H C Turk, page 5
"Be at peace, unfortunate witch, for God in His utter wisdom has shown you the only manner of rest, and so shall it be delivered to ye and your heinous friends who will end their wickedness in light of God's will. Name your fellows, and before Jesus I vow to fulfill His salvation for you by providing the death you have envisioned."
Breathing deeply, feigning such weakness that she could only roll onto her back, Marybelle looked up to the bishop, with a quiet voice speaking of God's visit that had come solely from her imagination.
"There came a vision," she whispered, "a vision where Jesus from the cross reached down to touch me, vowing that no witch who confesses in agony will be touched by her greatest fears, by metal or flames. Lord Jesus with His own right hand reached down to tie stout rope about my legs and to a stone my size from the cliffs of Man's Isle. His angels then descended with peace to lower me into the Irish Sea, to bury and slay me as the Lamb of God watched over me until I died and the evil within me was released, washed clean by God's sea and Jesus's blood."
Marybelle then blinked, and with a more worldly visage, looked upward to the bishop, touching his holy ankle as she concluded.
This must be you, God's man. This must be you who binds my legs and my death in accord with God, who watches above me while I die and thereby gain the Lord's salvation. . . ."
The pledge was made and sealed with holy gestures, holy phrases. No hesitation had the bishop, for what more constant truths were known of witches than their fear of fire and that in no way could they swim? After the oath was given, Marybelle again grew agitated, asserting that her salvation could wait no longer, for she had suffered a century with her burden of evil. Now that God and His man had promised, the cleansing power of a kindly death could not come soon enough. Marybelle then spoke a desire to regain her strength quickly so that she might arise and point out each true witch. With his fine public voice, the bishop prayed aloud for God to grant this evil one a quick recovery. And, lo, as though her body were reborn by God die Maker, Marybelle rose renewed before Dalimore with an energy lost only to histrionics.
Rejoicing, Marybelle led the sinners to their victims. Accurately she dismissed the poor sinners for being only women, then revealed the true sisters. Though none of these witches was aware of the plan, Marybelle was able to describe her designs with only her presence as she stood before her sisters and condemned them.
Standing in our cell, she cried, These are each a witch and Satan's own. Know now, unholy creatures, that your time of suffering is ended, for Lord Jesus sends His Father's man with salvation. Confess ye the evil of your lives and be cleansed with the healing death of an ocean drowning. Confess now before Jesus!" she shouted.
Mother said nothing. Carefully she smelled Marybelle before exploding. Tearing at her attire, she leapt into the air, thrusting her limbs about as she collapsed onto the floor, her torso jerking as she slobbered and screamed.
"God tears the truth from me past Satan! I am the witch and ever the witch-God's will be done if His men can do it!" And
she thrashed twice before calming, breathing roughly.
Panic in Mother was a lie. Kindly love for me and our friends was her life, not mortal passion. I could smell no such response from her. She reeked of effort and energy, but also of truth. Therefore, my response was not difficult. I was no ancient witch who had suffered from sinners for decades. I was a child, and came aware that I no longer needed to feign a strength I had yet to achieve, and suffer the stress of dishonesty. Looking from my mother and past Marybelle, I met the bishop's eyes, relaxing my efforts of salvation that were never more than hope.
"I am the witch God and Mother made me," I declared, then pointed to Marybelle with a languid imitation of her gesture. "I am the same witch as she." Then, with sheer honesty, I fainted.
Though smothering while bound in the sea seemed more cold destruction than salvation, this was not my greatest fear. From my first smell of the constables in the forest, I had been taken by countless visions of Mother's dying. So often had I felt my innards wrenched from this vision that the pain became normal, cramping me with a daughter's ultimate terror. But never did I cry out as the torment demanded, for this would have been cruel to my mother, unkind to the person I suffered from because I loved her most, Mother who retained the subtlest courage by never lying but never refusing to accept the truth. If we are to die, she said, consider beforehand the love we share, and praise God that our concern will be forever moved to His superior hands. Mother then smiled and held me. Then I loved her as ever, and again felt her die, then loved her more.
On a sinner's ship in a water world we imagined our salvation, imagined slow breathing, the water's air conjoining with the needed atmosphere retained within our lungs; even the witch child knew how to breathe within water. And she knew this plan was deadly, for a lengthy submersion in salt water was no assured salvation. Having passed beneath rivers before, I knew the breathing to be as uncomfortable as smothering with a wet cloth, knew that long immersion induces terror. The sea is worse because the salt stings the eyes and nose: After one attempt at the shoreline years before, I retreated with distress. At the shore again but unable to retreat, I saw child sinners frolicking in the sea waves, and knew that Satan had sent them to mock us. In their pleasure, however, they remained oblivious to our desperation; for not only would we have to remain submerged longer than any witch would choose, we would have to free ourselves of bonds hopefully mediocre from being secured by a bishop instead of a sailor, as per Marybelle's arrangement. And if we survived the long walk to shore, what if we were seen by sinners, evil people cavorting in a sea meant to kill us?
Upon comprehending Marybelle's plan as she identified us in jail, I had felt admiration for her courageous brilliance, felt genuine love for a sister I had previously found intimidating. But Marybelle was now on the ship's gunnel being tied to a rock that could crush her, while a sinner playing God's representative prayed above an evil creature who to her shit was his moral superior. Who had this man ever saved from death, and when had he jeopardized his eternal existence to aid his friends? The holy man proved his evil by waving a false Jesus stick, intending to cut God's creatures as dead as though he wielded the" devil's sword. Certainly the words he murmured in some pretentious language were meaningful to either God the King or His Prince of Darkness, but which of the opposing forces?
The alderman attended. He at least was kind enough to have Marybelle and her stone pushed overboard as one instead of dropping the rock and allowing it to rip her asunder. I watched the deep splash and thought how awkward she appeared striking sideways, her visage lost in a tangle of hair as she disappeared, her personal wake lost in the sea waves.
Too numb to view Chloe being tied to her rock, I took scant notice of a sailor viewing through a metal tube he pointed toward shore. I took no notice, waiting for a salt rush about me to clog my breathing, to clean my disruptive life. But the next holy demise was interrupted by this same sailor buzzing to his captain, the captain conversing with the alderman and bishop, all these males looking toward a boat that neared.
The sinners waited. Stinking men from the two ships soon were speaking. Not so similar were all their faces that I could not discern a red flush about the bishop and smell his anger. He then sputtered with a twisted mouth as Chloe was cut loose. What manner of salvation could this be when my sister was released only to be beaten bloody by the holy man's metal cross? The alderman bid Dalimore cease, the bishop complying before Chloe was delivered a bloody sleep even a witch would slow recover from. But since Chloe was too dazed to be his audience, Dalimore moved to me and Mother, whereupon he screeched down with no Godly passion, his anger an evil no witch could match.
"What sin could you Godless wenches produce worse than lying to God and His man? The Lord's grace has sent truth in the form of Amanda Rathel on shore this moment. She has heard of your plotting and described how you would make fools of me and God by gaining the water that could be your witches' home. And though the devil has regained one of his creatures, the remainder of your unholy pack will meet God's judgment-in ashes. As quickly as this ship can be turned, we shall arrange the posts and chains to bind you as God's flames burn you lifeless. And you shall suffer the charred flesh and blackened blood due amoral liars and their immortal malice."
My last recollection of the return was the anchor's being raised. The chain seemed to be pulled through my person, for it was massive, metal, a loud and odorous symbol of sinners' murder. Beyond this, I recall nothing. The incarceration was as noticeable as common breathing. My sister and mother nearby were positions, not people. We had no praying to God nor mocking Jesus, no cursing the sinners, no torment so overbearing that dementia would result, witches babbling mindlessly like the balding sinner who guided us. No response had these sisters because the dead do not respond.
I recall utter sadness, the pitiful waste of the finest witches a girl could know, but have no recollection of the smell that ripped me breathless, the smell of Chloe beyond sight becoming rancid smoke.
She was beheaded first. As suggested by Lady Rathel, the witches would be separated from their heads; for although believing that under certain circumstances this cutting might not be permanent, Rathel knew that even witches with their heads at their feet would be immune to physical agony, for the lady was no torturer. Only a killer.
I did not notice them take my mother, though from the adjacent cell I should have smelled her depart. I should have smelled her cook, but this as well escaped me. Without intent, I had refused to die from the hell of perceiving my precious mother become burnt meat.
With no deliberation, I met the sinners, stepping toward the door as soon as it was opened. But they pressed me backward as an unknown woman stated clearly that I was no witch. For a moment I needed to recover, not from the surprising move but from the absolute lie. Quickly I stepped to the door again, for I was a witch, and since I could no longer have my mother, I demanded the pride in our love.
I moved again and they stopped me. The woman, whom I had guessed the Lady Rathel, astonished the alderman by insisting that she speak with me alone. I looked at no sinner who departed, nor at the murderess who remained.
She attacked me. Of course, this was her goal, to kill me personally. After looking behind to see that the males had departed, this sinner quickly reached out and cut my wrist with some implement concealed in a kerchief. But, no, she only produced a scratch barely felt. I looked to the wound, the fine line of blood, then up to this sinner, wondering what bizarre form her murder was taking.
"No human can have the oil of the nevier thorn in the blood without a pain to set her to screaming," Rathel began, looking carefully to my wrist. "But you have not even a redness-because you are no human. You are a witch. A more certain test is with the sexual tissue, but you are a youth and undeveloped. Perhaps not even your evil is mature." Then she looked to my face, and with a rapid tone explained herself.
"God help you, child, but I could not save your mother. By the time I learned of a perfect girl, the truth had been told of witches and water. Had I known before, I would have spared Evlynne, even though witches ruined me, and I would rid the world of their evil. But I have use for you, white daughter. As a witch you will kill a male whose father sought my ruin. For merely being natural, your life will be spared."
I became hot as any death flame with her words. Immediately I stood and shouted to the door, "I am a witch equal to any you have destroyed! Before God, I thank Him for making me a witch and not a murderous sinner!"
Moving loudly, Bulkeley entered with his constables. At once I stepped to the doorway so that I could be beheaded and burned. But I was detained by reeking men as Rathel with calm confidence conveyed her latest lie.
"Your honor, this girl has been taken in the mind by witches who stole her as an infant, even as they later stole poor Lady Sarah's thinking. This child, however, can be healed. I will return with Alba to London, where with the grace of God, special practices will aid her recovery. But first I must prove not only to the world but to the deluded child herself that she is innocent and human. I have begun by scratching her with a thorn that will set a witch's skin palsied, but she has no reaction," and the lady nodded to the thin line on my arm. "Available, however, is a greater proof that even common folk may understand."
The alderman, familiar with a calm township wherein the devil rarely ventured, was weakened from the stress of killing, from evil and all its adjacent manifestations. Exasperated, he demanded that Rathel explain herself and be on with the proving or on with the execution.
"This girl is all the witch she appears," the lady told him, "for no witch can be sublime, As well, no witch can swim, but neither can many normal folk. But no human, we all know, can remain beneath the water's surface for any duration. The true witches were prepared to walk a league beneath the sea, allowing this girl to die in tiie process, a fact I shall demonstrate in verity."
The alderman agreed that I should be conveyed to the shore and submerged, but I would have no more of the sinners' evil.
"She lies for her own gain!" I screeched while attempting to pull away from men too strong for any girl. "I am a witch and will join my mother in Hell!"
"A pitiful delusion to be quashed," Rathel declared with sadness. "She will calm when the truth is shown and she becomes aware."
To avoid the crowd gathered to inhale witches' smoke as though perverse tobacco, the alderman had me led through the prison's rear door, into alleys and then to the sea. But once outside I found a greater cause to continue my screeching, for the odor in the air was stronger here, and if I were to concentrate, surely I would be able to determine its source. Impossible to determine was the source of that new, phenomenal sound; for with my smelling came a shrieking so near my ear, so near my heart, as to collapse me with its power, throwing me to the ground where I lay-but why was my mouth open so wide as to pain my jaw? Why was my throat stretched and sore? What power had that sound to throw me, take me, yet allow me no feeling? With all the shrieking and ranting of my voice, my body, my brain, I felt nothing; for there is no higher life for a witch after death, and I had died from that smell.
The alderman's attempted prudence was thus ruined by the sensual blotting I required, that mutilation of my senses coming from me, coming from my mother. Surely this girl panicked as though stricken by Satan was a sight to rouse the populace. What thoughts had they of this screaming child with her neck stretched backward? What of the agony in her eyes and not a single tear?
Scores of sinners rushed from their buildings as insistent males pulled me to my feet. Young and old had to be pressed away from our entourage, unable to approach too near with their shoving, though removed they could remain and yet hear that groaning I had no control of, a sound as horrid as the previous shrieking, for both were sounds of death. »
Once near enough the sea to smell salt and concentrate on this water rather than die smoke behind, I ended my noise, not only from exhaustion, but to give my mother her final due. With all my prideful resolve retained, I knew that verifying my identity would be a more important truth than revealing the dishonesty of this sinning woman, for it would be my final gift to Mother.
"I will take her myself in that I have handled witches from learning their revelations," Rathel proclaimed to Bulkeley.
Though balking at a lady's submitting herself to such danger, the alderman had no desire to be splashing in the sea or exposed to a witch's evil. Therefore, he agreed, the Lady Rathel a believable authority.
She led me into the water as constables restrained the sinning crowd. In my anxiety, I felt the lady moved us farther than required; so I slid beneath the water's surface to lie flat on my back in the shallows. Cooperative Rathel guided me down, then unobtrusively stepped upon me as she straightened, her weight on one heel and against my abdomen.
I could not breathe. Even in my depleted state, the water was no Problem until Rathel crushed the air from my lungs and the sea rushed in. Then I suffered from both the force of her weight and the terrifying suffocation. I choked and struggled to regain the surface-but the lady held me under longer, for she would not remove that foot from beneath my lungs. With the desperate effort of dying, I forced her leg from me and tore my way to the surface, gasping in God's dry air in accord with the lady's newest comments. As she straightened, drenched from having lost her balance as I fought her, Rathel cried forth to the observing officials, delivering her latest false depiction.
"Do you see this human child and how desperately she fights me to breathe God's air again and not Satan's evil lies?!"
Constables were ordered to aid us ashore. With my lungs burning and my body bruised, I could not oppose Rathel, even more the authority now that she had jeopardized her own health to reveal the deluded child as innocent, to reveal the witch as human.
Due to a true debility, I poorly remember being conveyed along with Lady Rathel to a fine home in which she sojourned, poorly remember being dried and dressed in borrowed sinners' clothes, then made comfortable upon an elaborate bed. A clearer recollection is of my life's first nightmare, the first and worst sort for being true. Therein I found my sinning part, which seemed vengeance, and for the first instance experienced the true evil of witches.
Naturally I moved past the sinners in my sinning apparel as though the attire signified a part we shared. Through inactive streets I stepped with no sinners aware, smelling their presence or potential observation beforehand. The home I sought was not hidden to one sensitive to the reek of witch death, of piety as charred as black bodies.
Though guesting in an occupied home, the bishop lived alone, his sinner's station to be without a spouse as though witch himself. The cat sensing me once within cared no more for this witch than did any aware creature, a category not including the well souled and their corporeal evil. Surely the bishop considered the force to awaken him holy, for in me he viewed an angel of deliverance, not asking what or who was to be delivered, not wondering whether angels are properly nude.
