Diabolus Ex Machina

by Ian Salavon

It is a beautiful day. The blue sky is clear. Birds are chirping. Frogs at the pond are croaking and spawning. The smell of sassafras and juniper rolls into town on a gentle breeze. Perfect for burning someone at the stake. Unfortunately, I am that someone.

It feels like the entire town is stuffed into the church that doubles as a courtroom. Children sit on the crisscrossed beams high above like buzzards hoping for a piece of tender carrion. That’s what will be left of me. The rest of the community sit in the pews or line the walls. They may as well be licking their chops like hungry jackals.

I am bound to a rickety chair, accused of consorting with the devil. Reverend James Waterhouse sits on the dais presiding as judge. He put nine people to the flame for the same crime in as many years. He always said he would not take half measures at the influence of evil. It was his catchphrase. And so, he didn’t. He is pale and fat, and his eyes press into his face like two raisins in bread dough. It is cool in here, but that doesn’t stop the good reverend from sweating like a blacksmith’s ass. He takes his job seriously, probably too seriously. I know how these things go. I’m not getting out of this other than by divine intervention.

     And there’s Sarah Osborn in the accuser’s chair with a smug smile on her face. It’s hard to recognize her. She never smiles. She could not be more different than her sister, Abigail, my wife. She died ten years ago. My Abigail was not a lovely woman on the outside, but she had a saint’s soul. Kindhearted, generous, warm. Sarah is a dried-up prune. She could not just leave me be. Let me have what happiness I could scratch out for myself. No. She has to hurt me.

“Sister Osborn. You have accused Balthazar Penn of heresy in the highest degree, of sorcery and fraternizing with Lucifer.” The fat reverend couldn’t speak without breathing hard. “Are you prepared to substantiate your claim?”

     “I am, Your Grace.” That pinched voice, like a squeaky wagon wheel. “My good people I present to you that this man,” her bony finger springs out at me, “is in league with Lucifer. He is responsible for my sister’s and her unborn child’s death.” Here we go again. “In this book, I have evidence of his dealings.” She raises a tome thicker than her arm. Book? She’s been keeping track of me? Why is that not a crime? It does no good to counter accuse. She has the upper hand. “It is no coincidence that his good fortune came mere days after Abigail’s demise. His silver mine he happened to stumble upon a week after.” She ticks off her fingers. “When the weevils devoured all the crops a year later, his were spared. The floods the next year destroyed every building on the north side of town except his house. Two years after that, he found a team of the best horses any of us has ever seen, right outside his door. If that is not enough, I have documented that he does not eat. He does not sleep. A boon from his dark master, no doubt.” The harpy pauses just so she can hear the gasps from the crowd. Waterhouse shoves out his paw for the black book Sarah has. The way she holds it makes me ill. She has my life in those pages, and she cradles it like a baby chick. The ropes binding me to the chair pull tighter. I didn’t even know I was pulling against them until they pulled back.

The crowd starts to murmur during the pause while Waterhouse flips the pages. His eyes look up at me every few seconds. I hear the words “Disgusting,” “Unholy,” and a myriad of other unfounded epithets being whispered behind my back. “This ledger details late night excursions where you commune with damned souls.” Waterhouse says tapping a sausage finger into the book. I crane my head to Sarah. I can feel the tears streaming down my cheeks. She stares back at me like she just smelled a fart. “Well?” The reverend steals my attention back to him.
     I think about lying. About saying Sarah is making the whole thing up. But she isn’t lying, so I lean in. “If it please…” my throat is so dry my voice cracks. “Sarah Osborn speaks the truth.” There’s an uproar of commotion behind me.
     “You see! He admits his profanity in the presence of the Lord our God!” Sarah’s high voice shrieks above the din.
     “Order! I will have order!” Waterhouse bangs the book on the table, and a button pops off his waistcoat.

     “I admit that I do not sleep,” I manage to get out over the shouting. The crowd quiets. I guess they are eager to hear what a doomed man has to say. “Rather, I cannot sleep. I spend my time outside in the dead of night gathering supplies for my potions and unguents to help the sick.”

“Your idea of help caused a rash of boils to spring forth on the infant Mary Dodsworth after her mother smeared your wretched concoction on her chest.” I flinch at Sarah’s words. Curse her, she speaks the truth again, but not all of it. She’s shrewd. More than I gave her credit for.

     “What say you to this incrimination, Balthazar?” Waterhouse demands.

“Medicine is problematic. Not everyone reacts the same way. Some have unforeseen susceptibilities to certain ingredients. There is no way to know how one might react. But I inform every recipient of the risks in using my wares. I thank the Lord the girl made a full recovery.” I try to control myself, but I cannot help but cry openly now. “I only wish to help. You cannot know what loneliness is like. Unless you have lost your family, you will not know how hollow sadness can be. There is a hole in my heart that will never be repaired, and my sorrow is most potent at night when I am alone. I do not commune with the damned. I talk to my Abigail.” The murmurs start up again. Disbelief. Indifference. Dismissive. “I do not eat? Must I show the stains of my chamber pot?” A small, very small, pulse of giggles rings down from the children in the rafters.

“This court is not interested in your emotional plea. We want the facts.” Waterhouse says holding up the book and shaking it. “Do you have any evidence to present that you are not an agent of Satan?”

So, this is it. They are going to make me beg. Never mind that it is impossible to provide evidence for a negative. Never mind that Sarah is a jealous hag and has hated me ever since I refused her clumsy advances long ago. “I can only say this, Your Grace: I do not consider myself fortunate. It is serendipitous that the events outlined by my former sister-in-law happened after my Abigail died.” Sarah scoffs, and I can practically hear her eyes roll. “But perhaps God saw fit to reward me for my obedience. Perhaps He wished to unburden me with worldly goods by blessing me with the wealth to help others. Like the way I contribute to the church with my silver or paying for gravestones for families who cannot afford them or giving medicine without receiving payment. I know not. But I promise with The Almighty as my sacred witness, I am not a follower of Satan.” And that is it. There is nothing more I can say. Either they are convinced, and I go free. Or they roast me alive. I can feel my bowels rumble in reply to my thoughts.

Reverend Waterhouse takes his time. Staring. Scrutinizing me like a prize pig at auction. I feel naked. I try to use my arms to cover up and forget that I am lashed to this stupid chair. The ropes pull even tighter. He turns to his attendant and calls for quill, ink and parchment. He never takes his eyes off me until he starts scribbling on the paper.

I hold my breath. With the effort it takes to pry a tree stump from the ground, the good reverend rocks himself out of his chair and reads from the parchment he just wrote on. “Balthazar Penn. This court has reviewed the evidence fairly. And in accordance with our laws and customs, I find you guilty of witchcraft.” Cheers from the crowd with gasps of surprise interspersed hit me like a wave. “Furthermore!” the reverend shouts, “The argument made that you are in counsel with Satan is accepted. And on this day, June 5, in the year of our Lord, you will be burned at the stake until death to purify your soul.” He rolls the scroll and tucks it under his arm, crushing it. He waits for the crowd to undulate itself to silence. “I am not an unsympathetic man. It may be that you are telling the truth. But without evidence to support your claims, I cannot take the risk of allowing you to live freely among the devout people of our town. I will not compromise when it comes to Satan’s influence.” Sarah sniffs and bows her head to the judge. “Take him.”

I scream for mercy. No one listens. They claw at me and push me down only to pick me up and do it again, ushering me out the doors of the courthouse. The children from the rafters scrabble up the walls of the buildings outside to get a better view of me. People I have known my entire life spit and slap me, pulling me to the burning post in the center of town. There is no appeal I can make. And I knew this would happen. I knew, one day, the small-minded hysteria of fundamentalism would imbue its flavor on the deranged members of this town. I knew ever since Abigail and the baby died; they would come for me. They throw stones and shove cow pats in my mouth. They jab me with pointed sticks and take turns hitting me with switches. I am barely able to stand by the time they tie me to the post. There’s a stack of wood oiled and ready under my feet. I suppose their idea of a fair trial is being prepared to burn the guilty before the verdict is even made. The ropes cut into my skin. Tighter than when I was in the chair.

I feel a set of fat fingers slap my face and lift my chin. “Does the condemned have any last words?” Waterhouse asks without a hint of remorse. I see Sarah Osborn elbowing her way through the crowd for a front row seat. She’s smiling and clapping her hands like nothing more delightful has ever happened.

“Forgive them,” I whisper. No sense in begging. No sense in acting like this was not going to happen. I was in an inevitable situation.

A child’s scream from one of the rooftops pierces the fervor and anticipation of my scorched body. It is a horrible sound, the sound of the unknown. A small boy points to the sun. The afternoon starts to fade to brown. A black orb moves to swallow the very light from the heavens. Shrill wails from all gathered pummel my ears. Darkness continues to flow over the source of all our power until nothing remains but dull glowing ring around a circle of black in the sky.

Incomprehensible wails were replaced with the vomiting of prayers with no thought attached.

“Please spare us, Lord.”

“God forgive us!”

I saw in Reverend Waterhouse’s eyes the fear that comes with knowing he made a grave mistake. He scrambled for the ropes keeping me on the iron post and fumbled to untie me. He screams for help. I fall to the wood and roll to the dusty ground. I take a moment to catch my breath. Almost being killed in the name of righteous absolutism is exhausting.

Sarah Osborn lets out a guttural yell. Not at all like her usual bird squawk. Several men hold her back when she tries to dash to me. As if by magic, the black orb moves away from the sun and the warm light of midday graces our hamlet again. Birds chirp and the breeze blows in the fragrant smell from the west. All is back as it was.

I feel the same hand that slapped me land tenderly on my head. “My brother, I…” Reverend Waterhouse starts but doesn’t finish. Tears run down his fat cheeks and land on me.

I spit out the last of the cow shit they stuffed into my mouth. I swallowed a lot of it. “There is nothing to forgive, Reverend. It is enough that God sees me.” He starts crying like I have never seen a grown man cry before. He kisses my hand. Witnesses walk to me like they are trying not to wake a sleeping dragon. Seconds before they were calling for my cooked flesh in the name of virtue. They swoon when they touch me.

“No!” A shout sounds from beyond the gaggle of well-wishers. Sarah kicks and screams and slashes at the men holding her. She fights them to get away like a wild animal. “He is one with the devil! He is Satan’s minion. He killed my sister! I tell you; he will see all of us in hell. Burn him! BUUUUURN!!!” The men lead her away, but she doesn’t stop her tirade.

The reverend hardened his face at the scene and opened his mouth to shout after her. I put my hand on his arm. “Leave her be,” I say. “God has given Sarah her own demons to fight. We need not punish her more than she punishes herself.” Reverend Waterhouse sobs and smiles at me. There are apologies galore. People make promises of atonement and gifts. I assure them no gestures are necessary. “All I ask is that in the future we do not fear what we cannot explain.” And everyone agrees to walk a different path from now on.

This goes on for a long time until I peel away, staggering home to mend my injuries. I walk into my house and lock the door behind me. I wash off the dirt, blood and manure, doctor my wounds and throw away my soiled clothes. The ointment I apply stings at first but soothes the pain.

As I said, the only thing that would have saved me was divine intervention. But there are two kinds of divinity from which to receive aid. There’s God and prayer and hoping He cares enough to notice and help, and there’s the kind that works. Once I accepted the inevitable, I set in motion an incantation for this very day. A clever person, like Sarah Osborn, can only be outwitted when I realized she would win without my brand of divine intervention…the good kind.

I wait for night to fall before I shut and fasten all the shudders. I prick my palm with my dagger and draw locking runes in blood on every window and door. No one can get in. I lift my rug (I told no one what it is made of, but all my guests comment on how beautiful it is…if they only knew) and draw the opening rune on the floor. It unfurls for me like a morning glory. The stairs of bones lead into my sanctum. I see all my ingredients for my potions resting on shelves along the walls. I need to organize them better. I admire the display case with Abigail’s skeleton. A small unnamed not quite formed baby’s skeleton rests where the stomach would be. I cannot help but smile. It always brings me joy seeing it.

The triangle of salt lines on the matte black floor remains unbroken. Three burning braziers act as the points. A demon stands in the center, trapped. I have never made a deal with this one before, but it has proven to be efficient and powerful. Everything a warlock would expect from an evil servant. Its goat head is ripe with festering pus-filled infections, and its black feathered wings cling closely to a naked female body.

I hold my hand over one of the burning braziers and squeeze a single drop of blood into the fire. A soft white glow beams from the triangle. “Our bargain is done. You have convinced the villagers to spare me. I will supply you with the blood of my blood within one year or my soul is forfeit.” The demon makes a gesture with its taloned hand and the black floor opens much the same way as upstairs. Screams of despair balloon from a great abyss below and the demon descends into the pit. I smile and contemplate enchanting Sarah Osborn’s father to give me her hand in marriage. I could put a baby in her belly and sacrifice them like her sister. What lovely irony that would be.