The Triple Goddess (91 page)

Effie blushed—which she had not done since the former vicar, in his cups, had caught her under the mistletoe at the village Christmas party. She looked sideways at Ophelia, but her friend did not seem to be paying attention as she alternately sipped coffee and nibbled a piece of toast.

‘What, then,’ Effie persisted, anxious not to be the one under discussion, ‘are you doing here? And what exactly are you? What are you made of? Though why I should believe anything you say, I don’t know.’

‘The answer, Effie, to those questions, and any others you care to ask me, is: Evil. Evil sent me here, I am an incarnation of Evil, I am made of Evil. You may disbelieve that if you will, along with your silent partner in whose mouth the butter is at this moment melting.’

Effie’s cheeks puffed.

The DL smiled. ‘What sets us apart is that for me the sentence has already been imposed, whereas your Judgement, your Assessment, is still to come. Until then you can do whatever you please so long as you’re prepared to take the consequences in the fullness of Time.’

Effie fixed her with a gimlet eye. ‘Just calling it evil isn’t good…isn’t enough. I want details.’ She regretted the question and looked to Ophelia for help, but she was busy doing a biopsy of a mushroom.

The devil lady waved an expansive arm. ‘Very well. I’m a cesspool of morality. A corrupter. A soul destroyer. A sower of sin. Mayhem and murder are my modi operandi.’

In for a penny, thought Effie. ‘You’re fobbing me off with generalities.’

‘I’m the slaughterer of innocents, the terrorist, the torturer. I’m the dictator, the promulgator of genocide, the sadist, the cheat, the embezzler, the liar, the profiteer, the fraud, the kidnapper, the hit-and-run man, the perverter of justice, the rapist, the purveyor of child pornography. Et cetera, et cetera. The Seven Deadly Sins are like lemonade shandy compared to the cocktail mixed in me, who am deader than Death itself. But before you get on your high horse again, Effie—an accomplishment I’ve noticed you’ve not yet mastered, though I confess nor have I, I’ll tell you that my actions do not originate with me. You must not think of me as a person and attempt to apply your standards, or lack of them, to me. You cannot, must not, blame me for anything I do, because I have no choice. Only you have choice. My choices are made, my fate is sealed.’ The DL jerked her head towards Dark, who was again at the sideboard. ‘Even…even
that
has choice.’

Dark scratched the stubble on his chin. ‘H’m. Bacon or sausage? Silly question.’ Returning to the table with an accumulation of further helpings of everything, the reverend, seeing himself under observation, circled a protective forearm around his plate. As he cast an opprobrious glance around the table the action of his jaw, which had equal facility of movement in all directions, accelerated.

The devil lady looked away with a shudder and vowed never to place herself again in the position of seeing him eat. ‘Look, Effie. Today all I wanted was to offer you breakfast and have a little chat. Which is highly irregular, I might add, more irregular than you can begin to know. But I am forgetting my manners. More coffee for anyone?’ Dark’s arm shot up like that of a schoolboy in class who knows the answer to a question. ‘Not you, you twerp. Ophelia? Ophelia, are you with us?’

Effie looked at her distracted companion and replied for her. ‘I believe that we have both had a sufficiency, thank you.’ As annoyed at herself as she was for treating Diemen with even a modicum of respect and politeness, she wanted to know more...a little more. She hardened her voice. ‘Although you report to, what is he called?, the Father of Lies, I’ll ask this question anyway: is there a part of you that wishes it had a second chance? To do things over again, I mean. Only for Good this time, not for Evil.’

It had nothing to do with all the caffeine she had drunk, or lack of food, but as the words sank in warning signals went off in the devil lady’s head. She felt on the verge of fainting. She was being drawn into a discussion about the nature of her condition, and that was anathema to her and to all she stood for. What was Ophelia thinking?, she asked herself. Ophelia was by far the more dangerous of the two, the DL knew that, and her lack of contribution to the discussion was disconcerting. Nonetheless, filled with a sudden recklessness, she felt compelled to reply and honestly. Whatever sophistries she might employ in answering would not be convincing.

‘Although now I have neither heart nor soul, once I had both. My heart once was true, and once my soul was pure. Though I was deprived of happiness long ago, I know the meaning of it better than any mortal, because in me experience has been transformed into memory and knowledge, the memory and knowledge of Paradise Lost. Returning to the land of the living is the greatest punishment because it is a constant reminder of perdition. Here I still hear the birds sing, and see the sun go down at night, and the moon rise. I still listen to music and read poetry, and can appreciate them, but I am tormented by my aesthetic appreciation . The fires of Hell are but a weak metaphor for the torment of loveliness. Constantly I am reminded of how, once, my life’s blood, and every hair on my head, and my hands and feet and nails, and the organs of my body, were mine, inhabited by my soul, created for me. I recall how my soul wept to see Evil metastasize within me, and rebelled against me, and beat against my ribs. At the time I even revolted myself as I did as I did. For beware! The injuries most to be feared by humans are those they inflict upon themselves.’

Effie felt numb. ‘Such openness, from you?
Pray tell
, why?’

‘My words are all the proof you need of their truth, for I can gain no benefit from uttering them. Whatever I say or do or think now, I cannot hope for forgiveness. But the information I have given you, a soul on the right side of life with freedom of choice, may save you from Hell. That is as true as your days and my nights are long.’

Something like electricity passed down the table, and, her body racked with sobs, the devil lady got up, knocking her chair over, and staggered back against the wall. Tears were coursing down her cheeks and she was wiping them away. Effie, shocked and embarrassed, looked to Ophelia who, despite the emotion of the moment, was sitting demurely with her hands folded and eyes cast down. No greater reaction was evident in the Reverend Fletcher Dark: now that he had emptied the breakfast trays of comestible items, he had moved on to toast and marmalade. The devil lady lurched behind him to the door, mumbling an apology and begging her guests to excuse her. Flinging it open, she bumped chests with her manservant as he straightened from listening at the keyhole.

The DL thrust him aside, so violently that he fell to the floor, and ran down the hall to the powder room. When he scrambled to his feet he went out too, his inquisitiveness replaced by alarm. His fate was intertwined with hers; what went for her, went for him.

After a short interval the manservant returned. Shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he stood at the entrance, he wrung a kitchen cloth in his hands as he humbly said, ‘My m-mistress apologizes for her indisposition and asks, if you could spare a little more of your time, whether you might join her in the withdrawing-room when you are finished breakfasting.’

This time it was Ophelia who spoke. ‘Please tell Mrs Diemen that we hope she soon feels better. We are ready to do as she requests.’

Relieved, the serving-man escorted Ophelia and Effie across the hall and opened both double doors. Inside and as usual, despite the earliness of the hour and relative warmth of the day, the fire was burning; but with the difference that the flames were leaping up the chimney like wolves around treed prey. Looking apprehensively to the hearth, the man motioned for the guests to make themselves comfortable in the armchairs, and hastily withdrew. The pair said nothing while they sat, not even to remark that the fire, for all its liveliness, was giving off no discernible heat. They were joined after a few minutes by the reverend, who was disgruntled at having had to quit the table prematurely. He was holding his napkin, not for the purpose of wiping his mouth but to hold what he had wrapped in it; also, his jacket pockets were bulging.

‘Misery me!’ he moaned, ‘to miss that marvellous marmalade. ‘Gone now, for the most part, are the granary bread, the wholemeal, and the stone-ground slice; the wheaten, and the carawayed rye. Gone are the crusty rolls, the croissants and baguettes, the brioches and the poppy bagels, ’cept for a few. Gone are much of the heavenly honey, the jubilant jam, the jocund jelly. Never mind the snows of yesteryear, François Villon, you frivolous Frog: the snows may come again,
mais où sont les pains d’aujourd’hui?
Where are today’s loaves? Ay me.’ Belching twice, Dark sank onto the window-seat, and gazed sightlessly outside with the tragic expression of one who feared that the world was about to come to an end.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Effie and Ophelia sat in front of the snapping fire, engrossed in thought. The golden flames that surrounded the red and white core were tinged with the green of oxidized copper, and the tips were cobalt blue. Abruptly, Effie leaned forward and peered into the blaze. Snatching the poker from the stand she lunged several times at the largest log, withdrawing her arm quickly. The fire demons and imps, who had been galvanized into disorderly activity by the women’s entrance, tumbled over each other.

When the sergeant demons picked themselves up, they set about restoring order with their pitchforks, pausing to shake their fists at Effie.

Slowly the drawing-room door opened and the devil lady entered looking like death warmed up. She walked to an easier chair than the others were in and, sinking into it, cast a fearful look at the demons as they formed into ranks. The manservant, no longer strutting on his heels but padding and obsequious, entered bearing a tray on which were a pot of fresh coffee and three cups, milk and sugar.

‘My apologies for deserting you,’ said the devil lady weakly, looking away from the fire, ‘and thank you for staying a while longer. If you are not too pressed for time, may I offer you a final cup of coffee?’ Both women nodded. The DL waved her hand at the servant, who, uninstructed, stirred in milk and sugar in accordance with the preference of each of the three women, and set the cups on the occasional tables beside them. Dark, unacknowledged and unserved, remained slumped glumly in the window-seat, mourning the loss of whatever toast and
Frank Cooper’s Original “Oxford” Coarse-Cut Seville Orange Marmalade
that he might not have secreted about his person.

His office complete, the serving-man stepped back to his habitual position at the door, immobile except for the twitch of a muscle in his face.

Effie opened her ever-present shoulder-bag and carefully removed a greaseproof paper package. ‘I nearly forgot. Yesterday was baking day and we brought you some rock cakes.’

‘Actually, every day is baking day,’ Ophelia added. ‘As well as serving them on Sundays, we take some with us when we go about the parish, to give to people. Effie bakes a lot of rock cakes. They’re very popular.’

Her friend continued, ‘So we thought you also might like some. They’re a bit burnt on the outside, but that shouldn’t bother you. Sorry, I didn’t quite mean it like that.’

Open-mouthed, the devil lady looked from one woman to the other. The receipt of a gift had erased the distress from her face. No one in deathly memory had ever presented her with anything.

‘Oh! But how delightful! I won’t wait for tea, but if you don’t mind I’d like to have one right away. I feel in desperate need of some comfort food. Do please join me if you like.’ She nodded vigorously to her man and he went out, returning quickly with a rectangular plate. As he held it out to receive the items while Effie unwrapped the greaseproof paper, she noted that it was very old plate, with spider veins in the glaze, and painted with a classical scene of nymphs and satyrs. She removed the rock cakes, which looked like cooled volcanic lava, from the package and laid them reverently on the plate.

Motioning to the manservant to serve his mistress, when he proffered her the plate the DL’s hand hovered briefly before selecting the largest of the items.

She took a bite and pronounced it delicious with her mouth full.

‘Will you have another?’ said Effie, before she had finished the first one.

The devil lady crammed the remainder in her mouth and swallowed several times without chewing properly. Then she winked conspiratorially at Effie and took another rock cake before her man could pass the plate to the pair. ‘I shouldn’t but I will.’

Ophelia and Effie declined the rock cakes, and sipped their coffee: once, twice, thrice, and set the cups and saucers down on the side-tables.

From the window-seat the reverend was paying close attention out of concern that the rock cakes should disappear before he could secure one or more for himself. Getting to his feet, like a gun dog pointing at a pheasant he leaned forward with one plump paw raised and his bottom sticking out, before hurrying forward and grabbing several from the plate.

Immediately upon touching the rock cakes Dark yelped as if he had been electrocuted, and with an involuntary jerk of his arm lobbed them into the air. Then, doubling over, he bent at the knees and executed a sequence of perfect somersaults back to the window-seat, where, unfolding himself, he sat whimpering and nursing his injured hand under his armpit.

When they landed, in the hearth, the rock cakes bounced into the middle of the fire.

The devil lady, oblivious, continued to eat. Cheeks bulging, her eyes brimmed with pleasure at the voluptuous sensations that she was experiencing, many of them, as she savoured the taste and texture of the rock cakes and greedily swallowed each bite. Wondrous and beautiful scenes from her living past were appearing before her eyes and in her mind.