Back to the Eye of the Beholder, or on to the Dying of the Light
An extract from the Journal of Elijah Richter
What man of you, having an
hundred sheep, if he lose one of
them, doth not leave the ninety
and nine in the wilderness, and go
after that which is lost, until he
find it?
—Luke XV 4
And so I put from my mind the distraction of the discourse which Captain Grimmelshausen was having with some dæmon hidden in the bushes and concentrated on my summoning. I put forth my will and my desire, thinking of Imogen as last I had seen her, willing her into my presence. At first there was nothing, then a feeling of contact, then a resistance. Abruptly the resistance ceased. Ahead of me, but shrouded by the enveloping mist, I thought I felt a presence. Thinking it might be Imogen, I rushed forward, but even as I approached, the mists parted. A gigantic figure of stone, female in form, though not entirely human, loomed above me. Higher it was than a man is tall, even though it was seated on a throne of stone. This terrifying apparition was, alas, only too familiar to me. I gasped out, “Oh Dear God - Mara!”
On its mighty throne, the vast figure stirred. Her head moved, tilting down, and a delicate play of shadows traced out the planes and angles of her face. Then she spoke with that terrifying voice, which seems to echo as much in the mind as the ear,
"Be still, Catspaw! What brings you back here to meddle again after the sealing?" but before I could make any answer, or give any account of myself, she waxed wrath and berated my companions and myself for our foolishness in returning to these infernal regions.
At length she fell silent, and it seemed her anger had abated. At first I thought the dim light of Færie was masking the hard lines of her body, until I realised she was changing, revealing herself as a goddess from some ancient, heathen time. It seemed she towered above me, none other than the Goddess herself, still seated on her mighty throne, though now it was hewn of wood and garlanded with flowers. A thrill of awe ran through me, and I would fain have thrown myself to the ground and worshipped at her feet, but it was as though, even in this benighted place, the good Lord, infinite in His power and mercy, held a protecting hand over me, though I am surely the least and most sinful of His servants. Then the moment passed and she was rock again. Thus I was spared from whatever magick she would have cast upon me.
Her anger too had waned, and when she spoke again her tone was more moderate, almost musing.
'So, the game re-commences. The King of the Maggot-breed makes his play and introduces the pawns first, though he plays the Cloven One in their midst. And one of the pieces is not his, but bait on the hook which another player has taken hoping to land you, at least, in a net - though I have spoilt that, for which you may thank me or not as you please.
'Know these things, small man. Firstly that you are being used. Secondly, but not in the way you suspect. And thirdly that your fate is of no concern to me. You are here only because it suits me that you are not in others' power.'
At first I misunderstood her, thinking the King of the Maggot-breed and the Cloven One were the same, and mistaking 'cloven' for 'cloven-footed', and so I though she spoke of Satan himself. But she upbraided me, explaining that the King of the Maggot-breed was none other than my friend and sometime mentor, the Dwarf Boris Runesinger. Then she conjured a vision in the air before me, showing a likeness of Captain Grimmelshausen, as he was in the latter days of New Jerusalem. And this likeness was split asunder by the sword of Nicophaereos the Elf, and two identical images stood side by side where one had been before. So I came to understand her words, and I pondered awhile what they might imply. But I had more pressing concerns, and I asked for news of Imogen and how I might rescue her. Two things only she would say to me: that I must descend into the deepest of pits and that I must exit through fire. And then she fell silent and would say no more, and lifted her face to stare into the featureless mist.
I backed away, and after the fashion of Færie, was soon lost from her presence. I wandered aimlessly awhile through the silvery grass and scattered trees of Færie, thinking what I should do. But I knew the doom that was laid upon me, and I thought of The Eye, and where we had last encountered it, and then I bethought myself of the foul and noisome pool which had been its guise in Færie, and desired myself there.
At first all was the same, but after a while I noticed changes: the trees were without leaves, as though it were winter, but it was not cold; their trunks and branches were of a blackish hue, as though they were dead or had been afire; and they were gnarled and twisted and bent in the same direction, as though by the wind, but there was no breeze upon my face. And so I knew that I was coming to that place which I sought, and I hastened in the direction in which the trees were straining. The trees became thicker, until I was surrounded by a wood and an undergrowth grew up around them, but ever there was a clear path before me. Beneath my feet the ground became marshy and damp, though I had descended no incline.
After I had gone some little distance, by way of experiment, I turned about and headed in the opposite direction. The path which had been so obvious before had now vanished and perforce I must push my way through bushes and briars which in every way tried to hamper and impede my progress. This turn of events surprised me not, for is it not written that though the roads to Hell are many and wide and easily followed, the road to Heaven is narrow and stony and difficult to keep to. But I pressed on, though the going became increasingly difficult, until I found myself at the foot of an enormous cliff, with no obvious path up it. So I knew that I had guessed aright and truly I had come to the deepest of places.
I turned about and headed back towards the centre of this place. Almost immediately the going became easier and soon an obvious path had again opened before me. After I had proceeded awhile, I noticed several wisps of darkish clouds, off in the trees. Though there was no breeze, they were all drifting in roughly the direction I was following. It may be that my eyes were tricked by the poor light and my imagination inflamed by the fey surroundings, but I fancied that some of the nearer ones bore the outline of a face, though it was blurred and indistinct and I could not be sure.
The clouds seemed to avoid the path that I was following and, again by way of experiment, I stopped and exercising those necromantic arts which are my bane, summoned one of the clouds to me. Though I exerted myself, I could not make it come hither, and it continued on its mysterious path, though I fancied I may have deflected it a little. The clouds seemed to keep to the trees and to shun the path that I followed. So, I stepped off the path and positioned myself before one of them. All my attempts to command it were to no avail, culminating in a command to halt as it was almost upon me. Tendrils of it seemed to reach out towards me, as though it would envelop me, and I stepped smartly back onto the path. Once I was on the path, the ends of the tendrils of fog brushed against my tunic, turned into droplets of water and slid harmlessly off. Chastened by this experience, I hurried on apace for some little time.
Strange indeed are the ways of Providence and we cannot foresee all the consequences of our actions, nor how the smallest and most ill-considered trifles may have profound and far reaching consequences for our fellow men. Only the good Lord sees all and and knows all, and we must trust in His goodness and His mercy. So it was that on an idle whim, I decided to try to materialise my disembodied spirit into the mundane world, as I had been wont to do in the lands around New Jerusalem before the Change. I was not surprised to meet more resistance than heretofore, for surely, since the Change, Færie and the mundane world have been rent further asunder. At last though, by dint of much exertion, I was able to penetrate to the mundane world. At first, all was dark and indistinct, but eventually my eyes became accustomed to the gloom and I could make out an unlit corridor, down which were hurrying thirteen dark, cowled figures, each bearing a candle. I was now behind the figures, and they were receding rapidly. I materialised completely and shouted out, calling on them in the name of the Lord to stop. They turned, and I heard exclamations of surprise and the sound of blades being drawn. They advanced on me, and I de-materialised again, just as a sword was thrust into the space I had recently occupied. Faintly, as though from a great distance, I heard the sound of steel grating on rough stone.
I watched the progress of the group awhile, as though from a distance, halfway between Færie and the mundane world. After a short time had passed I moved closer again. The group of thirteen had moved into a large, dimly lit room, of indeterminate extent, which I could only see poorly. What I could see, however, was enough to confirm my worst fears. There were niches reset into the the walls, and in them rows of skulls were arrayed, perforce reminding me of the room with the well, beneath the hobgoblin ridge. The group of thirteen had split up. Four were forming a square, perhaps marking the cardinal points. Another eight were arrayed around them. And one, perhaps the leader of this damned conspiracy, stood alone to one side. He stood by a stone slab, preparing the impedimenta of his foul work, and on the slab a hapless wretch was stretched, in readiness for sacrifice.
Determined to stop this Deviltry, I came upon the warlock and attempted to displace his soul from his body and to replace it with my own, as once Captain Grimmelshausen and I had done with a hobgoblin. But, he was obviously well practised in his arts and all my efforts came to naught, without appreciably disconcerting him. Since the preparations for the sacrifice were proceeding apace, I transferred my attentions to another of the Satanists. I discomforted him more than his leader, but still I could not gain control of his body. When I gave up the struggle, I realised that the four and the leader were marking the corners of a pentangle, inscribed in some fashion on the stone floor. In my struggles, I had trespassed within it, and now I could not pass out again.
Methought that I had come to a sorry plight, I who had once thought of myself as an honest, God-fearing Christian man, a preacher and stalwart of the Church, one whom others came to for spiritual counsel or solace, trapped as a disembodied spirit in a Satanist's ritual. But it is said that advantage can often be found amongst misfortune, by those who will but seek it. And also it is said that necessity is often the mother of invention. So, I materialised as fully as I might inside their hellish pentangle. My sight cleared a little and I was able to see that the thirteen were not alone, and a veritable congregation, if it is not blasphemous to use that word for a group gathered for such a dark and vile purpose, had gathered to watch the foul ceremony. And so I stood revealed before them and I spoke unto them. And I preached to them a sermon, the like of which I have never given before, speaking of God's just wrath and His implacable anger, of their foul and wicked deeds and how they would burn in eternal torment in the deepest and hottest pits of Hell for all eternity. Often a preacher can sense the mood of his congregation, and so it was now, though I have never before been so keenly sensitive. Nor have I ever felt a mood more repugnant; these were hate-filled souls lusting after power and destruction, and increasingly, perhaps, there was an undercurrent of fear. But, though they saw and heard me, they took no heed of my words. At last, I took to repeating the prayer which our Lord Jesus gave us as his own, bellowing out the words, as though to drown out the malignance in that evil place. The congregation was now becoming restive, but they yet stood their ground.
The warlock, though appeared perturbed and hastened his diabolic preparations, until at last he held his sacrificial knife poised above the exposed, white throat of his intended victim. The polished blade glinted, catching the dim and fitful light. I called upon the Lord to help me to save this innocent from an undeserved fate and to confound the agents of Satan, and hurled myself against the pentangle. By the Lord's mercy it gave way, and I sprang upon the warlock. I grasped his hands in mine and tried to wrench control of the knife from him and to bring it down on his heart. And I called on the Lord to give me strength, so that this diabolic sinner might get his just deserts and be sent to meet his chosen master. But we struggled indecisively, neither of us being able to gain the advantage, the knife going first this way and then that.
As we struggled, I became aware of a disturbance in the room, though I could pay it scant attention. Glancing about when I might, I saw that some soldiery had burst into the room and were putting the Satanists to the sword. Perhaps my prayers had been answered. But still I could gain no advantage over the warlock. The end came suddenly and from an unexpected quarter. A soldier ran him through with a rapier from behind. He gave one short, choked cry and collapsed dead on the floor. I reeled back into the shadows to recover my strength. With commendable efficiency the soldiers dispatched the remaining Satanists.
When all was done, a man who I judged a high-ranking priest in the Catholic Church entered the room, at least he was wearing the rich vestments which such adopt in order to pretend that they are closer to God than ordinary folk. He carried out a series of idolatrous rituals with incense, censer, bell and candles, scarcely less objectionable in their own way than the black mass itself. It is small wonder that the Catholic Church should prove such a fertile recruiting ground for the Enemy. However, he, at least, was not intent on murder, or so I thought. At length all was finished and the priest took counsel with the Captain of the soldiers. They spoke together quietly in a dark corner for several minutes and then the priest left.
The Captain moved inconspicuously, almost furtively, over to where the intended victim still lay senseless on the slab. I thought he intended to set her free, but I was horrified to see him raise a knife to her throat, intending to finish the warlock's work. I moved to intervene, but was unable to deflect the blow and the dreadful deed was done. Dispirited by my failure to save this poor creature, and unable to think of anything else I could do, I returned to Færie.
The wood of twisted trees and the path were much as before, though there were now more of the dark clouds than hitherto, and there might have been one group of thirteen all together, though perhaps it was just my imagination. I was surprised to find that I was still holding the knife which I had attempted to wrest from the warlock. Dazed by the turn of events I stumbled on down the path.
A few minutes later the silence of Færie was disturbed by cries of woe and lamentation coming from off in the woods. I cried out in return, directing whoever, or whatever, was out there to come towards me. After a few minutes, there was a rustle in the undergrowth, the bushes parted and out stepped the sacrificial victim. Looking at her properly for the first time, I saw that she was a pretty young girl with the thick dark hair and swarthy complexion of the southern peoples. She was clad, scarcely decently, in only a skimpy shift. Of greater concern, though, was the fresh wound running from her cheek to shoulder, though it seemed to give her little pain and looked less serious than I would have expected. I bound the wound as best I could, using the store of bandages that I keep about me, and I muttered a quick prayer that it may heal cleanly and leave no disfiguring scar.
She was not a good patient; she had the restless, excitable, hot-blooded nature of the southern peoples, and would not sit still while I bandaged her. However, while I was about my ministrations, she related her tale. Her name was Sophia, and she had been a maid in the service of the Count Cosémo of Ammazzi. She spoke of her home as being 'in the north', but could not say the north of what; I assumed that she came from the northern part of Italy. After the debauched practices of Catholic countries, the hapless creature had been taken as a lover by one of the Count's sons. She knew naught of the black mass and thought that her lover had tired of her and had murdered her in her sleep. She had an excellent command of German, though she spoke it with the uncouth accents and mannerisms of the Polish peasantry. When I remarked on her grasp of our tongue, she looked at me in amazement and replied that we had been speaking in Italian, the only tongue she knew. So I came to realise that in Færie even speech is not as it seems.
I gave her such account of myself and my predicament as might make sense to her, though she seemed to make little of it, which scarcely surprised me, for it is an outlandish enough tale. I also mustered such solace as I could for our future prospects, though these were bleak enough, and I could not even say for sure whether she was alive or dead. At any rate, she decided to cling fast to me, rather than striking off into the woods alone. And so we set off once more along the path.
After some time had passed, the trees thinned out and gave way to a flat, marshy plain, potmarked with pools of stagnant, blackish water, around which unwholesome reeds grew. The monotony was disturbed only by the occasional stunted, blackened bush. Off in the marsh, I espied two large mastiffs sitting patiently by the side of what appeared to be a depression or pit. Carefully, Sophia and I picked our way across the marsh towards them. As we came closer it became apparent that the distance had been deceptive and the two brutes were huge, larger indeed than any natural mastiff of the mundane world. Their eyes, as large as saucers, never left us, though they remained sitting on their haunches and made no move to attack. Nonetheless, my hand rested lightly on the hilt of my rapier and I wished that I had not left my bow back with my companions. As we drew near I heard sounds of activity issuing from the pit. Cautiously, Sophia and I made our way to its very edge and peered down. Verily indeed, it was The Pit, the manifestation in Færie of what in the mundane world was the well beneath the hobgoblin ridge. In The Pit was the pool of blackish, muddy water, its margins choked with unwholesome reeds, that I well remembered. A man was stooped over the water's edge, apparently dragging something out of the muddy water. After struggling for some moments he hauled a body out of the mud. Whoever it was was still alive, for they yet struggled and gasped and wheezed. His rescue completed, the man straightened and I could get a better view of him. He was tall, though thin and gaunt, and I judged him well advanced into his middle years. His clothes were of the fashion of the men of Helstadt, and of a good cut, but perhaps a little rustic; he might have been a well-to-do farmer. Turning, he noticed me for the first time and doffing his hat, he addressed me thus: 'Greetings. You must be preacher Elijah Richter. I am Captain Horn.'
Before we could have any further discourse, I realised that the person that he had rescued was none other than my beloved Imogen, who had now scraped some of the mud off her fair face and was staring at me in amazement. I scrambled down the lip of The Pit and ran to her, and embraced her, rejoicing that she had returned from beyond hope and that I had found her. We gave each other a short account of what had befallen us since our parting. I give here no account of what befell Imogen, for she has set down her own account elsewhere, and the tale is better told in her own words. Suffice it to say that a darkness and a weight was lifted from about me, once I had found her, and, filthy and caked in mud as she was, I knew her to be hale and whole.
Once we had exchanged our news we turned again to our unexpected companion and inquired who he might be and what brought him to these inhospitable regions. At first he spoke fair to us, announcing himself as a hunter, even as Imogen and I were, and bidding us to come join his hunt. But a caution was growing in me, and I could tell from the look in her eye that Imogen too was wary. So, I questioned him further, and he revealed that he was a hunter not of game, but of souls, and this waste his chosen hunting ground, though sometimes he would foray into the mundane world to seek those who were his. So my worst fears were confirmed, and I came to realise that, for all his fair guise, it was none other than the Master of the Wild Hunt, The Liar, The Deceiver, Satan himself, who stood discoursing with us.
Once before, I had met with Satan, or one of his minions. It was many years ago, when I was still a young man. My two companions and I had been wandering in the lands beyond New Jerusalem. One dark night, a stranger came unannounced to our camp. Tall and thin he was, wrapped in a large cloak and his face hidden in the shadows of a wide-brimmed hat. He would have bartered with us, showing us gold and coin and other fair things, and in exchange for them, he wanted but one small thing from each of us; our shadow. My companions were beguiled by his silken words and the thought of riches, for we were not wealthy men, and would have made a bargain with him. But I was more cautious, knowing that asking for a man's shadow is but another way of asking for his soul. So, before any bargain was struck, I bade the stranger recite the prayer which our Lord Jesus gave us, as a token of good faith amongst honest Christian men.
He managed the first few words well enough, but stumbled over 'Heaven' and could not continue. So I grasped my rapier in one hand, and my bible in the other, and advanced on him, reciting our Lord's Prayer. He backed away, and suddenly it was not a man in a cloak who stood before me, but a dæmon from Hell. I could feel its sulphurous breath on my face, fanned by the beating of its leathern wings and the thrashings of its tail. Still I advanced, putting my faith in our Lord, reciting the prayer that his son had given us and holding my bible before me. Though they might prevail against a mere man, the agents of Satan are powerless before the majesty of Almighty God, and with a snarl of thwarted malice the abomination sank into the ground, sent back to its infernal abode. Later we found a few twisted twigs and leaves, all there was of reality behind the promises of gold and riches.
Thus, I knew of old the worth of Satan's promises, and I would make no bargain with him. But he continued to speak fair, and offered to show us a way out this desolate waste into the mundane world, if we would but walk it with him. But when I questioned him further, he admitted that to accompany him to the mundane world would be to hunt with him, and this I would not agree to do. But still he spoke fair, assuring us that he only took those who were his rightful prey, and that neither Imogen nor I were such. Ever and again he repeated this; that he only took those who were his. And surely it is so, for ever it is said that those who make a bargain with the Devil must always pay his price. But he looked on Sophia and was unsure of her, and asked if she was under my protection. At this the hapless wretch emitted a wail of despair, and fell at my feet, sobbing. I placed my hand on her head and claimed her for myself and the Lord who, however imperfectly, I try to serve.
So we took our leave of Captain Horn and bade our farewells and backed away towards the margins of the marsh. And the Captain, in his turn, bade us farewell, though his voice now was less fair, with undertones of power and malice. And he seemed to have grown, standing somehow taller, and an air of menace gathered about him. When he raised his hat in farewell, I saw that his hair was gathered in a strange fashion, as though in imitation of two horns. Setting off into the marsh with great strides, he called out to his two dogs, 'Donner, Blitzen, heel' and they got up and bounded after him. Soon they dwindled into the distance and disappeared from sight, after the fashion of Færie. Moments later we heard, as from afar, the sound of a hunting horn being blown and the yelping of dogs, and we knew that the Wild Hunt was on the track of some quarry.
Now Imogen and I stood on each side of Sophia and took each an arm, and entreated her to pray with us and to repent. This she did most earnestly and fearfully. This being no time for fine points of doctrine, we merely encouraged her to repeat our Lord's prayer, after the fashion of her own people, for this is one sacred thing which the Catholic Church has not yet defiled.
At length we cast about us for some way out of this place, but could see naught but the woods encircling the marsh. I bethought myself of Mara's words 'and you must exit through fire' and wondered what they might mean.
And when he hath found it,
he layeth it on his shoulders,
rejoicing
—Luke XV 5