Witch Water

“But before interview could be granted, it was required in the utmost that thy faith be proved.” Wraxall smiled ever-so-slightly. “And so it has been.”

Fanshawe’s mind felt riotous with questions; and Wraxall seemed to read this in his face.

“I can only conjecture, friend,” the man began, “what might addle thee firstmost. All these matters will be answered to thee. As anent to ye chase by Sheriff Patten and his nincompoop assignees, and ye great eruption of light, additives of sartain mineral salts provided ye strange and startling hue its illuminance—lo, just a flashpot— while ye vicious cur’s progress was forestalled forthwith by an ably bespoken Confoundment Hex. Its disorienting effect remains vital for only the passage of seconds, but seconds, as your presence indubitably ostends, were sufficient to spare thy neck. In all, ‘twas a simple thing—little more than a parlor trick, same as the Stasis Spell bespoken to you next—”

Without even thinking of it, Fanshawe remembered the words that Rood had said, words that seemed to have semi-solid substance: Nard’gurnlut do’blyn srug…

“’Twas necessary, to keep thee compliant for thine anointment, and, yea, the sequent entertainment of my most lovely and awful daughter.”

But now Fanshawe’s confusion was beginning to gain a form of coherence. “How could Rood haven’t gotten in the house so fast?”

“Thy meaning, sir?”

“The sheriff’s men and that damn dog were chasing me through the alley!” Fanshawe yelled. “But after the flash, I got into the house. It was Rood who threw them off my direction—he ran down the street with the sheriff, but the second I got into the house, Rood was waiting for me! It’s impossible! He didn’t have time to get back inside!”

“Time, good student, is a notion of which you’ll become more apprized sooner than later, I say.” Wraxall stroked his trimmed Van Dyke, as if amused. “But I should think such possibilities would already have come to thee.”

Fanshawe pounded his fist on the table. “What are you talking about!”

“’Twas the Bridle which thee rode to come hither.”

The Bridle, Fanshawe thought.

“’Tis a genius mechanism given men as me by the great dark Benefactor, whom I live to sarve. A man such as thyself, possessed of understanding, should surely see this.”

“It-it’s some occult thing… that manipulates time,” Fanshawe said to himself.

“Far more than mere manipulation it is of which we be speaking. It is an instance of one’s spirit being united with the ways of our Benefactor. Such knowledge be bestowed upon only a precious few.” Wraxall pointed. “You.”

Fanshawe continued to stare.

“Yea, you. But I shall give thee witness, to further embolden thee,” and with that, Wraxall seemed to grit his teeth and squeeze his eyes shut, and—

Now Fanshawe was standing in the silent hall, Wraxall smiling at his side. “Time? Space? Such things these, thought to be constants, but to those so gifted, they be but playthings to ye minister of Lucifer”—and then Wraxall made the facial gesture again, to leave himself and Fanshawe standing in a small bedroom occupied by a high, veiled poster bed. “Behold,” Wraxall said.

It was Evanore who lay there, with Rood standing by, leaning over intently. Evanore grunted, her face a grimace. She was nude and—

Holy shit, Fanshawe thought.

—very pregnant. But after several forceful shrieks, her belly collapsed. Rood reached between her legs and raised up a wet, new-born infant.

Fanshawe trembled. “That’s not…”

“Ye child of thy seed shared with my daughter—”

“But that was just a few minutes ago!”

“So to thee it may seem, for ye Bridle skews time, venturer, yet he who masters it owns it.”

Fanshawe looked again. The squalling newborn lay now at Evanore’s bosom. As the tiny thing suckled, Evanore grinned…right at Fanshawe.

Again, the warlock transplanted them, this time, to the foyer. A dog was heard barking outside, along with the shouts of men. Rood grinned at Fanshawe as he set down a bloody knife. Behind him on a shelf lay an indiscernible shape—a tiny shape—yet before him on a table sat two bowls of blood.

“Back, I take thee, forward—any and all!” Wraxall said. “Like a jester who juggles pins amid ye air, so do I juggle time!”

The nausea rose in Fanshawe’s gut, even after the scene disappeared, leaving him to sit in a dark parlor room. He didn’t have to be told that the blood he’d drunk was that of his own child.

“Forsooth, sir—these be ye secrets I design to teach.”

Fanshawe’s mind spun. “I don’t want your secrets! I don’t want to know any of this, and I don’t want to be here!” Spittle flew from his lips. “I’m not evil! I don’t want to be a fuckin’ warlock!”

“Nay?” Only one candle lit the room. Wraxall looked like little more than a shadow. “’Twas of thine own will that thee are here. You sought such secrets. You engaged ye looking-glass. And, you, sir, were all too eager to ride ye Bridle.”

Fanshawe went limp in his chair.

“To thee I shalt bequeath ye Two Secrets of which you hath willingly read already. The test thee hath passed. Thy mettle hath been proved. Only one other such venturer has come here, claiming to seek ye same.”

Something small and dark flapped on the table before Fanshawe. He picked it up.

It was a wallet.

Fanshawe opened it to find a New York driver’s license and a picture of—

“Eldred Karswell. So he did come here.”

“This he did, seeking secrets such as you. Aye, but at a glance I knew that his poise was but a feign. He claimed to serve ye Benefactor, yet one of such he was not.”

Karswell was a Christian mystic, Fanshawe remembered, and a former minister.

“Yet his aspect here at once introduced quite an incongruous element, and with but a glance I espied his falsehood, for his truth I glimpsed in the tone of his aura…”

Fanshawe’s gaze was dragged up by the statement. “What color? What color was Karswell’s aura?”

“White as new-felled snow—”

“And mine?” Fanshawe shook where he sat. “What color is mine?”

“Black,” the word grated from Wraxall’s throat. “Same as ye hue of thy heart, like deepests earth’s blackest ichors.” Wraxall’s shape paused; he seemed to be appraising Fanshawe’s reaction. “But this thee know already. In matters appertaining to ye imposture called Karswell, from the house he was cast, then encaptured by ye sheriff and deputies. ’Twas a joyous sight to behold—his end.”

Fanshawe remembered the image of Karswell’s face, or lack thereof. They barreled him…

Now Wraxall’s words in the dark seemed to vibrate like some suboctave groan. “You too wilst have such power as I, to play with time as thou see fit, and to thine own great gain, whereat Lucifer be praised.”

The word—Lucifer—seemed to hang in the darkness like the face of a barely seen watcher.

“To one such as thyself, such things seem impossible, since we know time to be of ye Nature God hath put upon us. How wondrous, then, must it be to have in thy hands such black endowment to corrupt God’s will, and forge the impossible into that which be more than possible? Let us look then back into the countenance of God and hurl our laughter as we subvert his givings for our whimsey!”

Fanshawe let the echos of the words melt away.