H C Turk, page 67
Less than deeply moved was the magistrate to read another of the witch's dreams. But eventually he sensed a discrepancy, for Naylor was reading of Lady Rathel's screaming though nowhere on the paper was it writ. Only when understanding that he stood beside a prisoner no longer present did Naylor reach my final word, and then he escaped as well.
Wiry was the Rathel when attacked, and stunningly loud, but Eric silenced her despite his approval of ladies. This one, after all, had been known to lie. Scarcely a bruise did he render the woman, Eric simply leaping upon her, collapsing Amanda with his weight. Out went her breath, which ended her screaming. Then Eric tied her with bedding untd she resembled upholstery, the lady not moving untd Eric had turned to the door to see Naylor run past.
The magistrate attempted to awaken the guards from my dream, but since the topic was magic, the sinners faded to notice. Though listening to the magistrate, they knew not where to run, since nowhere in Montclaire were misplaced persons. Not being with Marybede, Eric was misplaced, becoming frightened and cautious of Naylor, who now could turn, who now could see him.
Aware that loose persons would leave, Sir Jacob hied to the prison exit. Ignorant guards heard his orders and followed, but only Naylor of the pack was not blind to Eric. Therefore, the husband ran between guards with their confused activity of looking for whom where, ran past loud boots, but not so near the magistrate as to be seen. Run they all did, an increasing lot soon at die prison exit, Eric wondering how he would ever pass the seeing leader. But Naylor was not seeing once at that barricade, for he was drowning in my dream, smothering in apparel; for a witch had fallen from the sky onto his face, Marybede having dropped from the stone wall. Eric then guided several guards into stumbling over their magistrate untd the lot was a heap, Marybelle calling for the gate to be opened. The magic pair in their implied innocence then walked calmly, briskly away, to a carriage and to me.
So wide was the Thames near its ocean outiet that the river could not be seen across, and smell it did of brine. Busy was the water, its traffic boats large and small for transporting hay and for fishing. The largest, for conveying people to distant lands, was mine, and I hated it. Gentiy, precariously, it moved side to side. With ad its huge timbers for sads situated so high above the hud proper, clearly the boat was unstable. A mobile bridge it was, meant to travel far from land before codapsing to toss its passengers into the water with no hope of returning, for no solid bridge existed to grasp and pud oneself upon and then walk back to land.
Aboard this huge armoire, this closet cave for drowning, stood people appearing like frogs on a log about to leap away from their unsteady perch. The only familiar persons in this dream were dead, my nightmare coming true most falsely in having begun with dead Marybelle returned in a silly shape accompanied by the ridiculous smell of Eric's assistance as though he were yet a whole person with some interest in the wife. Especially foolish was this dream's intent, since clearly my former loves meant to drown me. But there would be no drowning in most solid Mont-claire. Therefore, I requested that the sinning coachman return to being fatefully real by returning me to my home.
How typical of a dream to be more convincing than established life, that tilting bridge behind me more of a threat than Naylor's smell. But, after all, I was witch or sinner according to the disadvantage of the identity. In this regard, who was I to so determine a sinner as to judge Naylor prepared to roast me? In fact, was he not merely contemplating a change in my living? Perhaps a new cell, one smaller and with a worse view. One my length made of wood with no windows and a sky of soil. Not so disastrous would this be, I deemed, since Marybelle had survived her lodging in such a cave. And what if a few of my body parts were removed by Naylor first? After all, Marybelle had survived into my dream with no head. Eric had continued to seek my window though lacking a unique limb. Then I imagined these semi-living seeming-witches dragging my box from the dirt, performing magic to reinstate my pieces. But in fact had they not previously attempted that painful worship and thereby entered the cave of Montclaire? What items of their lives had they lost for me that now I vomited at their feces? How saintly was I to refuse their pieces and their tilting ship? How demonic was I to reject that final drowning I had ever dreamed and thereby reject their love?
"You say, miss, that I'm to be returning to the wharves again?"
I did. I had the sinner return this witch to her massive casket so social with all its white apparel.
"You say, miss-. Beg pardon. You say, missus, that I am to wait while you gain my fare from your husband on the Queen's Flight? The very ship under way now?"
The grandest vessel on the Thames seemed much less massive once removed to the river's center. To the nearest boatman I called in question whether that ship be the one my dream believed, and yes. How typical of my dreaming for a sinning male to know more of my own casket than I. How typical of my living to have such difficulty dying.
I found myself without further dream, further instructions. I had been told only to wait, but my family had not, could not. Of course, while I had been wavering in my dream, the partially alive pair of Eric and Marybelle had gained the Queen's Flight. Having procured magic for only the prison, they could not delay a sailing. And since they had departed on their bridge without me, I found that again I could return to that static home which fit. But, no, my dreaming changed once more, for the Queen's Flight was now static itself. Her sails were being lowered, and witch eyes could see a great iron hook tossed over like Marybelle and her stone. This metal was attached with a chain dreamed before, all that mass arresting the boat; and clear was this event. Though Eric had failed to detain the boat, at least he had managed to halt it, waiting for the*wife; and who was she to reject time's master?
From box to box I moved, stepping from the coach to floating caskets with staring, sinning men. With my influential visage, no difficulty had I in achieving a craft and its crew for the purposes of conveying me to the Queen's Flight, a spry boat with fine sails sure to catch the cumbersome Queen in brief minutes, miss. Er, missus.
Since my dream presumed no drowning from this smaller coffin, scant terror had I upon dropping over the gunnel without allowing any sailor's hand in aid. And well I settled on a hard plank with minor regard for the boat's rolling side to side, for it seemed well attached to the river, even as these sinners were attached to me.
Typical they were to discuss transporting me gratis if only they could fuck me lifeless. Typical they were to be unconcerned with that flat chest when the other was well lumped, and always the fundament remained for kneading and the thighs for fingers to crawl upon and gain the graveyard of my vulva. Typical was I to kick their testicles and jab their faces with my fingernails, and Jesus cure them as he had cured me. Unacceptable business was this, however, for the males shoved me harshly to the boat's bot-torn where that desired end of mine became wet. Thereafter, with unpleasant speaking, they denied me further courtesy, for they returned to the dock despite all the world's gold available to pay them for taking the wench to the Queen's Flight-let her swim. Of course, she could not.
No hand these sinners offered as the lady quit their crate; and who could say of other sailors staring even more sexually at that wet fabric clinging to and thereby revealing the buttocks below? The witch could, presuming her further dream, one of endless males at her gender while in their boat caves. Nevertheless, the husband and sister awaited on that static casket; and who was I to deny them my dying after having killed them so often? But with no boat available, I would have to swim.
Of course, I could not.
The populace of the Queen's deck stared. Not so acute were my eyes in this realized dream to distinguish their faces, but certainly they saw me, and were shouting and gesturing at the wife, the sister, to join, if only I were witch enough, family enough. If only I would not fail again. If only I could find enough love to accomplish an act instead of merely emoting, merely suffering, merely performing philosophy. If only on this last occasion I could love someone more than I loved myself.
Active were the docks with men unloading boats, all of them moving and sweating, most staring at me, some with loud voices mentioning their desire, mentioning my organs. Therefore, sinners' minutes I walked before finding a tall stack of crates to hide my entry into the Thames. What a terrible dream this was to be so falsely real, for with all my nightmares of drowning in the ocean exacdy as had no one in my life-not Mother nor Marybelle nor any witch nor sinner I knew-I would be the first, drowning not in the ocean, but the broad Thames so appropriate in being a sinners' thoroughfare more than God's body. Therefore, I entered the river with no alternative, for this was not my life, but a nightmare; not my living, but my death. Into the water I stepped to walk farther than I could see. Into the water to find the nature of nightmares, for when they end, the real begins, a realm superior in strength to dreams by being their source, nightmares being minor imaginings compared to the waking torments to have caused them. Into the water I moved to find myself awake, find that final instance of a nightmare turned real, and appropriately turned inverted; for I found my reality nightmarish. Enter the Thames to end my dreams, along with my living.
"Yes, sir, and that be a generous sum to end my worry, for you know the fluids go to my employing company and not to me. For meself-"
"Are you sure the woman is as described?"
"A most comely and youthful person she be, sir, with the pale skin and most black hair you ted of. And, with my apologies, she did have to correct me for saying her a miss by telling me she be a missus."
"And she said she would achieve funds from her husband on the Queen's Flight and then return to you? Did in feet you see this journey of hers?"
"No, and, sir, I did not. A waiting I continued, but with all of these boats and people here walking about, I lost her sight amongst them."
This was the second of two land vehicles waiting for Eric at the docks. As the husband sought a sador, Marybede proceeded to the first vehicle, the covered wagon of bad happenstance.
She would enter the cave in my place. Before the imperfect dreaming, the plan had been for Marybede to pass as "the servant's sister" as per Eric's booking, whde the thin witch played the stowaway in a mariner's cave, and the true servant boarded normally. But Alba was now chasing after the belief that all of her fendly had departed. Marybede would thus box herself in a coffin more comfortable than the last.
"Aye, gent, and I saw your very missus headed out with two sadors of my acquaintance. I am presuming that the Queen they have reached by now and perhaps returned, though I see them not on the water nor along the wharves. A great lot of water we have here, mate, and likely they're out on it again. But if you've a need to be at the Queen's Flight, sir, wed, my own craft is avadable for an easy voyage. It seems the Queen is anchored now, and probably waiting for your very self, sir."
"I welcome your offer, sador, but I've a further problem. Not only did I fad to board the Queen's Flight, but so did a most important chest. A fine fee I have for he who conveys me and this weighty item to the Queen."
"Well, sir, and my brother is with me here. I see it not on the dock-can two good men handle the chest, then?"
They could with Eric's help and Grand's money. And a thing of heft it was, the sailors moving the chest from the wagon and into the boat with no damage, Eric and the other males out to the Queen's Flight to find the wife there.
But she was not. Eric learned this before boarding by looking up to Elsie with a questioning expression, receiving a negative gesture. Then came difficulty with the chest: The captain would not have it until Eric had a good fee for him, the sailors of Eric's conveyance and those of the Queen's Flight requiring true exertion to load the thing, but on board it was with no damage, then dragged below decks into storage.
As this activity commenced, Eric heard Elsie's story. She told of all the anguished pleading required to convince the captain into lowering the anchor. But praise God you're reaching us, sir, and you say the missus is released? Pray Jesus, have they taken her back? You're saying she was seen on a boat coming here and never arrived? Oh, and sir, are you thinking with her poor swimming that... ?
The captain was saying they could tarry no longer. Eric replied that another person was due to fill his booking. The captain was saying they could tarry no longer-until Eric silenced him with currency. Nevertheless, they could not miss the tide despite any passenger's generosity. As Eric considered returning with the boat whose sailors had remained at his request, the other passengers began wondering of the delay. For whom were they waiting now? they demanded. The answer, however, was readily evident. Of course, they awaited Lord Magistrate Naylor, for there he came now.
Every idea in Eric's life seemed to rush through him at once, and all were useless. His stepping toward Lord Naylor was no surrender, however, but attack. At the boarding ladder, Eric accused the magistrate of tormenting him-on my way to a new land and away from these troubles, yet you follow me? No, Naylor had no allegations for Mr. Denton. As for his official business, since Denton had no part in it, he would best be away from the magistrate, who would accept no further difficulties for his own life.
Sir Jacob spoke with the Queen's captain. How many in the Denton party? Three, but only two present. The third being? The servant's sister whom Mr. Denton says may yet arrive; therefore we wait-but cannot for long. The magistrate then inquired as to the Dentons' baggage. One large chest stored away but minutes ago.
The captain would know of English law's interest in his ship, but Naylor would not say. Sir Jacob would not admit that his most important prisoner had escaped, that he had adowed her heinous evil to again be set loose in London.
As these men spoke, Naylor's party moved throughout the ship, their orders given on land: to search for a particular face, one known by all, for these males were guards from Montclaire Prison well familiar with the comely escapee. Though a few handsome women were discovered, none resembled the witch, the wife. The chest was readdy found, found to contain two smader crates much like the remaining cargo in the hold. Nothing there contained any prisoner, any untoward person-and neither did any other niche of the Queen's Flight, for all were searched.
More than ever before in his career of integrity, the magistrate knew his witches. Standing at the deck rad, he waited with the passengers for that missing person, the one due. Naylor recalled the witch's first, inferior proof of her race, and looked to the Thames, recalling her distress at simply waiting on a clear pool's bottom. If she attempted to walk this far, he thought, she would surely die. Therefore, Naylor was certain that he need only wait; and without his activity, the witch would be ended, out of his life, his land.
Not long was his waiting. Minutes later, Naylor stepped to the anchor chain, for how else would she board? Looking down, he saw a dark shape against that chain, too high to be die anchor. Unclear, but clear enough. The shape was covered with apparel-it wore a dress. The shape had dark hair, hands holding die thick metal. Distorted from the water's movement, the shape was thick one ripple and thin the next-but what shape could it be except the one Sir Jacob had lost?
He looked away, and waited. He looked away, and was uncertain of his view. The witch was seen, yes, but more than her face, more than her appearance. The magistrate as well saw her danger. He saw his parent dead. He saw her killing a man. He saw all the men who would kill her, the latter perhaps including himself. Walk that far and die, he had thought, but the magistrate had been wrong again. Perhaps, perhaps, he thought, if she can remain breathing water long enough for me to decide her, then she deserves to live; and this was a new idea within him.
He looked down to the shape another instance, then moved away so that he could not see. He instructed his men to continue searching even though they had searched everywhere often. He told the captain to have his passengers quit their complaining, for he was in no position to accept such criticisms, not with space in Montclaire, more space than that morning, too much of God's separation.
He sent Eric's boat away. No further use had any passengers for these sailors, correct? the magistrate asked; and no one disagreed, not Mr. Denton, who was within hearing, though not nearby.
Nothing changed for Naylor, for no thoughts came, no decision. Nevertheless, after a sinners' moment-a moral moment-he found relief, certain that no longer would the witch be his concern. Then he ordered all the guards into the boat again, and joined them in returning to London.
"I suggest, captain," Naylor called up to the Queen's Flight, "that you weigh anchor and be on with your journey, for it is long and will never begin if you continue waiting for nothing."
The captain could not disagree. As Sir Jacob and his people retreated, the captain ordered the Queen's anchor raised. Naylor looked. Naylor viewed the chain on the ship's opposite side reach deck with no shape attached but that bare anchor on the end. Then Sir Jacob looked away, not turning again to the great vessel.
The captain could not disagree, but Eric could. As he turned to his first mate to have the sails raised, the captain was interrupted by Eric. Further waiting would net die captain further currency. The situation now, the ship's master insisted, is one wherein all these paying passengers must be convinced-have you enough funds for that, sir? But Eric had not. Therefore, he ran to the rail near the anchor chain, looking down to harshly call back to the captain that a person was swimming below. A loud response ensued amongst the sailors of the Queen's Flight, but none could see a person on the Thames. Below, the person is below the surface, Eric insisted. You must lower the anchor again to allow the person a path upward. Foolish this seemed to the sailors, but Mr. Denton proved himself most serious by removing his shoes and gently dropping overboard, for near enough was the magistrate's starboard boat for its passengers to hear a port commotion. Once in the water, Eric called out that, yes! indeed a person was here and the anchor must be lowered since the person was sinking. And who was the captain to argue with a wealthy man attempting to save an invisible person from drowning?
