| SORCEROUS SIGNALS |
| Written by Marge Simon / Artwork by Marge Simon |
| A Matter of Conscience |
Tallow from the candle had thickened at its base over the past three hours. The ink on the parchment
before Lord Gregory had dried and awaited only his signature to be complete. He rubbed a hand over his
face several times and blinked his watery eyes in an effort to stay awake.
A large iron grey cat pawed back the drapes and entered the room. It stopped to lick its shoulder, then
gave a subdued yowl before leaping to the table.
"So, you've come. I've been expecting you," Gregory said. He scratched the tom's broad head. "Well?
What shall I do now, Nim?"
:Simple, milord. Sign it.
"Simple? Come now, cat! Nothing is simple about this—not a damned thing.
:You're confused. You are thinking too much. It is a task easy enough for you.
"But the fate of my wife is at stake! With the flourish of my quill, I can send her to be tried and convicted
as a thief. Lady Sarah would never be spared."
:Yet you have an alternative...
"Yes...the alternative. My personal confession to condemning souls under my protection to certain death."
:The tradesmen only needed lackeys and whores in return for their pelts—surely not an immediate nor
particularly terrible fate for them, all considered.
"Still, I cannot countenance this abomination! Besides, it is forbidden to sell them…"
:Be of reasonable mind, milord. I know what has transpired. Consider it a matter of population control.
I've had to remove more than one who presumed to share my plate.
"But this was an error, a misunderstanding…"
The cat's whiskers twitched. :It was no error. Your Sarah signed the papers. It was she who sold your
own serfs to the barbarian traders—ten of them, correct?
"Don't remind me," Gregory said with a moan. His lovely young wife had forged his signature on the sale
of seven men and three women to the foreigners in exchange for ermine pelts—enough to make a
splendid cape, suitable for royalty. These unfortunates had been listed as debtors outstanding to the
King at the last tax collection. Thus, his Majesty's accountants had only recently discovered they no
longer belonged to him. It was a most embarrassing and dangerous state of affairs—one he had been
requested to address immediately. And the King was not known for forbearance when it came to the
shady dealings of a minor lord. "If you take anything from your serf over and above taxes to which you
are entitled, you do so at the peril of your soul." But the present Crown had further decreed, "Lords
shall not be allowed to buy or sell their chattel, for they are property of the Royal State.
:The robe was for you, was it not? You've not worn it—did it not please you?
"Yes, it's very fine indeed." Gregory felt a flush spread from his neck to his face. "I don't want to talk
about it." He scowled.
"My dearest, may I enter?" Lady Sarah's lilting voice suddenly interrupted. Gregory assented quickly, glad
for a distraction. "I heard you talking," Sarah said as she breezed in carrying a tray of meat, goat cheese
and fruit. Under her arm was a small jug of mead. "Who were you speaking to?" She placed the tray
down on the table.
"Eh? Oh, I was just muttering aloud to myself. This is most thoughtful of you, my love."
Sarah busied herself laying out the modest repast. She finished by filling his goblet with the mead. The
cat stood up expectantly and she leaned to fondle his ears. "Don't worry, dear old Nim, I've something
for you as well."
She brought a napkin from the pocket of her skirts and laid its contents on the stone floor. The cat
jumped down to sniff the morsels of raw chicken and satisfied, began to eat. His purr filled the small
chamber. Before sampling the food, Gregory hastily placed another piece of parchment to cover the
document he'd been deliberating over for hours. Sarah was not to know of this—not yet, at least. Let
her think he was working on a request for more farmland. He stopped eating to look up and forced a
smile in response to her beaming face.
"So, Milord, you won't be much longer up here in this droughty room, will you?"
"I expect not, Sarah. I promise I'll not be more than another hour."
Sarah hesitated at the doorway. "Are you sure you won't be needing me for anything else? How is your
poor wrist?" She nodded toward the parchments which he'd put back in front of him.
"Well…" Gregory began, but she interrupted him, taking a step back from the doorway.
"By chance, I was speaking with Lady Odella of Graywater only recently and she requested I convey her
wishes for your speedy recovery. I'd told her how you'd injured your wrist in a hunting accident, and…"
"Sarah!" Gregory said sharply. "My wrist is well enough. As you see, I no longer need the sling.
Moreover, you had no business discussing my health with anyone outside of our chambers. My accident
was a private matter you should have kept to yourself!"
"Oh, Milord…" Sarah's blue eyes widened in concern. "I do apologize for my ignorance of your sentiments
concerning your temporary infirmity! Had I known, I'd never have mentioned how you'd had me to sign
your name to that request for land a fortnight past to Lady Odella…”
"You what? You foolish woman!" Gregory's tone grew harsh. "What did she say?"
"Only that it was rather peculiar. She said a mark by your own hand and seal is considered sufficient and
her husband would never trouble her for such requests. We didn't dwell on this, as we were discussing
fabrics. But I’ve upset you, my dear husband. Please forgive my outspokenness."
Gregory took her hand in his and kissed it. "Of course I forgive you, my darling Sarah. Now, no more of
this. I must return to—ah, the affairs at hand." Sarah nodded and left him alone without further
comment.
:My, my. Aren't you the solicitous husband! Nim was again perched on the tabletop.
"You know why I did it, Nim."
:And she never suspected a thing, signing the document for you. Forging your name at your own
request—like a dutiful wife. Nim's eyes were black whirlpools flooding his head.
"I had my reasons, at the time. I didn't think they'd bother with ten missing—I was planning to tell them
the debtors had fled. But I couldn't manage that, when they questioned me."
:You can't pretend to me, you know I don't care anything about your excuses. You'd intended all along
to put this on Sarah if something went amiss. You knew the signature would appear forged to the eyes
of the Royal Assessors—a fact that would serve you well as proof of your own innocence. She is
expendable, just like the woman who preceded her as your Lady of the Estate. But you had planned on
that one, didn't you? The cat's tail twitched.
"She was hardly comely in the first place—nothing like Sarah. Besides, it was an arranged marriage. Was
it my fault she choked on a bone from the partridge?"
:She died by your hands on her throat, to be precise.
Gregory swore an oath, almost knocking over the candle with his arm. "Enough! You are my witness! My
confidant! Stop plaguing me with accusations…"
:I accuse you of nothing. I am stating facts.
Gregory toyed with the blank parchment. Finally, he laid it beside the other by the candle. "What would
you have me do, Nim? On one is my account of Lady Sarah's misdeeds confessing I knew nothing of her
devious scheme. On the other…?" He raised a questioning eyebrow to the cat.
:You know you need only to appear to make a choice. If you consider yourself so honorable, then write
your own confession on the second sheet—you must at least make this a decision between two
documents instead of vaporous excuses.
Gregory wiped his eyes. "Sarah is the finest wife any man could want. I owe her this, you are right." He
took up the quill and wrote a second confession, leaving out mention of anyone but himself.
:Sign it.
Gregory inked the quill and hastily signed his name. "But more than this I cannot do alone—you choose
for me, Nim.” The cat stood and padded forward, stopping on top of a paper.
:You're not feeling well, are you?
"No," he admitted. In fact, he had been feeling strangely since drinking the mead. Perhaps the beverage
had enhanced his fatigue. He had an urgent need to lie down and sleep.
:I'm sitting on the one you expected me to choose. Now, affix your seal—use the candle, the
stamp…that's fine, we're done!
His perception had become increasingly blurred and everything on the table appeared to spin about in
circles. Gregory tried to hold up his head which felt very heavy as he did what Nim had bidden. Then he
slumped heavily back into his chair and the stamp slipped from his limp fingers. Five seconds later he was
snoring loudly, chin resting on his chest.
The cat snatched the paper barely as the ink dried and darted with it in his mouth out through the
doorway where Sarah was waiting in the hall.
:Here, take this. His seal is on the one he was so sure I'd choose. Foolish dolt! He will sleep from the
drug you gave him for many hours—enough time to have the guards back here before he wakes. I'm
sure I can dispose properly of the other version in the hearth—a healthy flame burns in the grate?
"Yes, I've kept it fed myself. I don't know how to thank you, Nim—I still don't understand why you
revealed yourself to me. But now, the servants are in quarters—should I…?"
:No. You won't need assistance. Lady Odella's carriage should be arriving any minute. She'll take you to
the Sheriff and put you up until it is appropriate for your return to the Manor. Do not thank me. Lady
Odella's fine tabby would interest me more than your ministrations.
"But why…?"
:Lord Gregory is a short-sighted fool, blinded by avarice. He once tried dabbling with incantations for a
lark, and I was the result. When he realized I could talk to him and no one else could hear us, he
became so distraught—it was most disgusting. I gave him to think I'd be his spirit guide—a consolation
to his conscience and he'd accepted this idea most eagerly.
"I have heard of spirits—nefarious entities, used by witches to cause trouble of Unholy nature. Yet you
speak to me and you do not seem so!" Lady Sarah exclaimed.
:If you mean to imply I cannot be a wicked spirit as I have done you a good, why do you not question
my obedience to your Lordship? I'll save your asking. You see, your husband's conjure was incomplete
and further complicated than it would have been in skilled hands. I was bidden to the material world to
take possession of Nim. Unfortunately, due to his bumbling I am constrained to occupy this body for
the time being. Yet there is a fortune to it as well, for I need no longer remain in company with the
fool who summoned me. Until I find someone skilled in the arts of Darkness, I remain as you behold.
"Very well. I shall not take vain credit for your help," she said. When he returned from the chamber a
second time bearing the other document for disposal, she hurried to question him yet again."Wait, Nim!
I'm most curious about one other thing..."
The cat paused, halfway to the staircase. :What would that be, Lady Sarah?
"Surely you know what I am thinking, Nim!" she chided.
:You are wondering what interest I—a creature of the spirit world—would have in Lady Odella's tabby!
It is a matter certainly no business of yours—but I will allow you have earned a right to my secret. In
this Nim-body I may enjoy certain pleasures. Instinctual and base, you would say—of too gross a
nature to be specific in the presence of your Ladyship.
"Is Lady Odella's female in season?" Sarah addressed Nim's disappearing shadow.
:I'll be calling around.
And she knew he'd be back. He was, after all, a cat.
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Marge Ballif Simon free lances as a writer poet
illustrator for genre and mainstream publications. She
edits a column for the HWA Newsletter, "Blood &
Spades: Poets of the Dark Side." She is the editor of
Star*Line, Digest of the SF Poetry Association.
In addition to her poetry, she has published two
prose collections: Christina's World, Sam's Dot
Publications, 2008 and Like Birds in the Rain,
Sam's Dot, 2007. She won the Bram Stoker for Best
Poetry Collection with Charlie Jacob, Vectors: A
Week in the Death of a Planet, Dark Regions
Press, 2008. A new collection, Unearthly Delights
(self illustrated in color) is forthcoming from Sam's
Dot Publications, 2010.
Visit her website at: www.margesimon.com
illustrator for genre and mainstream publications. She
edits a column for the HWA Newsletter, "Blood &
Spades: Poets of the Dark Side." She is the editor of
Star*Line, Digest of the SF Poetry Association.
In addition to her poetry, she has published two
prose collections: Christina's World, Sam's Dot
Publications, 2008 and Like Birds in the Rain,
Sam's Dot, 2007. She won the Bram Stoker for Best
Poetry Collection with Charlie Jacob, Vectors: A
Week in the Death of a Planet, Dark Regions
Press, 2008. A new collection, Unearthly Delights
(self illustrated in color) is forthcoming from Sam's
Dot Publications, 2010.
Visit her website at: www.margesimon.com
| "A familiar is a cat by nature" -- Almanac of the Occult |