British Gothic

Another Day's Work - A First Impression, Part II

[Administrator,entry reveals recurrence of "Mother Jenny" – Dr Zeiss]

Tuesday,October 2nd, 2012

Reader,

Hesselius dismissed mequite without warning yesterday, moments after telling me he knewwhat had taken my fingers. Today had been spent in much the samefashion as Monday and Hesselius barely acknowledged my existence,beyond making demands for tea or that long conversation where heberated me for his bagel being cold. Only after another thoroughlyexhausting History of Witchcraft in Europe lecture did he turnto the previous evening's story.

"Joseph, come downhere," bellowed the doctor from his spot at the front of the class.With a weary sigh, I shrugged my satchel over my shoulder and troopeddown the stairs. Hesselius rifled in his own bag until he returnedfrom its depths with a beautifully bound book in hand. He looked upat me, expression stern and gently, almost reverently, placed thetome on the table between us; I took this to be a sign for me to openit. Beyond the red leather covers were about two hundred pages ofilluminated manuscript. Every five pages comprised a concise entry,as brief as ancient writers could bring themselves to be, about somecreature or phenomenon.

"Turnto 114," he said. Our eyes were fixed on the fantasticalillustrations as I turned the pages. Each thumbed leaf revealed moreof a hidden world of fairy rings, boggarts, ignis fatuus,hags, gnomes, grims of every variety, and so on and so forth.

Myheart stopped.

Myhands tightened their grip instinctively, my mouth dried, and bilerose in my throat. I swallowed down the sickness. Here on page 114 mywatery assailant was recreated. Although the miniature before mecould never truly capture all of its grotesquery. The monster'spallid flesh for one thing presented as a lurid, lime green on thepage. There the creature lay: hair of slimy pondweed and saggy fleshthat bunched in places; long, dirty claws on her hands and feet;knobbly, spindly limbs possessed of enormous strength. A name wasemblazoned at the portrait's foot in silver letters: MotherJenny.

"Sheis a river hag; that is but one of her names and there are many likeher in other nations. But this is the one that attacked you, isn'tit? River hags are like the ugly cousins of sirens – their power isjust as great though.

"SomehowI suspect you know all this, you're the one whose fingers she took.The hag probably still has them; waiting for the time she can drownyou. They are her memory of you, she longs to finish her work,"Hesselius' tone was peculiarly soft, compassionate perhaps. Theshock which had seized me slipped away at his words. I nodded slowly.

"Ihaven't been in a swimming pool for six years," not the mostpertinent response, but my mind's fog proved slower in movementthan my body's binding. I laughed mirthlessly, answered by thedoctor's own empty chuckle. He drew the book away from me andturned over the page to where Mother Jenny's profile began, underan illustration of a young girl being dragged to the river bed. Aftersome silent reading, I confirmed Hesselius' assertion that she keptmy fingers as a memento – the one that got away. My decisionto never swim again was reaffirmed, as she could appear in any bodyof fresh water into which her hair was dropped; I cannot tell herunctuous locks from weeds.

Thedoctor stirred suddenly and made for the door, leaving his bagbehind. I knew he expected me to gather up his possessions and hurryafter him like a good dogsbody. Out of the lecture theatre, out of auniversity whose name I was too run down to recall, and to hiswaiting car – where he sat testily in a rear passenger seat. Ofcourse, I hadn't been there to open the door for him; I did nothave a mother-in-law but suspected Dr Hesselius gave me excellenttraining in what to expect from one.