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Authors: Jeanette Winterson
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imagine,’ replied Roger Nowell.
Alice went upstairs to her rooms to change her clothes. It was not yet dark, but it was not light: the Daylight Gate. And if you could pass through – to what – to where?
Alice lay down on the big bed with a single candle and the fire burning low. She closed the bed curtains and closed her eyes. She was beginning to fall asleep when she heard someone or something moving about in the room.
From the cabin of her bed what she could hear sounded like water.
Not rain, not river. The strange combination of a being made of water. Something was treading about her room. Not as a solid – as a liquid.
Then she heard the sizzle and hiss of the wood in the fireplace as the fire was put out.
Her mouth dry; forcing herself to move, she swung out of bed and opened the bed curtains.
The room was not there.
Alice was standing on Pendle Hill. Black moor, bleak fell, straggling forest, sullen streams, a small tarn, a moss pool, heathy waste, morass and wood. Driving rain.
By a group of standing stones she saw Elizabeth Southern, her hair down, naked, smiling at her. Elizabeth was untroubled by the weather, pushing the hair out of her eyes as she used to do, seemingly not cold or wet. She stretched out her hand to Alice. Alice went towards her through the rain and the wind. If this was the end, then let it be the end, the end would come some time, today, tomorrow, or the next day.
Alice touched Elizabeth’s naked body, but as her hand stroked the skin she had loved so much, the skin gave way, like soaked paper, and Alice’s hand went through her, or, more correctly, into her. It was like reaching into black water.
Alice pulled back, her hand and arm dark and dull with the thick black viscous substance that was Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was laughing, and as she laughed, her white skin began to spot with dark eruptions. The firm white flesh became distended and pulpy. The eruptions burst like boils. Her hair turned grey, then loosened from her scalp, falling away from her like dirty water. The skin on her bones hung in useless folds. She had no teeth. She was laughing at Alice, her mouth like a gap. She was suppurating, liquefying.
‘As I am so shall you be.’
Alice covered her face with her hands. She stood in the howling gale and relentless rain trying to keep upright. She would not look at Elizabeth.
‘What do you want from me?’ she shouted into the wind and the rain. There was no answer. Forever, it seemed, in the wind and the rain, and there was no answer.
Alice was crying. Then there was silence. A sick dead silence.
When she looked up, she was in her room. The fire was lit low. Everything was as it had been before.
She was soaking wet.
At supper that night Potts was regaling the company with his ‘discovery’ of a nest of Lancashire witches now under lock and key at Malkin Tower. Alice lost patience.
‘There was no Sabbat – you stayed up all night on Pendle Hill and what did you find? Nothing! And nothing at Malkin Tower but a pack of desperate miserable spoiled lives.’
‘You are heated in your defence,’ said Potts, ‘though their lair is on your land and they are under your protection –’
Shakespeare interrupted: ‘What is a Black Mass? The rusty candlesticks and hasty altars you find in remote places, wild, and away from men, are the remnants of the Catholic High Mass, sometimes celebrated in secret, if it is to be celebrated at all.’
‘You do not believe in witchcraft then?’ said Roger Nowell.
‘I did not say that. I say that it suits the times to degrade the
hoc est corpus
of the Catholic Mass into satanic hocus pocus.’
‘It is all the same,’ said Potts.
‘It is not the same,’ said Shakespeare.
‘I wonder about your sympathies, sir,’ said Potts, ‘and you and your company of strolling players in receipt of the King’s generosity.’
‘We are the King’s Men,’ said Shakespeare. ‘And besides – I began this play
The Tempest
with a
Alice went upstairs to her rooms to change her clothes. It was not yet dark, but it was not light: the Daylight Gate. And if you could pass through – to what – to where?
Alice lay down on the big bed with a single candle and the fire burning low. She closed the bed curtains and closed her eyes. She was beginning to fall asleep when she heard someone or something moving about in the room.
From the cabin of her bed what she could hear sounded like water.
Not rain, not river. The strange combination of a being made of water. Something was treading about her room. Not as a solid – as a liquid.
Then she heard the sizzle and hiss of the wood in the fireplace as the fire was put out.
Her mouth dry; forcing herself to move, she swung out of bed and opened the bed curtains.
The room was not there.
Alice was standing on Pendle Hill. Black moor, bleak fell, straggling forest, sullen streams, a small tarn, a moss pool, heathy waste, morass and wood. Driving rain.
By a group of standing stones she saw Elizabeth Southern, her hair down, naked, smiling at her. Elizabeth was untroubled by the weather, pushing the hair out of her eyes as she used to do, seemingly not cold or wet. She stretched out her hand to Alice. Alice went towards her through the rain and the wind. If this was the end, then let it be the end, the end would come some time, today, tomorrow, or the next day.
Alice touched Elizabeth’s naked body, but as her hand stroked the skin she had loved so much, the skin gave way, like soaked paper, and Alice’s hand went through her, or, more correctly, into her. It was like reaching into black water.
Alice pulled back, her hand and arm dark and dull with the thick black viscous substance that was Elizabeth.
Elizabeth was laughing, and as she laughed, her white skin began to spot with dark eruptions. The firm white flesh became distended and pulpy. The eruptions burst like boils. Her hair turned grey, then loosened from her scalp, falling away from her like dirty water. The skin on her bones hung in useless folds. She had no teeth. She was laughing at Alice, her mouth like a gap. She was suppurating, liquefying.
‘As I am so shall you be.’
Alice covered her face with her hands. She stood in the howling gale and relentless rain trying to keep upright. She would not look at Elizabeth.
‘What do you want from me?’ she shouted into the wind and the rain. There was no answer. Forever, it seemed, in the wind and the rain, and there was no answer.
Alice was crying. Then there was silence. A sick dead silence.
When she looked up, she was in her room. The fire was lit low. Everything was as it had been before.
She was soaking wet.
At supper that night Potts was regaling the company with his ‘discovery’ of a nest of Lancashire witches now under lock and key at Malkin Tower. Alice lost patience.
‘There was no Sabbat – you stayed up all night on Pendle Hill and what did you find? Nothing! And nothing at Malkin Tower but a pack of desperate miserable spoiled lives.’
‘You are heated in your defence,’ said Potts, ‘though their lair is on your land and they are under your protection –’
Shakespeare interrupted: ‘What is a Black Mass? The rusty candlesticks and hasty altars you find in remote places, wild, and away from men, are the remnants of the Catholic High Mass, sometimes celebrated in secret, if it is to be celebrated at all.’
‘You do not believe in witchcraft then?’ said Roger Nowell.
‘I did not say that. I say that it suits the times to degrade the
hoc est corpus
of the Catholic Mass into satanic hocus pocus.’
‘It is all the same,’ said Potts.
‘It is not the same,’ said Shakespeare.
‘I wonder about your sympathies, sir,’ said Potts, ‘and you and your company of strolling players in receipt of the King’s generosity.’
‘We are the King’s Men,’ said Shakespeare. ‘And besides – I began this play
The Tempest
with a
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