Witch’s Honour. Jan Siegel

case, the kind that would take pictures in the dark without need of a flash, and a bottle of beer. He sat under the leaves in the fading sunset, leopard-spotted with shadow, drinking the beer slowly, slowly, to make it last. The dark had come down before the bottle was empty and he thrust it upright into the sandy soil. He waited, impatient of the crawling hours, held to his vigil only by the thought of his friends’ scorn, if he were to return too soon. At long last his wristwatch showed the hands drawing towards midnight. Now she will come, he thought, or I shall leave. But I do not think she will come.

      She came. He saw her as a white movement on the path, her form apparently wreathed in a glittering mist, her dark hair fading into darkness. She seemed to glide over the uneven ground with a motion that was smooth and altogether silent; he almost fancied her feet did not touch the earth. The hair prickled on his neck. For a moment he could have believed her a pagan spirit, a creature of another kind, whose flesh and substance was not of this world. Then as she descended to the beach he realised the mist-effect was a loose, transparent garment which she unfastened and shed on the sand; her body glowed in the moonlight, slender and shapely as an alabaster nymph, a cold, perfect thing. She raised her arms to the sky as if in greeting to some forgotten deity, then she walked out into the water. The sea was calm and all but waveless: it took her with barely a ripple. He saw her head for a while as a black nodule silhouetted against the sea-glimmer, then it dipped and vanished. Belatedly, he remembered the camera, extracting it from its case, waiting for her to re-emerge. He half wondered if she would show in a photograph or if, like some supernatural being, she would leave no imprint on celluloid. He moved forward, lying along the rocks, poised and ready; but the swimmer did not return. She was gone so long his breath shortened in fear and he put the camera aside, braced to plunge in a search he knew would be hopeless.

      She reappeared quite suddenly, within yards of the rocks where he lay. He thought her eyes were wide open, staring through the night with the same dilated gaze with which she must have pierced the darkness undersea. She began to swim towards the shore—towards him—with a sleek invisible stroke. Then abruptly she rose from the water; the sea streamed from her limbs; her black hair clung wetly to breasts, shoulders, back. For the first time, he saw her face, dim in the moonglow but not dim enough—he looked into eyes deep as the abyss and bright with a lustre that was not of the moon, he saw the lips parted as if in hunger…He tried to move, to flee, forgetful of the camera, of the bet, of his manly pride; but his legs were rooted. The whisper of her voice seemed to reach into his soul.

      ‘Do I look fair to you, peasant?’ She swept back her hair, thrusting her breasts towards him, pale hemispheres surmounted with nipples that jutted like thorns. ‘Look your fill. Tell me, did you feel bold coming here? Did you feel daring, sneaking among the rocks to gawp, and ogle, and boast to your friends? What will you say to them, when you return—if you return? That you have seen Venus Infernalis, Aphrodite risen from a watery grave, reborn from the spume of the sea-god’s ecstasy? What will you say?’

      Closer she came and closer; his spirit recoiled, but his muscles were locked and his body shuddered.

      ‘Nothing,’ he managed. ‘I will say nothing. I swear.’

      ‘I know you will say nothing.’ She was gentle now, touching a cold finger to his face. ‘Do you know the fate of those who spy on the goddess? One was struck blind, another transformed into a stag and torn to pieces by his own dogs. But you have no dog, and the blind can still see with the eyes of the mind. So I will blank your mind, and put your soul in your eyes. You came here to see me, to behold the mystery of my beauty. I will give you your heart’s desire. Your eyes will be enchanted, lidless and sleepless, fixed on me forever. Does that sound good to you?’ Her hands slid across his cheeks, cupped around his sockets. His skin shrank from the contact.

      ‘Please,’ he mumbled, and ‘No…’ but her mouth smiled and her fingers probed unheeding.

      In a velvet sky the moon pulled a wisp of cloud over its face, hiding its gaze from what followed.

      The next morning a rumour circulated the village that the woman and her servant had left in the small hours, taking the hairless cat and uprooting plants from the courtyard. The taxi-driver who had driven them to the airport confirmed it, though his tip had been so generous he had got drunk for a week and was consequently confused. For some reason, the house was not occupied again. The owner left it untenanted and uncared for, the blood-red carpets faded; only the orchids thrived.

      They found Panioti’s body two days later, borne on the sea-currents some way from Hekati beach. He had not drowned and there was no visible injury on his body, save where his eyeballs had been plucked out. But that was not a story they told the tourists.

      Contents

       Title Page Prayer Prologue: Enter First Witch Part One: Succour Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV Part Two: Valour Chapter V Chapter VI Chapter VII Chapter VIII Chapter IX Part Three: Honour Chapter X Chapter XI Chapter XII Epilogue: Exit Third Witch Glossary: Names Acknowledgements By Jan Siegel Copyright About the Publisher

       PART ONE

Succour

       I

      It was New Year’s Eve 2000. The ancient house of Wrokeby normally brooded in silence under the eaves of the Wrokewood, a haphazard sprawl of huddled rooms, writhen staircases, arthritic beams and creaking floors, its thick walls attacked from without by monstrous creepers and gnawed from within by mice, beetles, and dry rot. English Heritage had no mandate here; only shadows prowled the empty corridors, draughts fingered the drapes, water demons gurgled in the plumbing. The Fitzherberts who built it originally had, through the vicissitudes of history, subsequently knocked it down, razed it, and built it up again, constructing the priest’s hole, burrowing the secret passages, and locking unwanted wives and lunatic relatives in the more inaccessible attics, until the family expired of inbreeding and ownership passed to a private trust. Now, it was leased to members of the nouveau riche, who enjoyed decrying its many inconveniences and complained formally only when the domestic staff fell through the mouldering floorboards and threatened to sue. The latest tenant was one Kaspar Walgrim, an investment banker with a self-made reputation for cast-iron judgement and stainless steel integrity. He liked to mention the house in passing to colleagues and clients, but he rarely got around to visiting it. Until tonight. Tonight, Wrokeby was having a ball.

      Lights