H C Turk, page 66
Marybelle had moved. Shortly after setding, Eric came aware that the witch had looked to him, then walked away as though intentionally leaving his sight. Soundless she was, Eric assuming her still, not expecting further attack from the magician though not likely to be surprised by the next bite or blow, by any upcoming perversion.
None came. Soon he found himself waiting. Though unable to sense Marybelle behind him, Eric yet had her taste in his mouth, had her smell on his face as though a lady's grease for social occasions. Then came innocence returned, Eric thinking that never in his youth when a future family of his own seemed desirable had he presumed perversion. Never when considering the potential joy of marital sex had he imagined sucking an ancient witch's fetid crotch. How normal that inverted intercourse with the wife now seemed. But, then, none of that would again transpire, history itself, as useless as his boyhood thoughts. No intercourse, common or queer, would he accomplish with his scar, with that ubiquitous prick now boiling. To accommodate his future passion, Eric knew he would have to resort to kissing the wife's unscarred bottom. But after that more recent witch, sex seemed no more desirable than any other illness.
No dream held Eric when he sensed himself in London. He breathed as though sleeping, and noticed this respiring, but awake he remained and newly aware of himself, of his locale. Before him was the River Thames, wide here with weedy, boring banks. To the far side and beyond were low buildings with no people seen. Deeper into London was the prison that held him, held his life in a legal spell by having captured his wife existentially. Then along the river's flow he viewed, a swift and accurate move compared to the water's bobbling transport, Eric looking seaward where, beyond his sight, docks of a major port expected his departure. And he was stunned again, for within him were the thoughts of a lifetime, Eric recalling that this very day he and his family were scheduled to board a ship and leave their homeland to never return. But with all of this disruption before him, Eric nevertheless had no need to panic, for no famdy had he as long as the wife remained in Montclaire. Yet no move the husband and racial sister made for her release, only perverse fucking and puking as though in self-castigation, as though for entertainment.
Without turning toward her, Eric nonetheless became attentive only to Marybelle. He wondered of his leader's next production, for in his famdy whose center was Alba, this sister witch had become the prime member. Out of his senses, however, she seemed out of his life, yet he denied her no control, for her means were also beyond him. And then she was beyond his contemplation, for Eric was asleep, exactiy as in his most recent life having no influence over his dreams.
He walked within the prison. How surprised he was to find this budding identical to his grandfather's home. The servants here wore drab jerkins, however, and each was a criminal seen before in Penstone Place, though in this budding they were employed by English law. Each of these dishonest, powerful men stood before a door behind which lay Alba, the guards securing each others' legal privacy as in turn they had violent sex with the wife, conventional sex with common penises and not the first death, though Eric could hear their reciprocation as they moved toward their pleasure, away from her peace, toward their lust, away from her health, and so on. Scarcely could the husband wait to be stabbing these commoners, but they were so tall that Eric would need to reach up for their bedies. And though eager to be leaping with his large fork made for skewering meat above a flame, Eric would be disallowed this magic by his parents' parent, since Grandmother Marybelle refused the eating of meat within her home-and what a resurrection, for Grand's wife had been dead since Eric's infancy, even as his parents were dead within his current life, yet here she was returned as a witch to stop his stabbing, because his implement was made for fire, and fire was made for kifling witches, not saving them.
Then came a guest to the door. Sir Jacob had come to deny Eric his wife's release in that Eric had come for a witch, and their pale woman could not be proven so because the tide had gone out, taking with it so much water to the sea that the River Thames was too low for any wet proof by God's permanent creatures. Then Eric turned to his grandmum to ask what further, following magic she had to save her sister, considering this latest event. In fact, Eric turned to describe their magic's condition, for he awoke to give Marybelle a charm.
She was looking toward him. The fire had gone out, and the Queen's Flight would soon follow the departing tide. Time enough had passed for Marybelle's fumes to infiltrate the air, and Eric was her clock. With no word, he looked to her and provided this knowledge. The two then rose together like that bodily, emotional mist they had injected into the atmosphere, and follow it they did, toward magic and toward me.
Forty-three
Not even the Sabbath gave Naylor respite from his occult duties. Each day from his first of providing me with the utilities of writing, he visited me as though a publisher of pamphlets come to make certain his creative charge's literary products were palatable. This imprisoned scribe, however, established the protocols of writing, for her experience was the only expertise in the desired subject of her life. So Naylor arrived each day to take my product and read with all concentration, never long remaining with the proven witch, and never without guards.
Once the magistrate had confirmed me officially occult, his disposition changed subtly in the immediacy while portending poorly for my future, for Naylor achieved a curiosity of my living aligned toward fear. Reasonable was this view from one to have observed me the killer of men. His fear, unfortunately, might actively protect the magistrate, for this was no man to wait for expected damage. To preserve himself, Sir Jacob would attack when some dangerous force found him its subject. And did he not wonder of the witch after ending her testimony directing her evil efforts toward that nearest man, her captor?
Sir Jacob's disposition I knew from his smell. That excited interest of finding papers stained with knowledge was ever tempered by distrust, fear for his ultimate well-being with the witch. This fear was best smelled when Naylor was least protective of himself, upon gaining satisfaction from my writings. Then his bright interest would become tainted by sex, the fear of illicit sex with a desirable woman, the fear of death from her sex as though holy in its immediate punition directed from God via his decrepit counterpart, Lord Satan. Not the plain sex smell roiling from males was uppermost here, but a subtle odor unusual because of its apparent source, for did not the magistrate have a rigid prick in his brain?
Believing that Naylor once done with me would have me well done, I should have procrastinated my tome's end. This I could not do. Montclaire's cave with its stench of criminals, with its leader Naylor and his vengeance-in-advance, was a misery chamber, more sepulcher than cave. My testimony in comparison was my life itself, which I experienced as God intended: with vigor and genuine morality, not some secular code idealized by sinners, but a desire to comprehend God through worship, a passion inherent to any true human.
At times I could not move the quill quickly enough to remove all my words, to settle them upon paper. Like ink's opacity, these words obscured my present, for when busied with the past I could scarcely notice upcoming terror. With each of Naylor's visits, I could better sense his odor, smell a lust unique since he would not quench it with my body and his sex, but eliminate his desire by eliminating me. Imperceptive he was not to sense the prisoner's entrapping him, for never could he reject the witch. I could not be avoided, for my home was the manse of the magistrate's career. We two could only be separated by killing the passion to bind us, but I had no lust for Naylor. Though he knew enough of my special sex to be coupling with me without dying, the married magistrate was too moral to accept intercourse out of wedlock. But what love had he to find me resistible only with death?
I knew myself special. According to my smell, no other pris-. oner of Montclaire was female except Rathel, but she was no concern of mine once settled in prison, though she had not settled so well as I. Had the magistrate personally asked her preferred eating in that he knew Montclaire's meals to be unfit a lady? Did the Rathel thereafter receive instead of felon slop fresh vegetables from the English countryside? Had Amanda been provided a desk of yew and all the ink her distressed spirit desired? Did the very magistrate visit her each day with a personal interest and a smell increasingly reminiscent of death?
What a torment that window was to pass implications of true living while allowing no experience. Between me and that life outside was not metal, but the devil; for the separating entity was tortuous, the space beyond not God's, but Satan's. Common sounds of wagons passing, lovely horses snorting and clomping, were alternately enlivening and distressing from describing a life to be loved while offering only separation. Sinners' voices I well treasured in that era, though most often they were heard due to increased volume, the cause thereof either traffic confrontations or excess gallivanting, though even mutual curses at failed horsemanship seemed more energetic than disputatious to me, the sober and drunk carousing more humorous than foolish; for who was I in my constrained existence to denigrate parenthetical results of genuine living?
Too often I dreamed. No new subjects came to my sleeping, a variety of old events tormenting me sequentially. Mother, Eric, ocean, ever. But no greater distress had I than to wake and find my nightmares real, to find myself always ill with a remorse as changeable as Mother's breathing, as Eric's manhood. Though I deserved to drown in these sins, I was not saint enough to accept my torment. In God's additive punition, I suffered from my suffering, and well prayed Him my apologies, not for myself but for those I had loved incorrectly.
An abject importance I learned was that the more I wrote, the less I dreamed.
What a smothering this writing became, and all selfishness I purveyed to endanger my truest race to avoid not my execution but my waking thoughts. For although I wrote factually, it all seemed story, an operatic composition to occupy my emotions, to conceal me from the real.
In this manner my days receded. Each hour disappeared into a future that would culminate my past. Recurring remorse I retained from my mentor, the magistrate's best suffering to come. Poor Naylor and his smelled guilt from having to snuff me. Sick Jacob reeking from pride at saving England from this bitch. Lovely God to enjoy all the thick living below Him. Thank you Satan for eating my tedium.
I could not write enough to dream nothing. Having reached that segment of my tome's chronology which equaled my time of life-writing then of my writing then-I received a dream appropriate in being an end, for therein I was released from prison-but was this foreboding of escape or execution?
A terrible smell came as I stood in my ced, for it was the odor of a person I had kdled, a smell fit certain living folk, for in varying ways I had kided not every person ever known to me, but every person loved. Elsie I smeded, or Eric, or Marybede-per-haps all three or some combination of their souls, their soot. The smed's increasing intensity indicated an approach. In my cell cave casket, I waited for the smoke and blood person to near. Soon came eyes at my door hole, a nose brow on my bars belonging to Eric.
I have come for my wife, the lashes said.
None exists, sir, I replied. Here is but a witch.
Then I shall take the witch and teach her the past, for in that realm she was my wife, and i» the future shad be again.
Then, Sir Nostril, I go with you; for who is a prisoner to argue with the master of time?
Therefore, I opened the door to find Elsie in Lord Andrew's pantry attacking Randolph. Demanding that the dog accompany her, Elsie found him hiding, having smelled the missus; and knowing fud well she had killed ad the others she loved, he preferred to be the last alive, not the final murder. Ah, but he'd be coming with his famdy or remain with the bread sticks, and Elsie would be choosing for the blooming coward. Thus, the miss became forceful, first nudging the dog with one hand, then attempting to lift him, and Randolph growled. Then loudly she spoke with inadequate results. Therefore, the servant lifted the only member of the famdy her inferior, and the hair rose along his spine, and those were teeth displayed. But knowing the best for her dog lass, Elsie proceeded either to pinch his penis away or lift the heavy brute completely in her arms. And with the first Ml grasp of either his torso or phadus, the dog with surprising speed turned to bite Miss Elsie's arm, bite her fruitiessly; for although she yelped herself and began weeping, she continued either to pinch his prick off or lift him completely from the ground, and he ceased. Either Randolph quit his breathing in that he was bleeding instead, or the frightened dog came to understand that no choice had he in hiding from mere witches whose evil owned the world, at least every family he had known. Pull the maleness from his torso she did or his torso from the floor, Elsie with a heavy, stiff, and fearful item that she carried with tears and the one bleeding bite that hurt her to the bone, carried the foolish family member and here were two saved, neither allowed to submit to their fearful instincts, Elsie not abandoning her friend, Randolph not being so cowardly as to shun his family when an entire new world awaited them. If only he had sense enough not to slap Elsie's hand away when she came at him with salvation, sense enough not to refuse her after he had imbibed her act. Therefore, when Elsie conveyed the dog in her arms to Mont-claire and me, I opened the door to find Naylor.
"You sleep in the day, missus," the magistrate stated in my unfortunate real. "Is your health therefore impaired?"
Not a word came as I arose, only a negating nod as I stepped from the bed, a new mattress from Naylor. Long enough had I slept there for the bed to smell of me: not man sweat and piss, but my sweat and piss, my blood and smoke.
"Understandable it is that you should be weary, for your effort expended toward writing is significant. But your latest, which I have read during your strong sleeping, contains nothing new. This also is understandable, since heretofore you have described your entire life. I fmd, missus, that nothing remains, in that you seem to have ended."
He smelled of future ashes. I wondered if common for this prison was a witch burned at dusk, or was it at the will of the magistrate, the master of time? And when he dragged me away like Elsie dragging Randolph, would I bite him? Would I find opportunity to pinch away some part of him before he removed my living?
Then came a new odor, another dream turned true, for through the air I sensed a fragrance to chill me from lost history; for never on Man's Isle did I notice that odor to change Lady Vid-geon. In this waking dream I smelled it, and was transported to that era of innocence wherein the people I knew in all the world were only witches. Now, however, the only persons known to me were sinners. Better they than Satan, however; so before the latter was delivered by this final sinner in my cell, I would write of that odor, 1 would convey my ending dream.
I stepped to my desk, beginning to write with no word from the magistrate. Perhaps I heard him sigh, but mainly I perceived that fragrant dream. Carefully I sat so as not to disturb the atmosphere of lost living, yet hurriedly I moved before the dream vanished, before I failed to secure that fragrance in the real.
The magistrate remained, but he did not read my rapid writing, for Naylor would never near me when I was active, lest I cut him with my quill cunt. The magistrate remained, and I queried him not of those activities I kept him from, not when they likely included me.
My lasting people were in this final dream, all of them dead in some manner; and how odd for vacated persons to be describing my life. Sensing Marybelle, I wrote of her. With Eric she was, an unusual pairing since these loved ones had never met in life. Marybelle and Eric were clambering up a great wagon they had convinced its driver to park against Montclaire's outer walls. Remarkably, Marybelle and Eric were not seen climbing the wall, in that the guards' backs were toward them. Up they climbed and down to the prison grounds, not seen by guards, whose backs were turned to the infiltrating pair. Exterior guards then ordered the wagon away. Unfortunately, it contained a mariner's box meant for comely cargo. Aware that his destination was ultimately the Thames's wharves, the driver hied there to wait for his employers, who then were occupied manifesting a dream.
To the prison entry they ran, but here was a massive door only to be unlocked from within as requested by an outer guard. Therefore, Eric shouted that the door be opened, and so it was, he and Marybelle entering with no guards noticing, since their backs were turned, and they smelled intruders poorly. The witch's location within was known from Elsie's stay and Marybelle's smelling, and there they ran. And though the pair moved through corridors populated with guards, moved through locked doors whose keys were smelled and found, no man sensed them, for all males in Montclaire had been connived by manless magic to turn away from my dreaming.
Nearest that dream, the magistrate became so courageous as to approach my drying pages, reaching the paper while viewing me closely so that I would not attack him with my imagining. Attack him I did with my words, for at his back came Marybelle and Eric, though not quite in his hearing did that screaming exist.
"Witch! Witch! A witch is in the prison and the other escapes!"
The screamer's back was not turned to the invisible infiltrators, for no man was she, Lady Rathel so dark as to be nocturnal and infer my dream. Therein seeing Marybelle and Eric pass her door unnoticed, she announced their presence with a cry.
The decider Marybelle said the husband should not face the magistrate beside his wife, said to silence the Rathel instead. The witch would busy herself with the witch. Retreating through passageways, my dream achieved a key known without examination guarded by a man emulating Marybelle by facing folk with his back. Dreamy Eric then ran to Rathel's cell as Marybelle opened mine, seeing me write her name a final time before I faced her. Naylor could not see my move, not with his back to my family's passion. The sinner could not see me depart with my crooked sister, past jailors blinded by a dream.
Though the Rathel's cave was on our path, Marybelle had us continue without halting, allowing Eric to conclude his task while my sister completed hers. The one to live here must leave first, before becoming seeable. Therefore, we rushed through Montclaire and to its outer wall, whereupon Marybelle hollered for the guards outside to open. They did, seeing not enough. Less charmed than Marybelle and Eric for being no magical producer in this dream, I was the one to be set in a box in a wagon and sent to a certain wharf, a specific ship. My sea cave, however, was missing. Dreaming that it was on the docks, my crooked sister sent me straight to the wharves and bid me wait for her as she returned for my husband, her invert lover.
