Prophesy: The Immortal Witch (20)

Part 19 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/prophesy-immortal-witch-19

The old lady peers into a mirror. It has an ornate frame made of brass. Engravings of bats, wolves and other creatures born of the midnight moon adorn the border. She stares at the crows’ feet under her eyes, puffy from lack of sleep. Skin sagging, her jowls victims of advancing years. The image reviles, saddens and frustrates in equal measure.

Grimacing, she curses her age and, even more so, her health on days like this. Aches and pains come with the territory for someone so elderly. Maybe arthritis is making corrosive inroads; it is acutely painful at times. Of course, this may be an undiagnosed assumption influenced by speculation. She shuns doctors who are modern day charlatans after all. They will merely worry her with their clucking, chin scratching and intrusive prods as they search for a convenient diagnosis.

Water drips from the shower, pattering onto tile. Steam still billowing, mists the air. Slowly, she dresses: white slip pulled over her head, knickers gingerly stepped into before placing thin arms into a sable silk gown and tying it with a belt. A decorative butterfly clip pins raven-coloured hair in place; slippers wait by the door.

Leaving the bathroom, shadows seem to lurk in halls and corridors. Ghosts from the past roam a decrepit Victorian terraced house shrouded in permanently drawn curtains; as though hiding arcane secrets from an uninterested world. The geriatric glides down steep creaking stairs into a hallway then continues on into a parlour, her lithe movement at odds with a frail frame.

It has been a good day, an interesting day with more curios sold at the indoor market in Burnham. She enjoyed the chatter with other traders, catching up on inane stories and anecdotes from their lives. Mr Cleverley’s moggy had brought in a rat last night much to his wife’s disgust and Sheena Macintosh was brimming with gossip from her latest crown green bowling match. None of this matters but it is a reminder of the value of simply carrying on.

For a moment, she considers turning the light on but chooses to remain in gloom. Evening nears, dusk falling, and the heat of the day dissipating to be replaced by a welcome nocturnal chill. Outside, the cries of gulls can be heard, a shrillness that drowns out the sweeter song of blackbirds, robins and nightingales. A discordant avian orchestra.

Through the half-light, she stoically notes again neglected wallpaper curling in strips at the edges like waves on a choppy sea; layers of dust cover an oak cabinet filled with ornaments. A coffee table forms a small island in front of a three-piece suite whilst an obtrusive antiquated television (probably still with a cathode ray tube inside and housed on legs like something from the 1960s) occupies a corner.

It has been a while since housekeeping of any kind had been done but it will be got around to in time. There is a pervading smell of damp, sour like a wet towel left out on a bathroom floor.

There simply isn’t the energy for mundane chores at the moment. That will change soon enough. A cup of tea in a bone China cup is placed carefully onto a coaster, its noiseless descent in contrast to the mild groan that accompanies her crooked body’s slump into a damson coloured settee.

The last of the day’s sunlight filters through a gap in the floor-length curtains, maroon brocade with silver spun thread reflecting the antiquity of the surroundings. A tattered, yellowing copy of CS Lewis’s The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe lies on a cushion nearby.

From the periphery of her vision she detects a shape. Yellow eyes like neon car headlamps watch from the doorway. A cat the colour of darkness itself sitting, staring, awaiting its next feed. She ponders the beast’s capacity for profanity yet values its loyalty.

There is little appetite for reading. Instead, the hoary woman rises once more, shuffles across the Persian rug that sits atop a floor made of Norwegian pine and presses a button on the TV.

A screen flickers into life and silence is replaced by the hubbub that comes with the drone of news reporters intoning stories of life and death. For the most part, global developments hold no interest these days. Conflict in the Middle East is similar to conflict anywhere else and the incompetence of politicians is only matched by the lack of integrity that goes with those backing the politicians. Her cynicism is in deference to an indefatigable resilience.

The aged crone sighs wearily about to turn the set off when an item captures her interest. Behind a male reporter is an inset image of an ancient book. It is probably a stock photo but a bell is ringing in her head. This is important.

An account is unfolding about an esoteric text found at Brean Fort. She scrutinises the face on screen: thin blond hair swept across a scalp and keen pin-prick eyes. As the man speaks, he grins exuberantly as though the incident is the most exciting thing to happen that day. Such enthusiasm comes with youth. Every word sounds magnified, every syllable echoing, a story that carries resonance. She remembers a different time, a time of adventure and endeavour when everything was new and thrilling.

There is a disappointing vagueness to the reporting. A local boy and girl had been out walking then stumbled upon an artefact in one of the underground antechambers at the fort.

But here is the detail she was hoping for; an expert opinion from Nadeem Potter at the University of Bristol. The archaeologist talks about how it is early days and further investigation is needed but, nevertheless, this is an exciting discovery and more detail will be revealed when available.

It is all a tad non-committal but, nevertheless, a reference to pursue. Jessica Goldstein (to know her true name is to hold the power to denounce her) will seek the professor out. She quietly curses under putrid breath. The academic will see only a young, attractive female. The grimoire will be back in her possession soon enough.

Reflections dance in monochrome on the glass of the antique cabinet, a haphazard version of the moving pictures from the goggle box.  Walking in slow steps, she stops and opens the doors. On a shelf lower down are a collection of implements designed to apply the Dark Arts. She picks one up.

An inky blackness intensifies, drawing on energy from the cold anthracite of the witch’s heart. The magic is strong although her zest for life gradually waning. Living forever isn’t all it is cracked up to be, she laments. The dagger’s blade glints in the lowlight.

Part 21 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/prophesy-immortal-witch-21

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