Black Magic - Marjorie Bowen (book recommendations website .TXT) 📗

CHAPTER 1 SUNSHINE

In the large room of a house in a certain quiet city in Flanders, a

man was gilding a devil.

 

The chamber looked on to the quadrangle round which the house was

built; and the sun, just overhead, blazed on the vine leaves clinging

to the brick and sent a reflected glow into the sombre spaces of the

room.

 

The devil, rudely cut out of wood, rested by his three tails and his

curled-back horns against the wall, and the man sat before him on a

low stool.

 

On the table in front of the open window stood a row of knights in

fantastic armour, roughly modelled in clay; beside them was a pile of

vellum sheets covered with drawings in brown and green.

 

By the door a figure of St. Michael leant against a chair, and round

his feet were painted glasses of every colour and form.

 

On the whitewashed wall hung a winged picture representing a

martyrdom; its vivid hues were the most brilliant thing in the room.

 

The man was dressed in brown; he had a long dark face and straight

dull hair; from the roll of gold leaf on his knee he carefully and

slowly gilded the devil.

 

The place was utterly silent, the perfect stillness enhanced by the

dazzle of the blinding sun without; presently the man rose and,

crossing to the window, looked out.

 

He could see the sparse plants bordering the neglected grass-grown

paths, the house opposite with its double row of empty windows and the

yellowing vine-leaves climbing up the tiled roof that cut the polished

blue of the August sky.

 

In between these windows, that were all closed and glittering in their

golden squares, busts of old and weary philosophers were set; they

peered out blindly into the unfathomable sunshine, and the dry

tendrils of the vine curled across their leanness.

 

In the centre square of grass was an ancient and broken fountain; some

tall white daisies grew there, and the pure gold of their hearts was

as bright as the gilding on the devil within. The silence and the

blaze of the sun were one and indescribable.

 

The man at the window rested his elbows on the sill; it was so hot

that he felt it burning through his sleeve; he had the air of one

habitually alone, the unquestioning calm that comes of long silences;

he was young and, in a quiet fashion, well-looking, wide in the brows

and long in the jaw, with a smooth pale skin and cloudy dark eyes, his

hair hung very straightly, his throat was full and beautiful.

 

In expression he was reserved and sombre; his lips, well shaped but

pale, were resolutely set, and there was a fine curve of strength to

his prominent chin.

 

After a time of expressionless gazing at the sun-filled garden, he

turned back into the room, and stood in the centre of the floor, with

his teeth set in his forefinger looking ponderingly at the half-gilded

devil.

 

Then he took a bunch of beautifully wrought keys from his belt, and

swinging them softly in his hand left the chamber.

 

The house was built without corridors or passages, each room opened

into another and the upper ones were reached by short dark stairways

against the walls; there were many apartments, each of a lordly design

with the windows in the side facing the quadrangle.

 

As the man moved lightly from one chamber to the next his footfall

displaced dust and his gaze fell on cobwebs and the new nets of

spiders, that hung in some places across the very doorways.

 

Many curious and gorgeous objects were in those deserted rooms; carved

presses full of tarnished silver, paintings of holy subjects,

furniture covered with rich-hued tapestry, other pieces of arras on

the walls, and in one chamber purple silk hangings worked with ladies’

hair in shades of brown and gold.

 

One room was full of books, piled up on the floor, and in the midst of

them stood a table bearing strange goblets of shells set in silver and

electrum.

 

Passing these things without a glance the young man mounted to the

upper storey and unlocked a door whose rusty lock took his utmost

strength to turn. It was a store-room he entered—lit by low long

windows looking on the street and carefully shrouded by linen drawn

across them; the chamber was chokingly full of dust and a sickly musty

smell.

 

About the floor lay bales of stuff, scarlet, blue and green, painted

tiles, old lanterns, clothes, priests’ garments, wonderfully worked,

glasses and little rusty iron coffers.

 

Before one of these the young man went on his knees and unlocked it.

 

It contained a number of bits of glass cut to represent gems; he

selected two of an equal size and a clear green colour, then, with the

same gravity and silence with which he had come, he returned to the

workshop. When he saw the devil, half bright gold, half bald wood, he

frowned, then set the green glass in the thing’s hollow eye-sockets.

 

At the twinkling effect of light and life produced by this his frown

relaxed; he stood for a while contemplating his handiwork, then washed

his brushes and put away his paints and gold leaf.

 

By now the sun had changed and was shining full into the room casting

hot shadows of the vine leaves over the little clay knights, and

dazzling in St. Michael’s wet red robe.

 

For the second time the young man left the room, now to go into the

hall and open the door that gave upon the street.

 

He looked on to an empty marketplace surrounded by small houses

falling into decay, beyond them the double towers of the Cathedral

flying upwards across the gold and blue.

 

Not long ago the town had been besieged and this part of it

devastated; now new quarters had been built and this left neglected.

 

Grass grew between the cobbles, and there was no soul in sight.

 

The young man shaded his eyes and gazed across the dazzling

dreariness; the shadow of his slack, slim figure was cast into the

square of sun thrown across the hall through the open door.

 

Under the iron bell that hung against the lintel stood a basket of

bread, a can of milk and some meat wrapped in a linen cloth; the youth

took these in and closed the door.

 

He traversed a large dining-room, finely furnished, a small ante-chamber, came out into the arcaded end of the courtyard, entered the

house by a low door next the pump and so into his workshop again.

 

There he proceeded to prepare his food; on the wide tiled hearth stood

a tripod and an iron pot; he lit a fire under this, filled the pot

with water and put the meat in; then he took a great book down off a

shelf and bent over it, huddled up on a stool in the corner where the

shade still lingered.

 

It was a book filled with drawings of strange and horrible things, and

close writing embellished with blood-red capitals. As the young man

read, his face grew hot and flushed where it rested on his hand, and

the heavy volume fell cumbrous either side his knee; not Once did he

look up or change his twisted position, but with parted lips and

absorbed eyes pored over the black lettering.

 

The sun sank the other side of the house, so that the garden and room

were alike in shadow, and the air became cooler; still the young man

made no movement.

 

The flames leapt on the hearth and the meat seethed in the pot

unheeded.

 

Outside the vine leaves curled against the brick, and the stone faces

looked down at the broken fountain, the struggling grass and the tall

white daisies; still the young man, bending lower, his heated cheek

pressed into his palm, his hair touching the page, bent over the great

tome on his knee.

 

Not the devil with his green eyes staring before him, not St. Michael

in his red robe by the door, not the martyr in the bright winged

picture were more still than he, crouched upon his wooden stool.

 

Then, without prelude or warning, the heavy clang of a bell woke the

silence into trembling echoes.

 

The young man dropped the book and sprang to his feet; red and white

chased across his face, he stood panting, bewildered, with one hand on

his heart, and dazed eyes.

 

Again the bell sounded.

 

It could only be that which hung at the front door; not for years had

one rung it; he picked up the book, put it back on the shelf, and

stood irresolute.

 

For a third time the iron clang, insistent, impatient, rang through

the quiet.

 

The young man frowned, pushed back the hair from his hot forehead and

went, with a light and cautious step, across the courtyard, through

the dark dining-chamber into the hall.

 

Here for a second he hesitated, then drew back the bolt and opened the

door.

 

Two men stood without.

 

One was most gorgeously attired, the other wore a dark cloak and

carried his hat in his hand. “You cannot want me,” said the youth,

surveying them. “And there is no one else here.” His voice fell full

and low, of a soft quality, but the tone was sombre and cold.

 

The splendidly-dressed stranger answered—“If you are Master Dirk

Renswoude, we are most desirous to see and speak with you.”

 

The young man opened the door a little wider. “I am Dirk Renswoude,

but I know neither of you!”

 

“I did not think so,” the other answered. “Still, we have a matter to

ask you of. I am Balthasar of Courtrai and this is my friend, whom you

may call Theirry, born of Dendermonde.” “Balthasar of Courtrai!”

repeated the youth softly; he stood aside and motioned them to enter.

When they had passed into the hall he carefully bolted the door; then

turned to them with a grave absorbed manner.

 

“Will you follow me?” he said, and went before them to his workroom.

 

The sun had left chamber