The Life of Death Page 2

  ‘It’s her turn today, Lizzy.’

  Long fingers gently pull at numb toes.

  ‘The crowds have gathered. She has left her cell. Can you hear them, Lizzy?’ Thumbs smooth calloused pads.

  ‘You can see her, Lizzy. One last time.’ His grip on my feet tightens. ‘All I want, all I’m asking for, is the soul of one girl who will shortly herself be at that stake. You give me your soul and I give you employment and an eternal life. Can’t say fairer than that.’

  I’m exhausted. I’m in pain. I can’t even cry for fear of jarring my head against this metal frame and sending more spasms of agony through my body. I gag. A sob of acquiescence chokes out from behind a restricted tongue.

  ‘Go out there. Go out to your mother. She’s at the stake now. Go out there. They won’t see you. Not while I’m with you.’

  I have lost reason, lost the will to argue, to question. It makes no sense, but such is the force of His presence that whatever He says, I accept.

  He stands, stretches long arms high above His head. Entwines His fingers to stretch the joints, stiffened in the damp air. They crack loudly, echoing against the cold stone. Reaches up to unclip the iron frame of the brutal headpiece. Cups my chin with His hand as He eases the bars over my head and slips a finger into my mouth to lift the bit from my tongue. Unhooks my arms from the shackles and cradles me against His chest to lower me, slowly, gently, to the floor.

  A jumble of dark clouds muffles the mumble of thunder on this tumbledown day. Even the dim light of an autumn afternoon is too bright for eyes accustomed to darkness, making me blink and shrink back into the cocoon of my cell. He grips my arm, steadying me on my feet, supporting and guiding as we step out into the marketplace. He was right – no one can see us. No one is paying any attention to a tall, pale man and a blood-caked, shit-caked girl pushing their way through a howling crowd.

  We reach the front, where feet line up against the circle of stones that mark the edge of the fire pit. They’ve turned up in their hundreds, from the towns and villages scattered in the surrounding hills. Turned up to jostle for position, climbing on to one another, pushing each other out of the way to vie for the best view. Clambering on to the central market cross to get a better view. To watch the witch burn.

  She stands, back to the stake, straight-shouldered and head held high. Not for her the begging, the admission of guilt, the hair-tearing of her contemporaries. She stands proud, content in the knowledge she has done nothing wrong. Faith in her God and belief in herself hold her body straight and true. Her refusal to bend, to bow, to break, infuriates this crowd. Blackened cabbages are launched in her direction, globules of spit land at her feet. Still she does not flinch.

  I pull forward, trying to struggle free from His grip. To get to her. To free her wrists and pull her down from that pyre before the flames can take hold. But He is strong. Stronger than I could ever be. He grips my upper arms and pins them to my sides. ‘Lizzy. No. Not yet.’

  Four men step forward, holding lit torches they dip to kindling and tease the hay wisps beneath. Flames curl and lick, enveloping the tinder that leans up against her. And still her face is set. Lips pressed together, eyes turned to the sky above, seeing through and past the smoke that spirals ever higher to the heavens.

  A flame takes hold of her woollen dress. Sweeps upwards to cloak her body in fire. And then, the screams begin. Long, drawn out, moaning screams. Screams that turn the ravens to wing, and my blood to ice. She can hold back no longer. The heat, the fire, squeezes the air from her lungs in a high-pitched shriek. But still she will not beg. She will not give them the satisfaction.

  The screams get louder, shriller. The jeers of the crowd fall to silence as they watch, open-mouthed. Bodies shrink back from the searing heat of the fire. As skin melts and hair burns away from her scalp. As clothes burn to nothing and the smell of cooking meat and singed tresses conspire to offend the nostrils of all who stand and watch. They’ve seen it before, this crowd. And they’ll see it again. But still they retch. Choke on the thick smoke that weaves its way between them, shrink back from the fierce heat of the fire that licks out of the inner circle in its search for fuel. Bile rises in my throat. An irrepressible urge to vomit.

  The screams quieten, the pain so all-consuming that she can do nothing but wait for death to come. I feel a nudge in the small of my back. Him.

  ‘Go to her. See her off safely.’ His cheek oozes with droplets of blood.

  I resist Him. Push back with my shoulders and turn my head away from the sight of a broken woman, stripped back to the very bones that held her so upright in her final moments.

  ‘You won’t feel a thing. Go on. She doesn’t have much time left.’ The nudge becomes a shove. ‘If you don’t go to her now, you’ll never get to say goodbye’.

  Deep breath. In. Out. I step over the crude stone circle marking the boundary of the fire. In. Out. Step onto white-hot embers that crunch and crumble beneath my feet. Again, He’s right – there’s no pain, I can’t feel the heat that should be burning through my skin. Through the haze, I can see the shrivelled, burnt figure has been replaced by the woman I know and love. Skin replenished, hair hanging about her face, shoulders drawn up and back.

  ‘I thought He’d come.’ Her face is peaceful, calm. Her voice soft. None of the rasping shriek that only moments before filled the crowded square.

  I grab at her. Wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her neck. ‘What do you mean?’

  I pull back to look her in the eye, to tuck a tendril of hair behind her ear. The skin of her forehead is smooth, unlined, cool to the touch. Not a bead of sweat betrays the previous moment’s torment.

  The restraints have fallen away. Hand holding elbow, we two sit amid the dying flames, the white embers that crumble to the softest ash.

  She smiles. ‘Call it a mother’s intuition. Maybe it’s years of seeing Him in the shadows, watching you at every turn. Feeling Him in the wind. He’s always kept his distance, but I knew He wouldn’t need much encouragement when the time came.’

  ‘Why did you never tell me?’

  ‘You heard them, Lizzy, their whispers about you, about your grandmother. Binding you to the Devil Himself. What good would it have done to tell you the truth, to open you to their hatred? Your ignorance was your innocence, Lizzy, your protection. If you didn’t know, how could anyone else be sure?’

  ‘But what is the truth? Why does He want me? What have I ever done?’

  ‘Not you, Lizzy. You’ve done nothing. He wanted you from the very moment you were sown into my belly. For the long months you were cosseted in my womb. He’s wily. A deceptive Reynard – He slips in unwanted and takes what He wants. Night after night in my dreams He taunted me until I knew not what was a nightmare and what was true. For months I fought Him – waking in the dead of night and keeping myself awake until the first fingers of light crept over the sea – for when I was awake He couldn’t get to me, He couldn’t get at you. But my fighting was punished, with pain and fear and the threat of losing my unborn child. With blood staining the matting on the floor of our home. And as the seasons passed and as you grew in my belly, I could fight no longer. Night after night I would succumb to sleep, the safety of hours free from pain no match for the sound in my dreams of His voice chipping at my resolve. And when you were born, marked as you were, with that red scar from throat to ear, I knew that He had won. That you were His.’

  ‘But I am not His! I am yours, I am Father’s, I am—’

  ‘You are His, my darling. There are a chosen few. Those He seeks out when they are but seeds in a fertile soil. Those He watches over and protects, whom He furnishes with talents and skills that elude we mortal folk. Your talent for herbs, your healing hands – He gave you those, much as He gave them to your grandmother, and to her grandmother before her. And in return for that protection, that patronage, when the time comes He requires one thing from you, Lizzy. He requires your soul. For it is the souls of His children, willingly given
, that nourish Him, that help Him to thrive, that will enable Him to live for generations to come. You can turn from Him, you can die here, alone in this market square. You can reject whatever it is He has in mind. But you must listen to Him. Listen to what He has to offer you. If you reject Him, a certain eternity in Hell awaits. And the road to Hell is not what the scriptures would have us believe, Lizzy. It is not the final resting place for those who have sinned, bubbling with brimstone. It is His final resting place for those by whom He has been shunned. It is a place of longing and of loss. Of sadness. Of desperation. Of wondering eternally what could have been and what might have passed.’

  ‘But if I do sell Him my soul? I die without the threat of Hell awaiting me? Then I prove everyone around us right, prove that their years of jeers were correct. That I am nothing but the Devil’s Child.’

  ‘Your existence proves them right, Lizzy. The knowledge you hold in your hands will always mark you as His in the eyes of those around you. Whether you give Him your soul, or whether you condemn yourself to an eternity in Hell, these men will never know for certain, and they will never think differently of you. What is He asking you to do? Will it hurt people? Harm them? You must follow your conscience, Lizzy. If you feel it is wrong, if it is more unbearable than Hell itself, you must come here, to the stake. Accept your fate as I have done and have hope that you can lessen His anger, that He will soften to you. Only you can decide what path you should choose – the road to Hell, or towards whatever He is offering in return for your soul. For they are the only paths open to you, my dearest. As His chosen subject, the path to Heaven is blocked.’

  Head bows on weary neck. Shoulders slump against the rigid iron pole. Fingers toy with the soft ashes beneath me. My mother reaches over. Clasps my filthy hand in hers. Clean. Smooth. Soft. ‘Has He told you? What awaits?’

  ‘Not yet.’ His weeks of visits, of relentless persuasion have taught me nothing other than His obsession with gaining my soul. ‘He hasn’t elaborated. Only to say that in return for my soul He’ll give me employment and an eternal life. That in return for my soul I can avoid the end that’s been written for me.’

  I look over to where He stands, leaning the full length of His slim body against the stone cross in the centre of the square. The bitter wind has chased up the tunics of the crowd, skittering them back to shelter, to safety. He stands alone in the ebbing mass, unruffled, unfettered. His eyes haven’t left me since I stepped into that sacred circle and now they bore in to my own. Black. Bottomless. But now, the droplets of blood on that pale cheek have cleared, and He stands before me unblemished.

  ‘Ask Him, Lizzy. Give Him the chance to explain. You have a choice. You have a way out of this.’ She gestures around her at the smoking, charred wood, at the cracked bones of the previous occupants of this sacred circle. ‘At least consider that. Even if you don’t agree to go ahead with whatever He has in store for you. Think of the alternative. I know what that end point is. I know the pain, the searing heat, the feeling of your skin peeling from your body, bit by bit, of hair melting into flesh. Today, I have truly visited the hell of mortals, Lizzy. And you can avoid that.’

  I look back at Him. Arms crossed. Cloak heavy with gold. I nod. A barely perceptible acknowledgement that I’m willing to discuss His offer.

  At my nod, He finally breaks His gaze, steps down from the cross and strides across the empty square to the stone building that has held me these past few weeks. Just before He passes through the open doorway, He turns to me, and once more locks His eyes to mine. A breath. A pause. Before ducking His head and being swallowed within.

  ‘We don’t have much time, my dearest. He won’t wait for ever.’

  We have been sitting in silence, we two, in that cold market square as clouds scud overhead. The only sound the stark cawing of the ravens that perch high above us. Our only companions are the two guards who stand either side of the pit, waiting for the heat to die down. And as long as we are here, it won’t. He’ll make sure of it, I know. They’ll keep their distance.

  ‘You were such a good daughter. Loyal and kind. Loving. I couldn’t have wished for a better daughter. And with that talent. Just like my mother. I never understood her feeling for the herbs, never knew until He came to me that I would never be able to understand it. Do you remember when you used to sit with her and crush the leaves? A tiny little thing perched beside her with a bowl between your knees.’

  I nod. I do. I do remember. The heady punch of cropleek crushed with garlic in the mortar. The days spent scouring the hills for milkthistle and dandelion. The musty, dusty, metallic tang of copper bowls and dried wormwood.

  ‘I have worried for you for my whole life, Lizzy. I have known this day would come – I knew not when, or where, or how. But He brought those men here, Lizzy – He decided to summon you to Him, He is in need of your nourishment, and the lives of the other women are of little consequence. I want you to consider this, Lizzy. I really do. I can’t bear the thought of you suffering the pain I’ve just endured, and to suffer that pain for evermore. But you will be careful, won’t you? Promise me you won’t agree to anything unless you know exactly what you will have to do. You must promise me, Lizzy. He’s the Devil, Lizzy. Promise me you’ll look after yourself.’

  She grips my hands between hers. Brings them to her lips to kiss my blood-stained fingers.

  ‘I promise. If I don’t like the sound of it, I’ll walk away. Walk into the flames with my head held high and your name on my lips. And I can grit my teeth and face Hell in the knowledge that I have not caused yet more suffering. But if I can avoid it? If I can live a life away from them …’ I jerk my head in the direction of the Jem Porters and the Thomas Mortimers of the world, no doubt leering and jeering, cheering themselves with tankards of ale. They can watch me as I burn, watch as they hurl His name in my direction. But I’ll watch them through the saffron haze of flames, knowing that if Jem Porter were able to tear his eyes away, to glance over his shoulder, he would come face to face with that fabled being Himself.

  ‘Be careful, my love. You must do the right thing. You must do what you believe.’

  I wrap my arm around her shoulder, gently pulling her into a hug and rocking her as she rests her head against mine.

  ‘I will. I promise.’

  ‘Goodbye, my dearest girl. And good luck.’

  And as we rock, I feel her slipping away. I feel her fading in my arms until finally, gently, she breathes her final breath, and while her bones settle in the embers, the mother I know, the woman I love, gently fades to black.

  I don’t know how long I sit there in the embers and the ashes in the centre of the market square. When I look up I can see Him across the square, the outline of His body against the black doorway of the prison building. Waiting for me to return. And eventually, pushing myself to my feet and wiping my tear-smeared, blood-stained face with a hand filthy with ash and dirt, I do.

  It’s a long, solitary walk across the cobbles. I stare resolutely ahead. Focused on Him. I can’t turn, can’t look back to see the charred and broken remains of my mother’s body. He watches my every step wordlessly. Looks down at me as I stop in front of Him.

  ‘So what is it that you want me to do if I sell you my soul? An eternal life and … ?’

  ‘You’ve just done it.’

  I squint up at Him. ‘Done what? I’ve just said goodbye to my mother.’

  ‘You’ve ushered her on. Everyone has to die, Lizzy. Every soul has to pass on somewhere. And that will be your role. You will attend every death however you so choose, and you will see them through and past their final breath. Mind you, you should be prepared. You will be feared. You will be hated. For no one will know the real you until they are in a position in which they cannot avoid but to meet you. But all that is a small price to pay for an eternal life, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, yes … But, I don’t really understand. What do you get out of this? Why do you care that souls pass on?’

  And why should H
e want me of all people to do it?

  He sighs a deep sigh. I wait in silence for Him to explain. When it comes, it’s with an air of impatience, and a spelling out of each syllable as if explaining to a child.

  ‘You have seen the effects these deaths have on me, Lizzy. The physical pain I endure when lives end. And the link we have, Lizzy, enables you to act as my cypher. To soothe those deaths, to support those souls in their final moments, takes away the pain that I have been suffering for an eternity. A pain that is becoming unbearable. I did not become who I am by chance, Lizzy, I have had to make sacrifices of my own. And in addition, for me to survive I need untarnished souls. They are my nutrients. My lifeblood, my night, my day. They keep me warm in the winter and shade me from the burning sun of summer. Simply put, Lizzy, they are my everything. An untarnished soul, given willingly, can nourish me for years, for decades, even. I can supplement that with the lives I take – with those I poison, strangle, stab. If I take a life, yes, I get that soul. But it’s a snack. A mere titbit to keep me going before I can next feast. It’s the pure souls I’m after – the ones given to me consensually with a full understanding of consequence, the ones in which I’m invested, the ones to whom I have given years of my life. And if you give me your soul, if you maintain my life in that way, so I should give you something in return. Every action must have a reaction.’

  He pauses in his soliloquy, watching the men as they grab my mother’s bones. Kick them to one side. Trample on them and leave them to crunch under foot as they lay fresh tinder at the stake. Fresh tinder for their next victim. Fresh tinder for me.

  And then He’s off and running again. ‘What kind of eternal life would it be with no purpose, Lizzy? And so, if you are to do me this favour, this gracious favour I might add, I must provide a job for you. Keep you happy. Eternity quickly becomes a very long time with nothing to fill it – you mark my words. And acting as my cypher is the perfect job for both you and me.’