Barbara Michaels - The Dark on the Other Side

Michael spoke to Linda. He had himself under control now; there was even a certain compassion in his face as he glanced at the old woman.

“Will you stay here, with her?” he asked. “Or will you come with me, now? The choice is yours, Linda. It has to be yours.”

Linda hesitated. The tone of his appeal reached her, drawing on some core of sanity and strength. The appeal of being allowed-no, forced-to decide her own fate was something only she could fully appreciate, after years of life with Gordon. Michael waited patiently for her to answer, but Andrea did not.

“No, no,” she shrieked. Rushing toward Linda, she caught at the girl’s shoulders with both hands. They felt like bird’s claws, fragile and fleshless.

“You can’t go out there,” she whimpered. “Don’t think it, don’t dream it. He doesn’t understand. He wants you, he wants you for himself, to save you for himself and keep you. Make him stay. He can help. He can help if he will, he’s strong and young… But if he will go, don’t go with him. Stay, I’ll save you. Andrea will save you, she knows…”

“All right,” Linda said. “All right, Andrea.”

She turned to Michael.

“I can’t go,” she said. “It isn’t only because of Andrea. I’m afraid, Michael. I’m afraid to go out into the dark-even with you.”

She knew that Andrea’s hysteria had convinced Michael, but not in the way she had hoped. The very wildness of Andrea’s appeal had swayed his mind back toward rational rejection. If there ever was an obvious picture, this is it, Linda thought dully-a crazy old woman and a weak-minded young one. She wondered how much of her decision to stay was due to her pity for Andrea rather than fear-and how much to her instinctive recoil from one of Andrea’s statements: “He wants you for himself.”

“We’ll stay, then,” Michael said. “If that’s what you want. I guess it can’t do any harm.”

Her purpose achieved, Andrea turned brisk and businesslike. The volte-face was so sudden that Linda was left wondering, futilely, how much of Andrea was real and how much was calculated theatricalism.

“We must begin,” Andrea said, rubbing her hands together. “At once. The time is short. Purification. It must be symbolic, I daren’t let you out of my sight. Come along, both of you.”

Andrea’s workroom, as she called it, was a small separate building, once a shed or outdoor kitchen, now connected to the house by a lowceilinged passageway. Linda heard Michael’s gasp, and sympathized; if the kitchen had been picturesque, this room came straight out of the ages of alchemy.

Its single window was heavily draped. There were no electric lights. Andrea moved about lighting candles-candles in bottles, candles in tall brass candlesticks, candles stuck onto saucers in puddles of grease, candles in glass-covered brackets on the wall. In their eerie, moving light, the room looked even more uncanny than it did by daylight.

A long, rough table was completely covered with a fantastic collection of miscellany, from papers of all sizes, shapes, and colors, to samples of dried vegetation. Small baskets, boxes, and ordinary brown paper bags were strewn about. One pile of papers, whose vivid colors and angular shapes suggested Japanese origami creations, was held down by a human skull. Another, narrower, table had oddly shaped glass bottles and beakers, filled with colored liquids, like those in an old-fashioned pharmacist’s window. The contents of the flasks glowed, lambent in the mellow candle-light-sea blue, crimson, gold, and green. Rough wooden shelves along one wall held a collection of crumbling leather books. The walls, of whitewashed, unfinished planks, were hung with drawings and diagrams. Dominating the room, on the wall opposite the door, was a huge medieval crucifix with its tormented Image, flanked by glass-covered candle sconces. The center of the floor was empty and uncarpeted and almost without varnish after centuries of traffic. The air in the room was close and stale, permeated by a cloyingly sweet smell.

As soon as the candles were lighted, Andrea fumbled in the basket she had brought with her. Another scent, pungently different but equally unpleasant, wafted forth to war with the stench of stale incense. Linda recognized it; her guess was confirmed when Andrea scooped up a double handful of small whitish-gray bulbs. She opened her hands and the bulbs separated, like the Dutch chocolate apples which are made up of pre-formed slices; but instead of dropping to the floor, the segments of garlic hung from her hands, suspended on long pieces of twine.

Michael sneezed.

“God bless you,” Andrea said, with the force of an incantation.

She draped the threaded cloves of garlic over the window and the threshold of the closed door. Michael watched silently. Linda watched Michael. She saw, with growing despair, that the pendulum of his thinking had swung back, toward the rational world and away from her. Andrea’s mumbo jumbo had destroyed his sensitivities; his hostility and distaste for her were so strong that he couldn’t feel that dreadful reality behind the ritual. Linda felt it even more strongly here, in this frail wooden box that was exposed to the night on all four sides. No. Not four sides-five. On the roof, the rain drummed with importunate demand; but above the normal pressure of the storm, Linda was conscious of other forces gathering, closing in.

When the garlic was in place, Andrea went to a cupboard and took out a flask, crossing herself as she did so.

“Sit over there,” she ordered brusquely, indicating the spot with a jerk of her head. “In the middle of the floor. Take some cushions from that corner. We’ll be here for a good long time.”

Michael muttered something under his breath, but obeyed. As he and Linda seated themselves, Andrea anointed the doors and windows with liquid from the flask and then, walking backward, dribbled the contents of the flask in a wide circle around the seated pair. She was careful to stay within the circle. When it was closed, a dark, unbroken wetness on the worn boards of the floor, she came to Linda.

“Hold out your hands,” she ordered, and poured a few drops of the remaining liquid into Linda’s cupped palms. As she directed, Linda touched the water to her forehead. Michael followed the same procedure, reluctance slowing his movements.

Andrea scrambled to her feet. She seemed to have regressed, both mentally and in time; hobbling, mumbling, she might have stepped out of a sixteenth-century village street-the wise woman, the white witch, Old Mother Demdike. She took a piece of chalk from one of the pockets concealed in her ample skirts and crawled around the interior circumference of the circle of holy water, scribbling designs and symbols onto the floor-boards, taking care not to touch the dark dribble of wetness. When she had finished, she crouched down on the floor facing the other two, and poured the last few drops of water into her right hand, crossing herself repeatedly. Her scarlet skirts made a puddle of bright color in the candlelight; her back was curved. The drone of her voice was unbroken except for quick, shallow breaths that came faster and faster and reminded Linda unpleasantly of an animal panting.

Gradually, as Linda watched the old woman’s intent face and glazing eyes, the drone of her voice and the monotonous drumming of the rain blended into a single soft whine, like the buzz of a giant insect. Linda’s cramped legs grew numb. She tried to move her hand and found it would not respond to her will. The man beside her, the other objects in the room, drew back and lost reality. There was nothing else in the universe except the mingled drone of voice and rain, and the steadily mounting pressure of an invisible force.

The room seemed darker-or were her eyes failing? The low sound was inside her head now, reverberating against the bony dome of her skull. She could hardly feel the wooden floor under her bent legs, but every inch of her skin tingled with the force. It was as if the encompassing air had grown heavier, or as if she were newly sensitized to its constant, unfelt pressure. A picture began to form behind her eyes. She saw the room in miniature, like a small cube of light in the midst of towering, indistinct shapes of darkness, which surrounded it like storm clouds. Featureless and black, yet living, they leaned in over the frail walls; but within, another force moved and grew, holding back the dark. She saw it all, in that moment, as a cosmic manifestation-the struggle of light against darkness. Across the world and the ages the battle raged, unseen, with the balance swaying now to one side and now to the other. In their small microcosm of the universe, the scales were balanced; but the struggle was not static. The pans dipped and swayed as the opposing strengths changed to counter each other’s weight. She could not see beyond the darkness; but within the light, the power emanated from one hunched figure. She herself was not part of that cosmic struggle; she was only a pawn, a fly trapped by two great winds, an animal caught between two armies massed for battle…