The Motherwalk

Page 5

My true enemy is gathered in a leering huddle opposite the fire. When they feel my glance wash over them, they draw themselves up, one by one, to impress me and terrify my soul: Lucifer, King of Pain; Astaroth, Knight of Dark Sorceries; Beelzeboul, Chief of Demons; Iblis himself, Imperator of Hell.

Many lesser minions of hell are there too. Andras, a Marquis, favors an angel's body with the head of a crow. Furfur is an Earl, the commander of twenty-six infernal legions, and seems to be in the shape of a pig, winged and belching gelatinous ichor. Agares is a Duke whose power is in the East. And there is Belial, not only a King of the Lower Hierarchy, but actually created just after Lucifer himself.

The ball would seem to be in my court.

Ha. Taking a deep and scornful breath, I laugh at them. Ho ho. Chortle chortle. Really turning it on now, so that the tears come to my eyes with little trouble. Guffaw guffaw guffaw guffaw.

"You are foolish, oh lords of ill making, to seek me out on this night among others. The Moon is full, our sacred grove breathes deeply, and a Motherwalk brim full of woe to any who would profane it draws nearer each passing moment."

There is no reply. The circle of frenzied dancers has paused, and now they stand watching me, blank-faced, but with no little hint of malice in their gleaming eyes.

"You have daring, creatures, to attack the coven thus--and now you have proven it to yourselves, release me, and perhaps the Goddess will grant you the clemency you so little deserve." On my feet now, but still bound at the wrists to forestall any somatic gestures I might undertake, I am the target of no replies, only continued silence and the baleful glares of the pit fiends and their mortal servitors. The situation grows intolerable; I cannot long maintain my bravado thus shackled and subjected. Still the adversary says naught, only glares and snickers. The fire burns high and the shadows flicker.

A thought occurs to me. I use my Voice on them. A blue-tinged cloud of mist floats from out my mouth, enveloping us all: "Besides, you do not need such a one as me. . . there are young girls in the coven, girls who would be overwhelmed at the opportunity to meet such as you. Loose these bindings now, that I may fetch you such a lass."

The azure mist gives power to my injunction, and one of the dancers--the doctor it is--moves to untie my wrists, when at last the silence of the unholy overlords is broken by a barked command. "Hold, fool! Step back!" It is Lucifer who speaks, and there is really no contest: My Voice is powerful, but the man serves his master.

"The pain of my chambers awaits you, slave, after our business here is complete. You were warned of her tricks--I will tolerate no feebleness among lackeys!" The king snaps his tail with impotent frustration. Belial steps forward and lashes the man with his nine-fingered whip. The gynecologist pitches to the ground in a ball, howling in pain, clutching his crotch. Belial advances upon the prostrate figure, grinning maliciously.

"Enough, Belial! We have more pressing concerns." Turning now, Lucifer gestures obsequiously in my direction and executes a slight bow toward his mentor, Iblis. This one steps grandly forward, subtly cutting off Beelzeboul, who growls softly, evoking a quiet snicker from Astaroth.

The second duty of a witch is to end the reign of man.

His voice supremely syrupy, his manner definitively dandified, the angelic demon who would be God addresses himself both to me and to his infernal assemblage. "You are ours Aurora. There is no return from this place. There will be no Motherwalk," and his mouth foams and drips spittle, "on this night or any other. We have been dormant for a time, 'tis true, but do not mistake our quiescence for impotence."

"But you are impotent, devil," I reply. "Both figuratively and literally. Just what sort of offspring do you think yourself capable of at this juncture?"

"Silence, witch!" The roar of his sulfurous breath is a cannon's blast in the night, and I think that perhaps I have cultivated my light-hearted nature a bit much with that last comment.

Yet Iblis is not the throne of Hell for nothing; he is crafty, and suave, and has a few thousand years of experience to back him up. This I should remember.

With a barely perceptible shrug, he gathers himself and resets his face to stony impassivity. He will not allow a witch to snatch his goat.

Ha. And chuckle chuckle. Even as I continue to feel the icy daggers of real fear biting deeper at those points of my insides most vulnerable, I know I must sustain my labra, my balance.

"Tell her, please, my Lord." Astaroth sussurates eagerly. "Give her the true measure of our might." And from Beelzeboul, "Frighten her, my Lord. Give the dancers their due." A tremor runs through the collective loins of the mortal gathering. Furfur giggles and belches goo upon the earth, speaking for them all.