before the magistrate had not caused this damage, but my own mishandling, Marybelle's ruin due to my rush, my hurry to avoid her sight, herself.
Death has no smell, for death is nothing, but I was sickened by Marybelle's subtle odor, that personal fragrance of her body, my sister's body, and her blood, so meager a smell that she could only be dead, she would always be dead. I was sickened because here was all my love in the world, that love for my departed mother and minor love for Elsie incomparable to the desperate love I felt for Marybelle, my sister so great a portion of my life that she seemed yet living. And I fell away from the casket and to God's ground and vomited nothing, for I was empty of food but filled with agony, my body retching in spasms to force up none of the poison within me, for it was that very love to sicken me, and would remain. But was I most ill because I knew Marybelle to be gone, or because I believed her ideas of magic, believed her to be partially present; and the only force in God's universe to save her continued living was me, though I could not, not in my ignorance, weakness, my imperfection as a witch? But I wished to, desiring her life enough to kill myself instead of accept her death.
Ah, bless you, Lord God, this knife would do, and I reached for the broken metal, having begun the contest of ending Marybelle's death by somehow killing it. Once in my hand, did not the metal feel fine? Yes, but also cold-like my flesh-then hot-like the metal's forged source-too hot, so hot I perspired as I stared at the metal in my palm where it never belonged until now and thereafter would never have a better place. So hot I perspired and my mouth salivated as though trying to aid me sweat. So hot I became that I removed my clothing to remove some discomfort, all my clothes except my shoes, which were too difficult to dislodge, as though nailed on, coffin lids of leather. Then I wiped the sweat away, wiped it from my neck and shoulders and then my chest, and that hand on my bosom seemed the sinner's, a touch I recognized; for surely males had touched me there more thoroughly and often than I. That hand was a sinner's by being mine, for I was part sinner, in my blood and my desire for their life, that hand on me a sinner's because it remained and fondled and squeezed the flesh made to encapture sinners, kneading my breast as had those men who died from the touch-and was this not the death I sought? Yes, and from the nearest sinner-me-came the smell of sex at the body's bottom, but different here; for all the others had been male and this was a woman's, my smell different by being invert.
Hot was my breast in one sinning hand and my baby slot in the other, for that was the next goal of sinners conveying their lust along my torso, and my lust was life, was death. One hand on my breast and one on my cunt as I looked to Marybelle, her head on her crotch like that sinner's hand on mine. And here were the rules of my evil challenge, for could not some exchange be arranged in that I wished to displace deaths? Why not limb for limb, for were these not the parts transmitting death to men and Marybelle? Yes, so I continued that conveyance of lust, lust of love, along my body as I had conveyed the coffin's opening, proceeding from end to end, from teat to groin, taking Marybelle's head with no remorse nor fondness to stick the bloody end between my legs while that sinner continued to squeeze my breast. Since one hand held Marybelle's person, the other was required to hold the knife, and that was the sinning one against my bosom unable to resist my white flesh. So it continued to squeeze metal and flesh as I pressed Marybelle against me to have her love as near as possible, the emotion conveyed so profoundly that I hoped for her to grow there. The season above was not that of new growth, however, but autumn, the one of fall, in that my parts were dropping, not so neatly as the leaves via God nor Marybelle's head via Satan; but there was my breast hanging only by skin, no smell of fresh blood noticed, no sound of meat being cut away. No perceptions had I, for all were occupied by this incredible screaming, such a vibration that my spine shook and my jaws were locked open, and the cry was terrifying; but how was I to notice even so frightening a response when the devil was cutting me asunder? How could I feel mere demonic sex when I was dying by mutilation?
