Black Magic by Marjorie Bowen (good novels to read TXT) 📕

silence through the darkness and the snow, in between the

bare rose bushes, over the wet, cold earth until they reached the

trapdoor at the end of the garden that led to the witch’s kitchen.

Here she paused while Dirk raised the stone.

 

“Surely the earth shook then,” he said. “I felt it tremble beneath my

feet—hush, there is a light below!”

 

The witch peered over his shoulder and saw a faint glow rising from

the open trap, while at that moment her own lamp went suddenly out.

 

They stood in outer darkness.

 

“Will you dare descend?” muttered Nathalie. “What should I fear?” came

the low, wild answer, and Dirk put his foot on the ladder…the witch

followed…they found themselves in the chamber, and saw that it was

lit by an immense fire, seated before which was an enormous man, with

his back towards them; he was dressed in black, and at his feet lay

stretched a huge black hound.

 

The snow dripped from the garments of the newcomers as it melted in

the hot air; they stood very still.

 

“Good even,” said Dirk in a low voice.

 

The stranger turned a face as black as his garments; round his neck he

wore a collar of most brilliant red and purple stones.

 

“A cold night,” he said, and again it seemed as if the earth rumbled

and shook.

 

“You find our fire welcome,” answered Dirk, but the witch crouched

against the wall, muttering to herself.

 

“A good heat, a good heat,” said the Blackamoor.

 

Dirk crossed the room, his arms folded on his breast, his head erect.

 

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

 

“Warming myself, warming myself.”

 

“What have you to say to me?”

 

The Blackamoor drew closer to the fire.

 

“Ugh! how cold it is!” he said, and stuck out his leg and thrust it

deep into the seething flames. Dirk drew still nearer.

 

“If you be what I think you, you have some reason coming here.”

 

The black man put his other leg into the fire, and flames curled to

his knees.

 

“I have been to the palace, I have been to the palace. I sat under the

Empress’s chair while she talked to a pretty youth whose name is

Theirry—a-ah! it was cold in the palace, there was snow on the

youth’s garments, as there is blood on yours, and the Emperor was

there…” All this while he looked into the fire, not at Dirk.

 

“Theirry has betrayed me,” said the youth.

 

The Blackamoor took his legs from the fire unscorched and untouched,

and the hell-hound rose and howled.

 

“He has betrayed you, and Ysabeau accuses you to save herself; but the

devils are on your side since there is other work for you to do; flee

from Frankfort, and I will see that you fulfil your destiny.”

 

And now he glanced over his shoulder.

 

“The witch comes home tonight, tonight, the work here is done, take

the road through Frankfort.”

 

He stood up, and his head touched the roof; the gems on his throat

gave out long rays of light … the fire grew dim; the Blackamoor

changed into a thick column of smoke…that spread…“Hell will not

forsake you, Ursula of Rooselaare.”

 

Dirk fell back against the wall, thick vapours encompassing him; he

put his hands over his face…When he looked up again the room was

clear and lit by the beams of the dying fire; he gazed round for the

witch, but Nathalie had gone.

 

With a thick sob in his throat he sprang up the ladder into the outer

air, and rushed towards the desolate house.

 

Desolate indeed; empty, dark and cold it stood, the snow drifting in

through the open windows, the fires extinguished on the hearths, a

dead place never more to be inhabited.

 

Dirk leant against the door, breathing hard.

 

Here was a crisis of his fate; betrayed by the one whom he loved,

deserted, too, it seemed, since Nathalie had disappeared…the

Blackamoor…he remembered him as a vision…a delusion perhaps.

 

Oh, how cold it was! Would his accusers come for him tonight? He

crept to the gate that gave on to the street and listened.

 

“Nathalie!” he cried forlornly.

 

Out of the further darkness came a distant hurry and confusion of

sound.

 

Horses, shouting, eager feet; a populace roused, on the heels of the

dealer in black magic, armed with fire and sword for the witches.

 

Dirk opened the gate, for the last time stepped from the witch’s

garden; he wondered if Theirry was with the oncoming crowd, yet he did

not think so, probably he was in the palace, probably he had repented

already of what he had done; but the Empress had found her chance; her

accusation falling first, who would take his word against her?

 

He wore neither cloak nor hat, and as he waited against the open gate

the thick snow covered him from head to foot; his spirit had never

been afraid, was not afraid now, but his frail body shivered and

shrank back as when the angry students fronted him at Basle.

 

He listened to the noises of the approaching people, till through

these another sound, nearer and stranger, made him turn his head.

 

It came from the witch’s house.

 

“Nathalie!” called Dirk in a half hope.

 

But the blackness rippled into fire, swift flames sprang up, a column

of gold and scarlet enveloped house and garden in a curling embrace.

 

Dirk ran out into the road, where the glare of the fire lit the

swirling snow for a trembling circle, and shading his eyes he stared

at the flames that consumed his books, his magic herbs and potions,

the strange things, rich and beautiful, that Nathalie had gathered in

her long evil life; then he turned and ran down the street as the

crowd surged in at the other end, to fall back upon one another aghast

before the mighty flames that gave them mocking welcome.

 

Their dismayed and angry shouts came to Dirk’s ears as he ran through

the snow; he fled the faster, towards the eastern gate.

 

It was not yet shut; light of foot and swift he darted through before

they could challenge him, perhaps even before the careless guards saw

him.

 

He was a fine runner, not easily fatigued, but he had already strained

his endurance to the utmost, and, after he had well cleared the city

gates, his limbs failed him and he fell to a walk.

 

The intense darkness produced a feeling of bewilderment, almost of

light-headedness; he kept looking back over his shoulder, at the

distant lights of Frankfort, to assure himself that he was not

unwittingly stumbling back to the gates.

 

Finally he stood still and listened; he must be near the river; and

after a while he could distinguish the sound of its sullen flow coming

faintly out of the silent dark.

 

Well, of what use was the river to him, or aught else; he was cold,

weary, pursued and betrayed; all he had with him were some few pieces

of white money and a little phial of swift and keen poison that he

never failed to carry in his breast; if his master failed him he would

not go alive into the flames.

 

But, hopeless as his case might seem, he was far from resorting to

this last refuge; he remembered the Blackamoor’s words, and dragged

his numbed and aching limbs along. After a while he saw, glimmering

ahead of him, a light.

 

It was neither in a house nor carried in the hand, for it shone low on

the ground, lower, it seemed to Dirk, than his own feet.

 

He paused, listened, and proceeded cautiously for fear of the river,

that must lie, he thought, very close to his left.

 

As he neared the light he saw it to be a lantern, that cast long rays

across the clearing snowstorm; a glittering, trembling reflection

beneath it told him it belonged to a boat roped to the bank.

 

Dirk crept towards it, went on his knees in the snow and mud, and

beheld a small, empty craft, the lantern hanging at the prow.

 

He paused; the waters, rushing by steadily and angrily, must be

flowing towards the Rhine and the town of Cologne.

 

He stepped into the boat that rocked while the water splashed beneath

him; but with cold hands he undid the knotted rope.

 

The boat trembled a moment, then sped on with the current as if glad

to be freed.

 

An oar lay in the bottom, with which for a while Dirk helped himself

along, fearful lest the owners of the boat should pursue, then he let

himself float down stream as he might. The water lapped about him, and

the snow fell on his unprotected and already soaked figure; he

stretched himself along the bottom of the boat and hid his face in the

cushioned seat.

 

“Hugh of Rooselaare is dead and Theirry has betrayed me,” he whispered

into the darkness. Then he began sobbing, very bitterly.

 

His anguished tears, the cruel cold, the steady sound of the unseen

water exhausted and numbed him till he fell into a sleep that was half

a swoon, while the boat drifted towards the town.

 

When he awoke he was still in the open country. The snow had ceased,

but lay on the ground thick and untouched to the horizon.

 

Dirk dragged his cramped limbs to a sitting posture and stared about

him; the river was narrow, the banks flat; the boat had been caught by

a clump of stiff withered reeds and the prow driven into the snowy

earth.

 

On either side the prospect was wintry and dreary; a grey sky brooded

over a white land, a pine forest showed sadly in dark mournfulness,

while near by a few bare isolated trees bent under their weight of

snow; the very stillness was horribly ominous.

 

Dirk found it ill to move, for his limbs were frozen, his clothes wet

and clinging to his wincing flesh, while his eyes smarted with his

late weeping, and his head was racked with giddy pains.

 

For a while he sat, remembering yesterday till his face hardened and

darkened, and he set his pale lips and crawled painfully out of the

boat.

 

Before him was a sweep of snow leading to the forest, and as he gazed

at this with dimmed, hopeless eyes, a figure in a white monk’s habit

emerged from the trees.

 

He carried a rude wooden spade in his hand, and walked with a slow

step; he was coming towards the river, and Dirk waited.

 

As the stranger neared he lifted his eyes, that had hitherto been cast

on the ground, and Dirk recognised Saint Ambrose of Menthon.

 

Nevertheless Dirk did not despair; before the saint bad recognised him

his part was resolved upon…

 

Ambrose of Menthon gazed with pity and horror at the forlorn little

figure shivering by the reeds. It was not strange that he did not at

once know him; Dirk’s face was of a ghastly hue, his eyes shadowed

underneath, red and swollen, his lank hair clinging close to his small

head, his clothes muddy, wet and soiled, his figure bent.

 

“Sir,” he said, and his voice was weak and sweet, “have pity on an

evil thing.”

 

He fell on his knees and clasped his hands on his breast.

 

“Rise up,” answered the saint. “What God has given me is yours; poor

soul, ye are very miserable.”

 

“More miserable than ye wot of,” said Dirk, through chattering teeth,

still