H C Turk, page 55
An impoverished conglomerate was this to consider the provider of all their demons a relief. Only Lord Andrew's greetings, however, were as cordial as due a guest, though perhaps done too grandly, as though to relieve him of the previous operatic tension.
The lady had brought gifts, Andrew's servant guiding Rathel into the drawing room while bearing an intricate tray whose engraved and raised edges retained a pair of clear decanters, their contents of different hues. Rathel explained their intended dispensing in advance, her speech welcome, for none of the previous guests cared to hear more of their own anger.
"Allow me to apologize for my intrusion, while conceding how a portion was in fact intended. That is, I knew beforehand that the young wedded pair had come here as though in refuge. My purpose in following is not to justify their current difficulties, but my part therein. I would attempt to explain that my business was not intended to damage their happy marriage. Constables and financiers, however, apply themselves too strictly on occasion. But seeing that I now add to a present tension, I shall retain my justification. Instead, allow me to provide a thing to soothe us all and perhaps bond us together in relaxation. Being only drink, however, we cannot expect it to make all our lives as one, though it might make them a bit milder for this evening."
"Here, here," Lord Andrew responded agreeably, then lightly clapped his hands together, he the most appreciative member of the audience at this opera, at Rathel's overture.
"Very well, then," the mistress continued brightly, her speech surely a bout of acting, for the woman was vivacious only when gloating-but what cause had she for satisfaction? Was her plan to so drunken us all that we might set to one another with clocks? "Here are my rare selections, seldom seen in this country." And she raised a decanter to pour a clear fluid; and what sort of mouth could a sinner have to blow a square bottle with facets? "From Siberia comes this vodka with its uncommon warmth of anise to restrain the spirits' strength. This for the Dentons: Hanna, Edward, and Eric." After filling three moderate metal chalices included on her tray, she proceeded to the next botde. "From Persia, a liqueur made from figs, dark and sweet, but mild in its alcohol. This for the folks who should have a minimum of spirits: our senior, Lord Andrew, and Lady Amanda, who understands that her drinking itself must be rare, and our natural Alba, who imbibes only from etiquette."
Rathel then flitted about to deliver her spirits, which had begun to fume the room. "God bless you," she said to each person receiving a container, all but the last, who received instead a quiet warning.
"Drink not the entirety, Alba, in that liquor makes the true witch ill," and she gave me a small but thick glass. No metal.
Then to our general center did Rathel journey, lifting her hand with goblet and her voice with toast, one of famdy love in God's eyes, of marital satisfaction in peaceful homes beneath the watchful stare of England, and so on, up with their little buckets one and all, and well set to drinking did some. Not I, who would not render myself sodden despite distrusting Rathel's advice. Nevertheless, my drink smelled only subtly of spirits, being sweetly rich with the taste of liquid figs. I thus partook of a second swallow although the pledge had ended, thinking that this sipping would occupy me. But could I not have mimicked the drinking and retained a dry mouth? What gudt had I for being a witch who enjoyed her imbibing? Not alone was I in this fluid satisfaction, though supposedly alone in being a witch.
"This is most delicious," Edward submitted quietly, looking down to his rounded trough to sniff the fumes.
One sip later and the group began to separate as though a herd of creatures scattered about a pasture, as though a stew spread by the consuming child: fiat to one side, vegetables another, meat directly into the mouth. The parental Dentons, so continually together as to be of one body, floated away from their son, Rathel espying a painting adjacent to the fireplace, having Lord Andrew join her for a view. Amanda then proudly mentioned a special piece, the portrait of Spanish royalty painted by a Portuguese master whose brushwork was most ferocious, as though attacking with his tools. Ah, but the Portuguese school characteristically employs this technique, Lord Andrew replied. Note, however, how this exceptional Iberian craftsman tempers his ferocity with fine layers of glazes that soothe the colors, and so on.
The best flotsam drifted my way. Looking to both sides to see that he was no longer surrounded, Eric slowly approached the wife, much to her satisfaction; for were not these folks of two but relatively similar minds? The traitorous dog followed the Rathel about, sniffing at her heels as though she had recently stepped on his girlfriend*
Eric and I stood as though imitating his parents, shoulders nuzzling as we leaned toward each other and whispered, vessels inches from our lips as though to conceal our words.
"Thoughts had I of escaping this dungeon," Eric said quietly with his liquor breath, "until coming aware that it now is our home."
"Escape is no matter," I replied with wet figs on my lips, glimpsing the other parties, "for the Rathel has poisoned us all, and we die before the fire in one family heap."
Then Eric submitted, "Incorrect, missus, in that she and you be saved, for your drink is different. My word, woman, and I see it vanished as well," he noticed upon looking into my empty goblet. "Your kind, then, are lushful drinkers?"
"Worry of your own kind, sir, for you are the one poisoned. Not likely is Rathel sending herself to Hell merely to deliver me to a similar vicinity. Yours, after all, is the death she desires, though only as punition to your father. So here she has arranged for both males and the extra woman to succumb. Be wise and drink no further."
"No wisdom needed, missus, you will observe," he said, and gave a nod toward Rathel, who was chatting anew with Lord Andrew after filling her goblet with anise vodka; and what had become of her moderation?
The poisoned one must be me," the wife surmised, "and the Rathel has achieved madness to the degree called suicide."
"Then consume no more, wise missus."
"Ah, fear anew, for the enemy attacks our position," I noticed, for the Rathel-accompanied by Andrew-approached to fill Eric's chalice. Graciously I demurred. Surely as sublimely crafted a compilation of lucid glazes and ferocious though oily spirits as ever imbibed, I replied, Grand and the Rathel chuckling off to the next couple.
"Their thinking be yours," I remarked to Eric, referring to his parents. "Note how they view the room's personal contents from the tops of their eyes which float above their goblets. As you before, they plot their exit, and well regret their blunder in being so kindly as to have visited family."
As though complete with her own plotting, Rathel aroused the crowd by announcing her exit, in that her welcome should not be elongated, enjoy all ye the remaining liquor, and away she moved, through the foyer and gone. Before the sound of the door's closing had faded in the air, the older couple announced a similar plot, remaining to one side of the room to wish those walls, perhaps, a good evening, so impersonal was their salutation. Then off they slank as though spiders chased from the kitchen by Miss Elsie. The dog remained.
Having made a move to see his youngster to the door, but Ming when the man cum wife hastened away with a partial wave, Lord Andrew was left with no visitors in his home, only boarders. Remaining quiet, the older gent sipped at his drink; and I knew he was not mimicking, having greater integrity than the local witch. Eric, espying about with crass turns of his neck, well reeked of relief as he called out loudly.
"Now that the troublemakers are gone, let us carouse at a boisterous rate!" And he followed his speech by snaring my goblet to throw the thing into the fireplace, knowing his own metal cup would not histrionically shatter, my glass bounding amongst the logs without a crack forming in the thick crystal; and surely this was some augury of Eric's ability to succeed in life. Lord Andrew became so amused as to laugh and bend double, his face all in joy and tears, though his sound was so quiet that I was made to laugh myself, the dog noticing none of these makings, not being a creature fit for gallivanting, as boring as the purest witch.
"With the misfits fled, we may well enjoy ourselves," Eric added with a full voice, a most pleasant sound after that hidden whispering, "an especial possibility considering that they left the grog." Decisively he then stepped to the tray, lifting the darker decanter to open it and smell.
"Ooh, what a nasty stuff we have here," he muttered, and returned the bottle. Gaining the second, he found himself with no receptacle, having banished mine and lost his own. The Rathel had abandoned hers nearby, but Eric was aware of its user, looking past it toward that pair left by his parents. Lift one he did, only to recall the words to have come from the mouths against those vessels. He thus turned to Grand with empty hands.
"Have you a cup, sir?" he asked pompously, and Lord Andrew at once pointed toward Eric's chalice.
"Now let us all sit before the fire and speak with humor of nothing," Andrew offered with a smile as warm as the dog's coat.
"Well, not all of us, sir," Eric replied, "in that the wife dreads fire as much as drowning. Unfortunate too, in that her skin is the crust of winter, and well would I wish to warm it."
"But the lass has a heart that radiates a warmth beyond the coarse heat of this blaze," Lord Andrew intoned, smiling broadly toward me.
"Encore, Sir Opera," I replied, and bowed deeply toward Andrew as he raised his chalice to me, Eric thereafter speaking between swallows.
"True enough, Grand, but on a chilly evening in bed, she's but another icicle with hair." Then he raised and sloshed his
vessel in my direction, looking wherever his face was pointing.
"We shall compromise," I suggested, stepping beside the husband, "for this is the source of a marriage's happy, albeit bored, continuity."
I then commenced to arrange Grand's furniture, pulling a settee farther from the fire so that a witch upon it would not suffer from being social. Thereupon I situated the husband, gesturing for Lord Andrew to be seated in an adjacent chair. The men then sat, Eric placing one arm about the wife to pull her near as I turned hip to hip in order not to face the fire whde retaining Eric's desired contact. Eventually I settled in a pose not fit a lady, though acceptable for a wife with family.
Chatting was our activity, though no great measure came from myself, mostly a proffering of ignorance regarding art and other forms of painting-or vice versa-for this was the subject examined to no true depth by the menfolk as the woman avoided sights of that fire even as the previous audience had attempted not to view certain other members thereof. Not even the dog could I give a deprecating glare, for Randolph again was parked before the flames, static as a log.
A pose we soon imitated. Andrew was the first to find a deep sleep welling within himself, and no one had to inquire of its source. His age, the Rathel's drink, his famdy's unkind emotions so foreign to this kindly man were causal here. Eric soon followed his kin in declaring a need to retire, and his cause as well was clear: The flexing of his wrist had well sloshed him toward a liquor smell to permeate him as though a stain on his skin. And though my own condition agreed with these males', too weary was I for self-philosophy.
As we three traversed the stairway to our chambers, I wondered of Elsie, but surely her vanishing had coincided with the Dentons' visit. Randolph also had interest in our second pet, for to her door he moved, looking longingly there for us to allow his entry.
"Let us not bother the blissful," I told him, so the dog with easy obedience accompanied Eric and me, and from our weariness, was allowed to occupy more of the bed than one canine body required.
Eric seemed near asleep while undressing, tottering to every side, though never stumbling. Carefully I watched, waiting for the man to fall onto his head, for a great laugh I intended to loose on him. But as though accustomed to being unsober, the male did not relinquish his balance until leaning toward the mattress, clothed in only stockings and undershirt. Whisking aside the counterpane, I threw the fabric over fallen Eric, who slowly dug his way out as I undressed, donning a thick and soft sleeping gown, hoping this night to be a good one for retaining the sanctity of my sphincter, tie my body rag about my butt lest the husband awaken not drunk enough to resist my tunnels, and to bed.
Stealthily I slipped beneath the cover, but Eric was facing me. Though he seemed asleep, immediately he slid against my person. I could thus select from a pair of poses: lying flat to smell this drunken sinner breathing upon me the entire night, or turning away to present my rear, which contained an orifice or two generally sought. The latter position I chose, Eric immediately moving to conform to my shape, pressing himself tightly against me. And though the contact toward my bottom was most intimate in a marital manner, Eric made no attempt to enter my garment or myself. Securely in his arms I became enswathed, Eric so familiar with my form that his hand went directly to that remaining breast. There we lay, the witch only partially successful in her placement; for although I was not penetrated by the man, no comfortable pose had I with this sinner draped upon me like long hair down my back made wet and dank by immersion in booze. And though above all other men in the world I appreciated Eric, I did not care to wear him the evening.
"Bite this person smothering me, will you, Randolph? At least pull him away a few inches and insert your own form within the gap." This mumbling of mine, however, went unnoticed by the natural creature who should have been my ally, though was he not too social to be in league with a witch?
After all, was he not also male? Eric then spoke, not replying to me, but expressing thoughts of a previous subject, his words rather clear for a sot.
"In the wild places you speak of, Alba, does liquor exist?"
"Perhaps, sir, but no crystalline decanters, and certainly no persons to drive folks from their home, then follow to the next in order to dispense a poison of torment."
"Then a wild place in the forest seems most natural and ever more desirable. Are large and comfortable beds of this sort also available?"
"Comfortable enough for you, I say, in that you mainly sleep upon me, and I'll be there. How viable, then, are your thoughts of living a simpler life, one not so burdened by society?"
"Stronger now than before, but so is the fog in my head. Regardless, the idea was initiated in sobriety, and will not vanish along with this lax state of thinking."
No more could I draw from Eric on this topic, for he sighed deeply and seemed unable to hear me further, as though having exhausted his best effort in that wild conversation. Minutes later, however, he had a final thought, his speaking again not the mindless speech produced by liquor, but a comment from his spirit.
"Pray God I might forget the pain of this evening," Eric whispered, Eric prayed. Then he squeezed me well, and no longer had I concerns for my own discomfort, being so virtuous as to suffer his smell.
Soon I seemed unnaturally taken by sleep. Awake or not, however, I had no natural method to understand that Lord Andrew slept more immediately and deeply than I, to be later awakened by people who wondered how a bit of drink could render even an elder person so unavailable to the waking world. Neither had I means to see the Rathel arrive at her home to immediately swallow a potion to make her vomit, for she did not wish to be sleeping unnaturally, in that sought news should arrive the next morning. No witch could know these things aware, so were they not revealed in a dream?
The Rathel was present, though not puking. In her carriage, she had come to retrieve her belongings; so there went Miss Elsie and the dog. I knew the anguish they would suffer in that home: Randolph would be placed with cats to claw his face like a dropped clock, and Elsie would never be startled by a wilderness mistress again, thus turning old from boredom and dying, for without her family she had no life. To save lifeless Elsie and cut Randolph, I journeyed to the Rathel's at night, having crawled through the window of my cave-manse like a spider demoted from its home, and correctly so, for I was no creature of society. I was a creature for collecting and killing bugs. There went I, the spider, to gather Elsie and Randolph in the web bed of the wagon's straw that was identical to my bed on Man's Isle, wherein I had collected a social man of God so entranced by religion as to have joined it for infinity with my body the conveyance. I would have been considered holy for the act of sending a bishop to Heaven had my deity not been Satan, who had me kill via nightmare, which thus could only be understood when mentioned by a dream; and for what further life had this death been practice? I was unable to save Elsie in this bishop manner because she had no man stick to pinch off, and I could not save Randolph because he slept too near the fire, and being half sinner and half witch, I could only approach halfway. With the dog and servant lost, what family member remained for me to save?
Marybelle. Marybelle with her head regrown on her crotch, for after my successful magic, the Lucansbludge constables had tossed her head into the casket instead of placing it properly, lovingly, upon her neck. Marybelle walked London's streets, setting up a smell outside my window not noticed because the window was never opened again, for I had lost too many family members through that plane, first the witch, then the lady, only the wife remaining. But so true was Marybelle to my family that she deigned to return, outside my window spinning a web to entrap my attention. Since I was half sinner, half witch, Marybelle could only approach me halfway, unable to climb the social flank of London because that head between her crotch made it impossible to move through society without being entrapped, for easy prey was a smelling witch with her nose at cunt level. I thus would save her by taking her within me and away from a city she could not survive. But I could not accept her because my vagina was too tight from not having lolled a sinner in seasons. To save my famdy, I would have to become practiced again in my most natural act, the contest of life and therefore death. I would save my family's greatest member by practicing on a lesser. Only two remained: die colorless witch who had failed in her previous salvation of Marybelle by allowing her to live, for death would have transformed her to the superior state of evocative love forever on Earth as prescribed by a bastard preacher whose mother was right in being wronged. He was the last famdy member; so I would send Marybelle to nature by killing her naturally, practicing by having nature with Eric.
