"Fine," Shandy whispered. "Thank you."
Skank left, closing the door, and the lamp's agitated flame became the room's illumination. Shandy dipped up a handful of cold brine and tossed it across Hurwood's closed eyes. The old man frowned faintly, but that was all. "God damn it," Shandy burst out, almost sobbing, "don't force me!" He grabbed one of Hurwood's ears and twisted it savagely … to no effect. In horror as much as rage Shandy stood up, pushing the lamp away with his foot, then lifted the bucket and flung the entire contents onto Hurwood's head. The weight of water turned the old man's face away and plastered the white hair out like a crown, but the breathing continued as steadily as before, without even any choking.
Genuinely sobbing now, Shandy turned away and reached for the lamp … and then breathed a prayer of thanks when he heard spitting and groaning behind him.
He crouched beside Hurwood. "Wake up," he said urgently. "You'll never get better advice." Hurwood's eyes opened. "I'm … hurt," he said softly.
"Yes." Shandy brushed the tears out of his eyes to see the old man more clearly. "But you'll probably live. You survived it once. Where's Beth, Elizabeth, your daughter?"
"Oh … it's all over, isn't it? All done now." His eyes met Shandy's. "You! You destroyed it … Margaret's head … I could feel her spirit go out of it. A mere sword!" His voice was gentle, as if he was discussing events in a play they'd both seen. "Not just because it was cold iron … ?"
"And linked to my blood. Yes." Shandy tried to match Hurwood's quiet, conversational tone. "Where have you got your daughter hid?"
"Jamaica. In Spanish Town."
"Ah!" Shandy nodded and smiled. "Where in Spanish Town?"
"Nice house. She's restrained, of course. A prisoner. But in comfort."
"Whose house?"
"Uh … Joshua Hicks." Hurwood seemed childishly proud of being able to remember the name. Shandy's shoulders drooped with relief.
"Do you have any chocolates?" Hurwood asked politely. "I haven't any."
"Uh, no." Shandy stood up. "We can get you some in Jamaica."
"We're going to Jamaica?"
"You're damn right we are. As soon as we get this old hulk a little more seaworthy. We can afford to relax a little, now that I know where she is. Beth will keep for another day or two while we make some repairs."
"Oh, aye, Hicks will take very good care of her. I've given him the strictest instructions, and given him a nurse to make sure he does everything right."
A nurse? thought Shandy. I can't quite imagine a nurse ordering around a member of the landed gentry. "Well, fine. We'll—"
"In fact, what day is it today?"
"Christmas Eve." Can't you tell by everybody's festive manner? he thought.
"Maybe I should wave to him tomorrow."
Shandy, still smiling with relief, cocked his head. "Wave at who?"
"Hicks. He'll be on a cliff at Portland Point, tomorrow at dawn, with a telescope." Hurwood chuckled.
"He doesn't like the idea—he's giving a big dinner party tomorrow night, and he'd far rather be home preparing for it—but he'll be there. He fears me. I told him to watch for this ship and make sure he sees me out on deck, and sees me wave to him."
"We won't be anywhere near Jamaica by tomorrow dawn," said Shandy. "I don't think this ship could be."
"Oh." Hurwood closed his eyes. "Then I won't wave to him." Shandy had been about to leave, but now he paused, staring down at the old man. "Why were you going to wave to him? Why will he be out there watching?"
"I want to sleep now."
"Tell me." Shandy's eyes darted to, then away from, the lamp. "Or no chocolates." Hurwood pursed his lips pettishly, but answered. "If I don't sail past and wave, he'll assume I'm not going to arrive in time, and so he'll do the first part of the magic. The part that has to be done on Christmas day. I meant to be in Jamaica today, to save him the trouble of even going out there, but the storm yesterday and you today … " Hurwood opened his eyes, though not wide. "I just thought if we were going to be near there tomorrow, I'd wave to him and save everybody the trouble. After all, you've made the full procedure impossible by destroying the head." He closed his eyes again.
"What's this … first part of the magic?" Shandy asked, feeling the first faint webs of anxiety falling over him again.
"The part that can be done on land. The big part, which I would have had to do, has to take place at sea. Tomorrow noon he'll do the first part. He'd rather I did it. He'll be unhappy not to see me sail past."
"He'll do what? God damn it, what is this first part?" Hurwood opened his eyes again and stared wonderingly at Shandy. "Why … the dumping of her mind. Elizabeth's mind—her soul. He'll drive it out of her body, with magic. I showed him how. Though," he added with a yawn, "it's a waste of time now. Now there's nobody to put in her place." Sudden pain in his kneecaps let Shandy know he'd fallen to his knees. "Will she come back, then?" he asked, forcing himself not to shout. "Will Beth's soul go back into her body then?" Hurwood laughed, the light, carefree laughter of a child. "Come back? No. When she's gone, she'll be … gone."
Shandy restrained himself from hitting or strangling the old man, and he didn't speak until he was sure he could again match Hurwood's casual tone. "Well," he began, but there was a rough edge in his voice, so he started again. "Well, you know what? I'm going to see to it that this ship does get to Jamaica by tomorrow dawn. And then you'll wave at your … friend, this Hicks, won't you?" He was smiling, but his maimed hands were clenched into fists as tight as stressed knots.
"Very well." Hurwood yawned again. "I'd like to sleep now." Shandy stood up. "Good idea. We'll be getting up damned early tomorrow."
Peering from the corners of his eyes—he was supposed to look as if he were deep in prayer—the altar boy had to admit that the church really was getting darker. And while he was afraid of the dry, dusty birdlike things that would be free to come out when all the light was gone, he was hoping that total dark would come soon—for after the wedding ceremony the minister would dispense communion, and the altar boy knew he had sinned too direly to take it, and so he wanted to be able to slip away unseen … even if that meant becoming one of the cobwebby birdlike creatures himself. He shivered, and wondered unhappily what had become of all the nice things. There had been friends, a wife, scholarship, the respect of colleagues, the respect of himself … Perhaps they had only been a tormenting dream, and there had never really been anything but darkness and cold and the slow increeping of imbecility. He took comfort in the thought.
The wedding couple finally came together in the shadows below the altar and linked arms, slowly, like lengths of seaweed tangled by listless sea-bottom currents. Then they began ascending the steps, and the altar boy realized that the absolute darkness had held off too long. The bride was just an empty but animate dress; that wasn't so bad—it was always reassuring to find only an absence where it had seemed there might be a presence—but the groom was present and alive: it was impossible to be sure that it was human, for the skinned, bleeding flesh it consisted of might be manlike in form only because of the constriction of the clothes. If it had eyes they were closed, but the altar boy could tell the thing was alive because blood kept running out of it everywhere, and its mouth, albeit silently, was opening wide and clamping shut over and over again. All at once the altar boy realized that the flayed thing there was himself, but the knowledge carried no horror, because now he knew too that he could move out of himself: all the way, if he was ready to let go of every thing, to non-being.