Scrying Glass , livre ebook

Title Page
THE SCRYING GLASS
by
Quig Shelby



Publisher Information
Published in 2015 by
Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
The right of Quig Shelby to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1998
Copyright © 2015 Quig Shelby
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Any person who does so may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.



Chapter One
England 1485
‘Does the smell of burning flesh not play havoc with your senses?’ asked the young handsome Yeoman of the Guard.
Judge Ephraim smiled, and thought for a moment as more pungent smoke invaded his nostrils.
‘Admittedly it has a certain unpleasantness, but I am used to it,’ he replied.
He was dressed head to toe in black, like the witches he condemned, and the buttons on his cloak were large square amber. He sat on the tallest chair, closest to the entertainment.
The flames of the crackling bonfire held a young woman in their embrace, tied to a stake fashioned from nearby Brooms Wood.
The fire danced on the branches like frivolous maidens, unfamiliar or unconcerned with the perils of female hedonism in medieval England. Behind the smoke spluttered Lady Kathleen Wiccan, convicted of witchcraft.
‘She does not scream like the others,’ observed the guard.
Ephraim scratched his long pointed nose. His face was pock marked, and his eyes were pale, not quite lifeless but devoid of hilarity, pleasure. The world of flesh was sinful, passion an abomination.
‘Indeed not, but this is no surprise. The Devil protects her, even now.’
Kathleen had seen, and heard, her son and maid burn as the morning sun rose, trumpeting a new era. As it slowly drew down, so did her power. The villagers fought over blackened buttons whilst they were still hot, dousing them in ale. And the innkeeper, who helped to tie Kathleen to the stake, had picked a small bottle from her pocket, hoping he could turn lead into gold.
A more familiar assistant sat on Ephraim’s right hand side. He wore green, and watched over the two clay urns, holding the ashes of the earlier sacrifices. A third was yet empty, awaiting the dying embers of Wiccan. They too would draw the Devil’s horns upon the ground, and the witchfinder wanted no resurrection from her dust.
‘You look too young to be a Yeoman,’ said Ephraim to the handsome guard with the beautifully tooled boots.
The man laughed.
‘What is it that you find so amusing?’ asked Ephraim.
‘For I am as old as the world.’
Ephraim’s hand was on his calf, gripping the sheathed knife.
‘And what is your name pray tell?’
‘You already know the answer. I am the one cast out.’
‘Satan,’ whispered Ephraim.
There was a thunderclap, and he was gone. Ephraim looked around, no one appeared shocked. They avoided his gaze terrified of charges of possession, collusion with the Devil. He too kept quiet.
The cinders were cooling as the storm broke. Peasants screamed as chairs were thrown upwards and broken in the whirlwind. Ephraim rushed to sweep up her ashes with the witches own broom, but it caught alight. He threw it away like an old hags embrace. Wiccan’s power and control were destroyed, but her remains were lost to the wind.
***
‘Welcome to my house,’ said the beautiful man.
‘I saw you watching,’ said Kathleen.
‘I was speaking with Ephraim. You know he hates women.’
‘He is scared of us, and the power between our legs.’
Satan laughed, and Wiccan was studying him.
‘All women are devils,’ said the one true Devil.
‘Then I am surprised to see that you are a man.’
‘I am whatever I wish to be, but this is Hell, and for a woman of your persuasion a female wilderness is hostile.’
‘I have followed you,’ she pleaded.
Her flesh once burnt was now just hot. She needed a woman.
‘I will consider your devotion. But for now you must choose a path.’
There were five ahead, and they were standing at the centre.
‘Where do they lead?’ she asked.
‘Only in circles, Hell is a place for lost souls.’
It was dark, but at least there were no more flames. She chose the path to her left.
***
‘Take a seat my dear,’ said Genghis Khan.
‘Here, let me help,’ said Vlad the Impaler putting his arm around her shoulder.
She pushed him aside.
‘I need, nor want, any man,’ said Wiccan.
But still she joined them, loneliness was a hell all of its own.
‘And you are?’ she asked the man in the toga.
‘Emperor Nero, at your service.’
He too was salivating like the others, and from the tightness of his toga she could tell he was aroused.
‘Surely there is pleasure for no one in Hell,’ said Wiccan.
‘Oh don’t worry,’ said Genghis Khan holding her arms from behind. ‘We won’t enjoy it.’
‘It doesn’t look like it,’ said Wiccan.
He means afterwards,’ said Nero.
‘You’re tortured?’ she asked.
‘With guilt,’ said Vlad, eager to impale.
‘I get depressed too,’ said Genghis.
‘Satan help me,’ shouted Wiccan.
The man of enviable beauty approached, and Wiccan smiled.
‘But you have despised men, and killed many Kathleen.’
‘In your name.’
‘And your vanity.’
‘It is true. But did not God abandon us both?’
‘To our instincts, baseness. Indeed you own cruelty has been unbridled.’
‘You are right my Lord, I bow before you, and your judgement. But promise me one thing, that one day I shall return to the world of tears.’
Satan looked at her, he would enjoy her tongue.
‘If others that still breathe the poisoned air can arrange it, you can go. But always remember who you follow, or I shall bring you back before you can say tobacco.’
‘And pray tell Lord, what is tobacco?’
‘A gift I have arranged from the new world to the old.’
The lines of the unholy shape wavered, and melted into that of a dragon. The long neck turned around, and the cruel eyes measured them all. Smoke billowed from the nostrils, and its wings opened. With a roar of flames it vanished.
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ screamed Wiccan. ‘But be warned I have a devil of a temper.’



Chapter Two
Present Day
He sighed; there was no easy way to die as if switching off a light. No romantic way to check out, nor lover to share his leap. He looked at the heavens, a Red Crescent moon with devil’s horns hung above the Hotel Magdalene. The wind hissed in the neighbouring cemetery, whilst kicking winter’s litter over the stone cold graves of pilgrims. Those who didn’t make it to Jerusalem, and the few who returned. Ralph shivered, and rushed inside.
The old Inn where Crusaders once brawled was now a small hotel of 12 rooms. It had its legends too; the bottle above the bar that no one cleaned, unless you were seeking misfortune. And the rooftop gargoyle that flew you to Heaven should you die in a neatly folded bed, and Hell if you didn’t.
Anna opened the drawer to grab some spoons, only it was full of napkins. She opened the bottom drawer marked serviettes, and pulled out the silverware. Ralph was always mixing things up of late. The drawers were oak, lined in rich red velvet, and like the silver plated cutlery testament to a wealthy past.
‘Try and save some cake for me,’ said Anna, as Ralph fastened the top button on his purple tunic.
She was plump herself, but wore a uniform one dress size too small, and her large bosom, like her lovers, fought for air. Ralph looked out of the window, weight gain the least of his worries.
‘Never seen a moon like it,’ he said.
‘Have you got the rota?’ asked Anna. ‘I want to book a holiday.’
For those who stayed behind, undazzled by gleaming spires afar, the small village had few opportunities. Ralph Dathe had been bellboy, porter, receptionist, and now night manager. The most loyal servant one could hope to find, he had patiently awaited his cut, and this time it wasn’t cake. But he wouldn’t be celebrating, he had early onset dementia.
It was Pearl’s 88 th birthday, and she’d left iced sponge slices for the night staff, crumbs from the proprietor’s table. Pearl Ayers was the owner, the last branch of a dynasty, apart from one fallow sapling, her maudlin granddaughter Nadine.
Bachelor Ralph, usually slept all day, and grabbed what he could from the hotel fridge, and the cupboards. Like his tinned curry’s, he’d been left on the shelf. He was forty-five, ten years older than Anna.
Upstairs cleaning with Anna were Mortimer and Nadine. Mortimer was in his mid-fifties, but nimble as a gazelle. He was an avid churchgoer, unlike Nadine who was fascinated with the supernatural and occult, but he found the young girl amusing.
Nadine quickly reached for her mobile, the clouds had shifted and she took another snapshot of the crimson sickle, scything through the heavens. She smiled to herself, and dreamt of change in the drab monochrome world she inhabited.
Another night slipped by, polishing bannisters and washing the hotel laundry.
***
The nights were closing in, like Pearl’s mortality. She was in her rooms on the top floor of the hotel. ‘Linen and lace, and plenty of space,’ she would often say to describe her quarters. Pearl barely ventured out, preferring to survey the countryside through her brass teles