Pockets of Darkness (24 page)

Thirty Two

It must have been early spring, Bridget guessed, from the looks of all the flower buds sprouting outside Hilimaz’s pottery shop. Sounds assailed her the moment she passed through the doorway: the happy cries of children were the loudest, a dozen played in an open field. Like Adiella, Hilimaz must have been able to keep out sound on a whim, letting her craft pottery in her shop undisturbed.

The area was green as far as she could see—grass, fields being readied, the air mildly warm and thoroughly pleasant. The scents were rich. Bread was baking somewhere, everything so very far removed from the desert-like conditions of the country in Bridget’s day. The dampness in the air hinted a body of water was nearby.

Men and women wore simple robes, some with beautiful feathered headdresses and gold armbands, a few were heavily perfumed. As she followed the potter, Bridget looked through open doorways of homes, one side of the road wattle and daub construction, the other side larger buildings made of clay bricks. It was as if she was looking from a middle- to upper-class neighborhood in New York. She noted beds, stools, and chairs, some carved with legs that resembled those of oxen. Fireplaces, small fire altars, some appearing recently used. Tools were laid out in many of the homes, knives, wedges, something that looked like a saw, drills. There were weapons on a few of the people passing by. She noted that only one woman had nodded to acknowledge Hilimaz, the others all looked away from her.

At the far edge of her vision, a woman worked at writing on a large clay tablet with a metal engraving tool. Closer, inside a building that was a rather large smith’s, she saw three men hammering copper, silver, and gold into plates and jewelry.

A few nodded to Hilimaz, only one spoke. He addressed her as Ruabi-ruve. Later, Bridget heard others whisper and point, again calling the old potter Ruabi-ruve.

“It is the name I go by here, Ruabi,” Hilimaz said, apparently aware of Bridget’s curiosity.

“Because names are power,” Bridget mused. “And you do not want the people to have power over you. But me … it’s all right that I know your name because a ghost can’t have power over you.”

“Clever student.”

“But in the pottery. You use Hilimaz there.”

“Because names are power. The people I help with my spell and bowls, they never notice. They never hear me use my real name in the spell.”

“Because they don’t pay close enough attention to what you’re doing.”

Hilimaz nodded. “Their fear and worry keeps them from being clever, little ghost.”

“There is our leader.” Hilimaz nodded to a man standing in a doorway. He had a shaved head and carried a feather headdress loosely in front of him. “He is largely responsible for invoking the laws that prevent women from taking more than one husband. To be caught now doing so is to risk stoning.”

Bridget shuddered. She’d delved into pieces before that revealed cultures’ barbaric practices, and she would never be able to accept violence against women.

“I will not take another husband,” Hilimaz said. “Mine died many years ago to an Aldî-nîfaeti, the first we tried to capture together. My husband and I were just learning the necessary spells and how to shape the bowls. Taught by his mother, we were. Always women are the more powerful witches. My husband, he died horribly, and I was forever scarred by Yaqrun, a most formidable Aldî-nîfaeti, and one I much later caught. I am lu, a free person now.”

Yaqrun. That name! Bridget had heard it. Where? Yaqrun, it niggled at her brain.

“The demon, the Aldî-nîfaeti that killed your husband and scarred you. Its name was Yaqrun.”

The blind potter growled. “A foul, foul Aldî-nîfaeti, that one. My husband and I … we took it on too early in our training. And we paid the price. Would that I had died instead of him. Pursuing Yaqrun was my idea.”

Yaqrun. The museum! When she’d delved one of the bowls in the museum. Bridget remembered that delving. “Huseff, son of Nogress,” the potter had intoned, the words sing-song and flat. “From Huseff’s men-sons I heard the voice of the frail and of other men fighting and of angry weeping women. All are cursed and afflicted, pained by Yadun and Yaqrun and Azada. Yadun and Yaqrun and Azada, one will be taken with this bowl, seized by its scales and hair tufts upon their heads—”

“Hilimaz, does this demon, Yaqrun, spew lava? Does it have tentacles for feet? A head like an ape? Is it tall?”

“Arms like snakes?” Hilimaz stopped and cocked her head. “Little ghost, how would you know this demon?”

Bridget told her. “I need to recapture it. I need—”

Hilimaz’s sightless eyes narrowed and her face drew forward until it looked painfully pinched. She made a hissing sound and Bridget saw the potter’s hands clench. “—to most certainly imprison her again. She is most foul, one of the worst. She was too strong for my first attempt, I told you. Yet I later caught her, on the anniversary of my husband’s death, when she kept the company of Yadun and Azada. You had best be a most apt student, Bridget the strong-willed. That Aldî-nîfaeti is a difficult one. To set such a beast loose—”

“I don’t know the name of the other one I freed.”

Hilimaz made a scratchy
tsk-tsk
ing sound. “Names are power. Without the name, the Aldî-nîfaeti you loosed remains free.”

“So how do I learn the other name?”

Hilimaz didn’t answer; she turned and resumed her walk. Her hands did not relax.

There were sheep, goats, pigs, and cattle, all tended by young men, and all clearly domesticated. In a field past a row of small homes, Bridget saw oxen pulling plows to work what appeared to be a hard, stubborn field.

By the side of a larger home was an enclosed garden with ornamental trees. Other homes had plants growing in pots and vases, perhaps herbs. There seemed to be at least one date tree outside each residence. Ancient Sumer was much more civilized than Bridget expected. She tried to take it all in as the potter walked down a main road and then turned down a path between long buildings. In the distance she saw irrigation ditches.

“Here we honor our gods, Bridget the strong-willed. Do you still recognize them? Enlil, god of wind—”

Bridget remembered her demon spitting that word out like a hunk of something spoiled. “Yeah, I’ve heard of Enlil.”

“He is one of our most powerful gods, controlling the fertility of the soil and the destructive nature of storms. It is good to fear and respect Enlil.” She gestured to a three-walled building, the front of which was opened. Frescoes covered the walls, and there were impressive sculptures of bears and bulls. “Enki, god of the earth, also directs our rivers and wells and is responsible for crafts.”

“How do I learn the names of the Aldî-nîfaeti, Hilimaz? I need to catch what I let loose. And I’ve another demon, one that seems to be attached to me. A horrid gobshite of a demon that is a murderer. I need to find its name. And I need to get rid of—”

Hilimaz raised a hand to cut her off. “All demons are murderers. You are the student, little ghost. I will teach you everything you will need to recapture Yaqrun, slayer of my husband.”

“How long—”

“It will take as long as it takes, little ghost. I will not let you leave until you are ready.”

“I have a son.” Bridget tried to pull her senses back into the bowl, not caring if she had to battle the Aldî-nîfaeti-snake-thing again. She thought of Otter and the pit in the subway. But she couldn’t budge from Hilimaz’s side. “I need to be with my son.”

“Then you had better learn quickly, little ghost.” Hilimaz pointed to another fresco. “You will learn about our gods and our way of life, for the Aldî-nîfaeti are a part of that.”

“Go on then,” Bridget said, intending to hurry the teacher along. “Tell me more.”

“Ninhursaga is the goddess of mountains and vegetation. I believe she is the mother of all of us. Utu is the god of the sun, Nannar of the moon, and Inanna of the morning and evening, war and rain. Divine and immortal, yet we can influence them and learn their will.”

“Enlil,” Bridget said. “Tell me more about Enlil. I remember reading that Enlil was banished from the gods’ home for raping Ninlil.”

“When he was young and lacked wisdom,” Hilimaz returned. “When he thought passion was love.”

“That Enlil eventually was forgiven, right, that he had several children—”

“Godlings.”

Interesting term, Bridget thought. “And that he taught the godlings how to slay demons.”

She nodded. “Yes, when he was banished to the underworld, he studied Aldî-nîfaeti and learned how to defeat them and control them. The godlings passed onto a few mortals the tricks of the spells and clay.”

“You’re one of those mortals—”

“No. My husband’s mother was. Enlil’s eldest godling taught her directly. Then, she taught me. And I will teach you. Women have the true power, I believe. Men can try. But a woman’s mind can better handle these things.”

“Quickly,” Bridget added. “I am in a hurry. Teach me quickly, Hilimaz. My son—”

“Again I say that it will take as long as it takes, and you will not leave before I have given you the skills, Bridget the strong-willed. You will stay by my side, I say again, until you are able to deal with Yaqrun. And as for the other demons, taking them is your concern. Yaqrun, with all my soul I despise that one. You will stay with me until I am certain you can catch Yaqrun.”

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand with all clarity, little ghost. You will have the tools to recapture Yaqrun, slayer of my husband and tormentor of my soul. Few in this world have gifts such as you and I, and those gifts must be enriched and practiced. You should not concern yourself with time. To a ghost, time means nothing. Be pleased that I am willing to teach you. Be very pleased that I demand that you learn.”

“As long as it takes,” Bridget mused. “And how long do you think that will be?”

“If you work hard, my student, I believe you will be ready in three or four years.”

“Three or four—I don’t have—”

Hilimaz gestured to an open doorway. “Now, we will pray to Enlil to bless our efforts this coming night.”

“I’m Catholic,” Bridget thought, but her words were vocalized. “And it can’t take three or four years.”

“Catholic? Maybe Enlil knows your god, Cathol. And maybe your Cathol will not mind you praying to Enlil.” The potter motioned and Bridget felt herself tugged through the doorway. “Maybe they are related, our gods. Or maybe Enlil fathered some of Cathol’s children. Maybe Enlil fathered Cathol.”

***

Thirty Three

The home they went to that night was opulent. It sprawled at the end of a street, rising two stories with a flat roof rimmed by plants that draped over the sides and in some places veiled windows like curtains. Lights glowed from only one side of the home, but the stars were so bright in the cloudless sky that the ornate details of the place showed clearly.

Bridget had never seen so many stars.

“Enmebaragisi is a prominent merchant,” Hilimaz explained. “The wealthiest of men from a line of wealthy men. Yet all his gold did not keep the Aldî-nîfaeti Pua-tuma-sin at bay.”

Enmebaragisi greeted the old potter, bowing deeply and gesturing her inside. Bridget guessed him to be in his sixties, his dark face deeply lined like a crumpled paper sack, and his hands were wrinkled, his hair sparse white wisps that hung down to his shoulders. The wife, Shag-ana, could have passed for a teenager, and her belly was so swollen it looked like she was going to give birth any moment. There were two others in the main room, both young men that appeared roughly the same age as Shag-ana; maybe the man had been married before and they were sons. Bridget forced down her curiosity and thought of Otter.

Hilimaz paced the room, the damp bowl cradled in her hands. She didn’t bump into the people or the furniture, but she shuffled slowly and hummed softly, the same tune Bridget had heard when she’d first spied the potter during her delving.

Hilimaz was clearly intent on whatever she was doing, and Bridget turned her thoughts to Otter. She thought about Adiella’s pit in the subway, and for an instant heard a voice with a distinctively Brooklyn accent. The Brooklyn accent became clearer: “Marsh, you suck at cards, you know.” Faintly she felt a vibration beneath her, the rumble of a subway train.

Bridget pried her mind away from Adiella’s pit and focused on Hilimaz. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling and set the shadows of the room’s inhabitants against the walls. Hilimaz’ shadow traveled, as did another, they looked to be dancing. Bridget stared at the twin shapes, one no doubt the Aldî-nîfaeti Pua-tuma-sin that the potter had come to catch. Why didn’t the demon flee the house? Why risk getting snared?

Interspersed with Hilimaz’s dissonant notes was “Pua-tuma-sin.” Perhaps the demon couldn’t flee because Hilimaz had its name, that being the hook that had caught the fish. Over and over and over she’d told Bridget names were power. Yaqrun—that was the name of the lava-spewing tentacled beast Bridget had released in the museum and that subsequently had burned down her brownstone. What the hell was the name of the other one? And, more, what was the name of the Aldî-nîfaeti that dogged her and had slain people she’d cared about? The warty, puss-oozing son-of-a-bitch that had gnawed on Jimmy’s heart right in front of her?

Bridget sensed the air growing hot and dry and saw the disparate-aged couple and the teenage boys huddle together. They all breathed shallowly, and it looked like Shag-ana was in distress. She clung to her husband with one hand, and the other on her belly visibly quivered.

The tempo of Hilimaz’ tune increased when the potter reached a sharp corner and turned the bowl upside down. Bridget felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs, the sensation so intense and hurtful, like she was physically present in Enmebaragisi’s house. Her senses spun and she felt herself circling downward. Just how deep was her mind in ancient Sumer?

The demon’s shadow looked like shiny black paint running toward the corner where Hilimaz placed the upended bowl. The creature took on dimension as it fought to stay free, half extricating itself from the wall. It was a hideous thing, man-shaped but with elbows and knees grotesquely oversized and covered with spikes. It had no flesh on its legs and arms, just blackened bones, and it had no feet. Its torso was covered with flesh, or rather a writhing mass of insect-things that expanded and contracted as the Aldî-nîfaeti breathed. The monstrosity clawed at the air with its seven-fingered scabrous hands, and it opened its maw and keened. The head of it was vaguely simian, like Yaqrun’s, and its tongue was a serpent that unfurled and snapped at Hilimaz, striking her again and again.

The potter had been speaking, but Bridget had been so caught up in the demon’s manifestation that she’d not caught most of it.

“—I heal and annul. With these words I catch I bind. Weapon of clay, mother wet-earth, in the names of angels Sariel and Barakiel. I, Hilimaz, shackle the Aldî-nîfaeti named Pua-tuma-sin. In so doing I free the hearts of Enmebarasis and Shag-ana and her coming child. I ease the troubles of the descendants of Ekur. I, Hilimaz, protect this house from all vileness. Bind and seal and capture forevermore the Aldî-nîfaeti named Pua-tuma-sin.”

The demon’s keening became a knife, so sharp and painful. Had Bridget been able to physically react, she would have held her hands to her ears and slammed her eyes shut. But her senses locked in place, she was forced to watch and listen as Pua-tuma-sin’s serpent tongue continued to lash out at the potter and its scream became so high-pitched it dropped Enmebarasis and the others to their knees.

Then in a heartbeat the noise was gone, and the demon with it. Bridget glimpsed its scabrous claws dig at the earthen floor as it was pulled under the bowl. Hilimaz bent, turned the bowl upright, shuddered, and collapsed. Bridget feared the old potter was dead, but after a moment she saw the woman’s chest slowly rise and resume a normal rhythm. The family recovered and hovered around Hilimaz.

Bridget heard them all clearly, though they spoke the long-dead Sumer tongue.

“Praise be to Enlil and Utu and Nannar,” one of the teenage boys said.

“The gods are good,” Shaga-ana said. Both hands were pressed to her belly, and her feet were apart as if she had trouble balancing. Sweat was thick on her forehead. “The gods keep my baby safe by freeing this home of the ruinous Aldî-nîfaeti.”

Enmebaragisi gingerly touched his young wife’s chin and tipped her face up to his. “Our child will not be eaten, beloved. Enlil and Utu, Nannar, and Prael blessed us.”

“It was her,” the other teenage boy said, pointing to Hilimaz’s prone form. “Not the gods, father, it was the witch who saved us. She—”

“It was the gods,” Enmebaragisi countered. “They worked through the blind woman, she is their focus in this city, their vessel. She is nothing more.”

The young woman pulled away from the group and went to a chair, eased herself onto it, still holding her belly. “We must pay her, husband. We agreed—”

“Of course.” He waved a hand and the boys retreated to a room out of Bridget’s sight. She kept her gaze on Hilimaz, worried that the potter had been gravely injured. It was selfish, Bridget was concerned about herself and Otter, needing the old woman to be all right so she could continue the lesson.

The two boys returned with a small chest. Enmebaragisi opened it. Inside were jewels and pieces of gold. He selected a thin gold bracelet and what looked like an uncut sapphire. He closed the lid and gestured again, and the boys took it away.

“That is not enough, husband,” Shaga-ana said. “Not for ridding our home of the Aldî-nîfaeti.”

The merchant laughed. “She is an old, blind woman, my heart. What does an old, blind woman need with wealth? This will buy her food and tools for her clay. She does not need more.” He handed the pieces to his wife. “I have business to attend, my heart. When Ruabi-ruve awakens, pay the witch and send her on her way.”

Bridget smoldered. The merchant didn’t act grateful, pleased, yes, but he hadn’t even displayed the courtesy of helping Hilimaz off the floor. The two boys did that, but after Enmebaragisi left and the young woman asked them to. They settled the potter in a chair, and when she came to, they gave her something that smelled like strong coffee.

“Thank you, Ruabi-ruve,” the young woman said. “You have made my home safe, and my child-to-come will live without fear.” She tentatively stretched a hand forward, took Hilimaz’s free hand and placed it on her swollen stomach. “If this is a girl, I will name her for you.”

Hilimaz left several minutes later, the gem and bracelet in her pocket, the damp bowl held carefully against her.

“That man is rich.” Bridget still fumed.

“Certainly,” Hilimaz replied. “But I am an old, blind woman, and what do I need beyond food?”

Even unconscious, Hilimaz must have heard the merchant. Bridget studied the potter’s face, looking for some trace of ire at the sleight the merchant had committed. The old woman’s expression was serene, though Bridget noticed a horrid mark on the scarred side of her face, where the demon’s snake-tongue had bit her.

“Still,” Bridget persisted. “He should have paid much more for what you did.”

“Bridget the-strong-willed, do you not believe he will make atonement for his rudeness in the world after this? Do you not believe there are repercussions for unfortunate behavior?”

She did believe it, and worried that her own soul was bound for some very dark place. “He has so much wealth. I saw gold and gems and—”

“And in your Catholic world so far removed in time and distance from this place, little ghost, what has wealth gotten you? Has it made you at ease? Joyful? What has it provided for your soul?”

***