H C Turk, page 64
He turned in a rush, feeing oblique Marybelle to wipe his fece as though slapping himself, speaking with a power equal to the witch's previous harshness.
"By any God or Jesus, I'll not weep my brain away. And if metaphysics be needed, beware of my magic, woman, for the power of sinners is death, and nothing else can be nearer Satan."
Marybelle then smiled, a normally hideous sight now adding to Eric's strength. And when she turned to leave without a word, her move was accompanied by a type of mad laughter heard before by Eric, but only from his wife.
Marybelle returned one evening. As instructed by Eric, Elsie would be the sole servant to answer the door, but finding Marybelle outside at night was a terror to the miss; for despite her faith in Eric that this woman would be their greatest resource, Elsie found Marybelle intrinsically a source of fear. From that night visit on, Elsie found a dread of evening as though a too-imagina-tive child.
Eric and Marybelle spoke outside away from light.
"Are you set, sinner, for evil? Have you readied the husband?"
"We meet the devil now if it be best for Alba. We leave with but our scars and spirits, and I am prepared."
"I smell your anger, man, and it be dangerous. But this type is needed, for you must place yourself with danger. But never will we meet the devil, for he is holding Alba. To free the witch, we meet with God, as near to Him as to each other now, and no force of terror is greater in the world, for He made all the world, made Satan himself."
"Though I believe your speaking true, I can bring only ignorance. What I have to free Alba with is not knowledge. Bring guidance for us all, woman. Depend on my passion as I upon your expertise."
"Be expert in your living, man. Dying in pieces is easy when you have a killing love. So begin your part of this release beyond the end, and expect to live after Alba is out. If as a pair you be together again, find a place not knowing her, and that excludes most of England. What you do with her then is your planning, for it won't be magic, but social. Find a place in this world for Alba, then together we'll deliver her."
Marybelle then departed, Eric expecting her to return typically at night. And well the darkness hid her darkness, concealing her freakish cant, her pocked and pitted visage. The night that obscured her visage supported the person, emphasizing the witch's rich voice, which made her seem as magical as expected. But with the magic gone, Eric was left with society, needing to become mundane again after expecting the metaphysics of evil. Now he would need to be so social as to find a niche for a woman retrievable only with panic.
The day was brilliant in light and life as Eric journeyed to a friend, the supervisor of Grand's shipping enterprise; for although Andrew yet owned the company, in activity he was retired. Only for scattered moments during his journey was Eric happily impressed by London, the sounds of people leading their own imperfect lives that were heavenly in not being based upon mutilation, in not seeking torture but avoiding such heinous aspects. How magical of these common folk to emphasize felicity.
Strange that a seafaring concern should have its offices in London's center, removed not only from the ocean, but away from the Thames, a lake, a pond. Perhaps the office for transportation Eric entered was like that of Mr. Wroth where I had dealt so poorly; but did this concern have wharves behind where lustful pilots might partake of their final and wettest sex?
"Mr. Eastmon, I seek passage for my family to America, and must request that my father's family does not learn of this business."
At his desk, Mr. Eastmon setded in a gloom, as though a ship harboring in a fog bank. Eastmon's distress was from good thinking and gossip, for most of London had heard of Montclaire's evilest inhabitant.
"Some part of this arrangement I can fulfill, Eric, but certain aspects I must question. I knew your father before you could walk, and his, of course. These people I will not harm, not even to aid you."
"I ask you neither to lie nor falsify recordings, but only retain these truths until the ship leaves."
"If only this suspect morality you seek, I might comply, for confidentiality does not equal dishonesty. Not quite. Nevertheless, great consideration shall I apply before aiding the separation of Lord Andrew and Edward and yourself. Therefore, I must query your further motives. Above all, Eric, I will not jeopardize my place in God's Heaven by supporting Satan's evd."
"Supplying passage for myself, my servant, and her sister in no way approaches the dlegal."
"And what of immorality, Eric? What if one of these women upon approaching my dock is seen to be your wife, a prisoner for life in Montclaire? Why else, sir, would a man take his servant and her kin to America but no famdy member of his own?"
"Because he has no other famdy, sir, and because that servant prevented his dying from blood's loss. As for my spouse, since she resides in Montclaire for life, expect her not to be traipsing upon your dock. Having never met this woman, you know her not; so if you find my servant or her sister suspect, I suggest you pray God for Him to rid you of suspicion, for tftis is a notion as evd as any."
"Eric, your business I would only satisfy if your requesting contains a vow to Jesus that I do not support Satan's evd, which would infect ad our lives."
Eric then kneeled, clasping his hands on Eastmon's desk, speaking to the man and his Deity.
"My prayers are equal to your thoughts, for with God's help, I seek to retrieve my life from the evd infesting me through my wife. Understand my joy to be far away from she who has made me a lesser man. Understand the embarrassment I would flee, that from harming my father and his. Then pray with me, sir, that I succeed in rejecting evd from my life, and that with my retreat, Satan's remnants in me be left in England."
Eastmon moved to his knees with reluctance, since his religion was too sophisticated for such passionate displays. Joining Eric, he heard pleas for evil's release and thanks to Jesus for the strength to reject Satan's temptation and torment. Then the men rose to deal with finance, not metaphysics, Eric reserving future passage for his famdy, needing only to purchase one member's freedom, and the price would be pain.
"Strong forces of God's nature are set by God, not humans. Magic is most natural and has its own schedule."
"You say we cannot have Alba's release coincide with the ship's departure? That date I cannot modify, since the voyages are rare and set well in advance, lb leave one's country requires much preparation, and must occur at the best season for sailing so vast a distance."
"You would hear what I say if you'd keep your interruptions. My feeling is that we deal not only with nature, but with your sinning society. As well, such a journey is itself a season, and to return would be disastrous for she who escaped. I sense of this voyage the strength of a new life begun, an old one ended, of release from the devil and a fleeing toward God. Yes," she concluded, "I sense that this boat's disappearing from our homeland will fit well with our made disaster."
"Now that we have schedule, Marybelle, what is to be done for procedure? Is this magic to be some extended process, or a brief striking of forces? What materials deemed magical will we use?"
"You say magic yet speak of building, sinner," she retorted. "We need draw no plans and cut no timber, for our magic be a type of prayer. You sinners build things even to worship your Maker, but the truest church is the Earth, and there we apply ourselves. The goal is the same: to have Alba from the prison's evil, from the magistrate's upcoming death for her. The doing we shall know as it is being done if our preparing be correct, and this we do not with tools, but our hearts. This magic we must worry on, and never bother to seek itself, only its success. And failure we must fear, for that means Alba lost to dead Satan. The love we must feel for her these weeks shall be painful, and we must think of saving her with ideas as crooked as my neck, for nothing comes unless we love and pray utterly and hate Satan enough to drive him from our lives with our lives. This be our planning, then, and never wait. Never wait with calm for the time when Alba shall leave, for she will only leave if we take her, steal her, force her away from Satan by using the devil's very force against him, tempered by God's greater strength and guided by our panicked love."
Seriously construing Marybelle's speaking, Eric waited for magic with anxiety. His first difficulty was in relaxing before sleep, for thereby he sensed future relief, in that soon the waiting and worry would be over. Since optimism was detrimental to anxious magic, Eric with practice made himself so miserable at night that he suffered ugly dreams, visions of human limbs dropping like tears, fiery incantations led by Marybelle, whose head swiveled around and round, her chin nicking her shoulder with each rotation. His dreams worsening with every day, Eric suffered screeching chants by Marybelle, whose face was a scab like my chest and Eric's groin, Eric reduced to a limbless torso clambering like a stout snake beneath the guards' feet and into their prison only to find the wife fucked to death by Naylor months before, rotted now to nothing but a scar on a naked cot, retrievable from death only by her own magic, but she was dead, so could save no one.
Marybelle did not return, having scheduled no visitation. No great loss was her absence, Marybelle frightening to Elsie and distressful to Eric, the dog ever hiding in the pantry when the witch was smelled, having none of the furious, toothy response first given the wife. And here was Eric angered, since Randolph in compare should have attempted sheer murder against hideous Marybelle. But, no, the asinine beast had reserved his boastful anger for the lovely witch, the one so witty and passionate that sexless Eric recalled her sex, recalled his face between the wife's legs lapping her gloriously, these thoughts bringing to Eric the feel of a sexual erection. But, no, that was impossible, for scars do not drool semen, only pus. Upon understanding that he could have no more unnatural intercourse with the wife's voluptuous fundament, Eric would fall to fitful sleep as he was due in tins era of strain, his dreams ending at his crotch where my utterly desirable mouth open and moist would spit upon him since nothing he had there but a scab to sicken. And after Marybelle's magic, what of Eric would remain to revolt me?
"Yes, miss, the woman is the same to have taken Alba to the wilds, and pray God she takes her again for us all. Correct again, fearful Elsie, the woman is a witch as is Alba, but here only to help us. No, not through plague nor brimstone will she foment this release. No, I cannot say of chants and charms, only evil, that Miss Marybelle hates Satan and worships God as well as Alba, as well as we."
He informed the servant that she accompanied them at her choosing, being part of the family and important; but if she desired to remain, he and Alba would both understand and yet love her. But Elsie had nothing to remain for, had no one to keep her but her current family, which was Alba's. And pray God she did to give her strength to follow the young couple to a new land. Bless you then and good, quoth Eric, in that your passage has been booked. Then a sentimental weeping Elsie commenced, which ended with Eric's comment that Marybelle as well attended.
Elsie's era of distress increased with the awareness that she would abandon her country, never to return, for she would be accomplice to a crime. She would leave not that shack of her childhood, but her fine home of London, of England, that truest part of God's world, leave for the wilderness exactly as Alba had ever desired, as she had sought and gained with this very witch now come again, the hideous creature come to steal them all-and was Eric correct? Was this woman truly as God fearing as Elsie? How fearful of God could a witch be? But Alba was a witch-yes, dear Jesus-Alba was a witch as always maintained, yet had never promoted evil beyond pinching her own husband's prick off with her cunt.
Of course, Elsie knew that Satan had been creator of that most heinous deed, not Alba, Elsie convinced by the sight of the missus on her husband's mutilation night, that lost look of ignorance and illness, Elsie convinced by that last word spoken from the prison: her name, only her name, but a sound so pitiful as to cramp Elsie with tears from her spirit. Then completely did she pray God in thanks for sending the witch Marybelle to release her dear Alba, pray God make her the best witch ever; and to any end of Earth would Elsie follow that woman if it meant the dearest girl's release.
Elsie queried Eric of their packing. His curt reply was typical of his ongoing melancholy. Take whatever you can carry and yet run, he answered, which seemed to Elsie a clear explanation of their upcoming lives.
Her despondency was displaced the day Eric came to her nearly weeping, frightened like a boy in the night with creatures about. Most sincerely he convinced the miss of their wrongness in being normal, for they had returned to eating meat. According to Marybelle, they must set themselves solely toward Alba-yet here they were consuming animal flesh-and was this carnage fit the mistress? Of course not, Elsie agreed, from that day hence neither person eating meat, Eric explaining to Grand that this abstinence was in memory of the former wife, a vegetarian. Lord Andrew seemed to understand, though not the servants, Elsie's simdar explanation to them receiving near derision, a response she found appropriate for such a strange religion.
Their weeks of nervous gloom continued. Even Randolph seemed dejected, if only because his famdy's main activity was fomenting their own distress. As for Eric's family, at one midday meal, Grand mentioned how pale the boy appeared, that his health would improve if he ate but a bit of meat, for would any wife have him starve in memorial? Yes, Eric thought, one would. Addition-ady, Lord Andrew continued, his strength might improve if he left the house more often. And Ids spirits as well if he gained some activity for his thinking, perhaps employment in an area to interest him. For example, his own business concern might hire . . .
How influential was Lord Andrew to so activate his grandson, for Eric at once bolted from the table, the town house, toward a carriage and to London's center, an office of the ocean dryly misplaced, Eric present not to seek employ, but to verify his previous spending. And what did Mr. Eastmon think of this thin man pale as an invert witch who entered his office in a panic and left praising God like an evangelist for Eastmon's having kept his schedule, kept his secrecy?
How terrible for Eric to wake from nights to well please Lord Andrew with their activity, in that Eric crawled and roded across his bed as though employed in nocturnal marching, only to wake to a day worse in its anxiety, for Eric could experience torment better when not weighted down by nightmares. In this manner his days proceeded, Eric's apprehension increasing in proportion to the calendar, as the time for the voyage approached. As the time for magic neared, Eric had more and more attacks of acutely unpleasant ideas: those of the ship's schedule, of Eastmon's describing his passengers to all of London, of Eric's not having prepared himself adequately, spiritually, of Marybede's being mistaken or false or incompetent, of her being absolutely genuine, yet fading due to Eric's inadequacy, his lack of wdl, lack of love.
Elsie fared little better. As though an exchange had occurred between servant and master, Elsie began plying the anger that had been Eric's center; whereas he became so timid as to fear each small aspect of living, feeling dread to eat another meal, sleep through further, fretful dreams, or face his grandfather who would certainly rebuke him for his laggardness, his sloth, his blatant support for the very devil in the form of his wedded witch. Though usually a smoldering coal in this latest epoch, Elsie would spark sharply into bright anger whenever some servant would inquire of her laundering the master's wardrobe again when he wore but one suit. Then the miss would reply as to the questioner's lazy, godless life with no activity but demeaning a man with more love in his dirty pants than this fool's entire existence. One too many humorless comments of her eating no meat received a response of onion shoots tossed against the face, which Elsie herself swept from the floor, since the young mistress well loved her onions, did she not? All of this in tears, of course, for Elsie was poor at anger, a failure at retribution.
This reversal ended with Eric's awareness that the weeks before their voyage had turned to days, his heart a crash in his chest when he thought that his foreboding nightmares would soon turn real, for Marybelle would return and bring evil, bring forth evil from him.
Eric would be leaving, he knew it, felt it, felt he was leaving not only his land, but his life, for he was also leaving his parents. How could he finally tell them of his love? And Eric was struck with the fantasy to have driven him from his home. With so brief a time together, had that name ever truly been a wife? Even if she had been his spouse in the past, why bother with the future-what purpose was a wife to one with no gender? But this thought was quashed by the accuracy of Eric's turmoil, for beyond false impressions stemming from separation, ever near him was the knowledge that his wife was his life's most genuine part; and though his desire for her was yet sexual, his need seemed religious, as genuine as God.
Then the days were two. The second day would see the Queen's Flight depart. With this awareness came a dread to stop Eric's heart as though struck by the devil, for he felt that his entire existence was one day ahead, and if his life were not proper then, never would his torment end, for never again would he be with Alba. But this final panic was neither fear of Naylor's killing Alba nor of Marybelle's failure to return, but the absolute conviction that no opportunity, person, nor planning would come other than Marybelle, that return she would to end his anguish climactically, bringing devices not of person nor planning, but evil, a magic for the wife's release that would not be equivocal, but absolute.
Eric determined to make certain there was yet a ship, a schedule, a place for him and his. Even his quitting the house was despairing, for outside he could not suffer his preparation as painfully as within Grand's madhouse. To a dry office for wetness he hied, gaining data from a subordinate of absent Eastmon, then via carriage to die dock on the Thames where the ship would depart. And there, the particular vessel, a wooden crate rocking in the breeze. Here was the very captain to invite the passenger aboard to view his lodgings. Though Mr. Denton did not care to visit this cave, this prison, he acquiesced for sake of further business, Eric applying his knowledge of ocean conveyance, hearing that-yes, indeed-on occasion a person is found stowed away, an additional passenger rarely accepted for a fee and an additional fee, since a ship's stores and space are limited for any voyage. Then the captain offered how discreet a person he was, especially when dealing with an appreciative colleague, such as this gent Denton, who provided him with a golden gratuity.
