Chapter Text
Find a crossroads in the depths of the woods using only moonlight to see (do not bring a torch or a lantern). Set down the skulls of six woodland beasts in a circle around you. Etch her name upon the earth with a cross, held upside down.
Ishmael followed the directions given to her exactly; she always was conscientious. Although, she was told since she was a little girl that it was a sin to deal with devils – even just to say hello to one's neighbor as you would any other – and she was hardly following that rule. But she was an adult now and could make her own choices. And hadn't the brewess made a deal with this very same devil, or one just like it, for her cruel master to die – and the very next day he was kicked in the head by his horse and was dead before he hit the ground. And it was rumored too that the doctor's daughter actually died in that horrible fire, but she bartered with the devil and won her little girl back again. So, Ishmael reasoned, it made sense to at least sound out this devil about her little problem.
She triple-checked the glyph the old woman had drawn for her – she'd copied it exactly. Now there was nothing to do but wait. She hugged herself for warmth, her ragged old coat doing little against the autumn winds, her trusty flintlock on her back.
“Hello!” She cried out. “Oh, Pale Prince Faust, I've come to bargain with you!”
Silence.
“Come on! Are you going to help me or not?!”
Silence.
Then, Ishmael sighed, disappointed. She was kicking herself for letting that batty old crone fill her head with these stories. Obviously the master brewer's death was an accident and the doctor's daughter merely survived the fire in the regular way. She turned to leave and yelped as she saw a pale, round face with blue eyes, rosy cheeks, framed with white hair. She looked to be a floating head at first until Ishmael saw she was wearing a heavy, luxurious, black fur coat, a wide skirt, and a tall matching hat. She was a little surprised that she was slightly taller than this alleged devil.
“Pale Prince Faust!”
“Faust will do.”
Neither spoke for a moment. Ishmael's heart thundered in her chest and she took a step backward – suddenly she was unsure what to do with this devil now that she'd summoned it. She was also expecting to see – well, a devil. Where were the horns, the hooves, the tail – where was the hellfire? She smelled no brimstone, merely the faint odor of herbs, and instead of a pitchfork she only held a black walking stick with a silver handle. However, Ishmael thought, she's uncommonly beautiful, even more so than the brewess. Ishmael would have thought she was some kind of imperial aristocrat.
“You have summoned Faust with nothing to say?”
“Oh, apologies... this is, uh, my first time...”
Faust tilted her head, the barest hint of amusement on her features.
“You are fortunate. Faust has no pressing business this morning; we may take our time.”
“...morning?”
“Correct. It is eight o'clock in the morning in Hell. Faust had a leisurely morning to catch up on reading. And a single appointment with my apprentice in the afternoon, though I may reschedule.”
Ishmael couldn't believe what she was hearing; she didn't imagine that devils would sit and read in the mornings, let alone keep appointments or have apprentices. And she had expected a devil with a deep, imposing voice. Faust spoke gently with little inflection.
“What kind of books does a devil read?”
“An ordinary devil needs only keep up with earthly news or personal correspondence. Newspapers, when available – although those are a precious rarity in your little hamlet, I'm sure. Faust, however, prefers to read on a wide range of topics – natural philosophy chief among them. Faust has also taken an interest in astronomy, and many would-be astronomers and astrologers are eager to sell their souls to me for my expertise. Clergy, as well, are frequent customers. Faust is frequently required to follow the latest schisms and sectarian conflicts; stultifying, to be quite honest.”
“Clergy?!”
“You seem shocked. Men of the cloth have been my constant companions. My apprentice has an amusing story – ah, Faust has become sidetracked. My only concern is your business, Miss Ishmael.”
Faust was slightly disappointed that the mortal woman wasn't surprised that Faust knew her name; these superstitious villagers are usually greatly amazed. But Faust would have to discern the facts about this villager through observation and interview alone. She only had a brief opportunity on the carriage ride between realms to acquaint herself with the little dossier her apprentice wrote for her: she had him learn as much as he could about the villagers the last time she had business here.
Name, Ishmael. Occupation, hunter or sailor. No known family. Unable to confirm, but likely unbaptized.
Damn it, boy, Faust thought – is she a hunter or a sailor or a hunter and a sailor? No mention of her earthly desires either – sloppy work from the apprentice. She made a note to beat him savagely with her walking stick at earliest convenience. But for now, with a wave of her hand, she summoned a dozen will-o'-the-wisps, which floated around them, lighting the crossroads.
The hunter or sailor was tall with ginger hair and dark green eyes. Faust noted the freckles all over her; her scrutinizing eye and serious expression; what Faust would classify as a pretty face. She did not look quite like most of the villagers in this region and Faust supposed she was not one of those religious radicals; a lonely wanderer like so many others.
“Faust deduces you are an unmarried maiden. Could it be you've sought my help finding a husband? I shall show you the best I have on offer; he will treat you like a princess and give you strong, healthy, human children. The horns are optional, but most of my clientele enjoy them. Most attractive of all, he rarely speaks unless spoken to and does as the lady of the house bids him.”
Before Ishmael could respond, Faust waved her hand and conjured a very tall and broad man with a serious face, shadows under his eyes, dressed all in black with massive black horns upon his head. He stared blankly at Ishmael, who took several paces backwards.
“No! Absolutely not!”
The big man didn't react. Faust, indifferent, struck him with her walking stick and he vanished into nothingness, leaving nothing but swirling dust in the air.
“No?” Faust was slightly surprised; she'd procured or destroyed countless men for maidens before. “Please, speak to Faust – my only wish is your happiness.”
“Before we begin,” Ishmael said, “there's something in particular I desire, but I want to be clear – I don't want any schemes.”
“We will negotiate fairly,” Faust said with a slight smile. “Tell Faust your wish.”
“When I was less experienced, I'd travel with my mentor, who taught me everything I know about hunting, trapping, and living in the forest. Then she took us – me and some other hunters and their apprentices – on a mad hunt for a great white beast.”
“A wolf?”
“Not a wolf. A beast. A wolf is a natural animal – don't you know that, with all your knowledge? But she led us far to the north, tracking the beast into the depths of the forest primeval, hunting the beast. I alone survived our clash with it. I – and she. The friends I'd made, and my wi– you just need to know they're all dead, except me.”
Faust made a mental note to ask around and see if any of her colleagues had a missing pet.
“Name your wish, and Faust shall provide.”
“My wish – and this isn't binding yet! We haven't made a contract! My wish is to slay the white beast and...”
“And...?” Faust's placid demeanor gave way to eager curiosity.
“And my mentor. That bastard – she's the one who got everyone killed. But if she's gone, and the beast is gone, then surely... surely something like this won't happen again!”
Faust smiled. Ishmael was a little unnerved, but admitted to herself that this devil was awfully pretty. What did that mean, Ishmael thought, catching herself thinking about Faust's eerie charms.
“You've come to the right devil. Such a task requires but two things. The first is an abundance of courage, which you must have, if you're willing to put your immortal jewel at risk for an audience with the Pale Prince Faust herself. The second is a pouch of suitable bullets.”
With a flick of the wrist she produced a small bag, stitched with silver thread. She held it in her hand, offering Ishmael to look inside. Ishmael, very cautiously, opened the bag and peered inside. There were seven bullets, just the right fit for her trusty old rifle, and they had an unnatural gleam. While Ishmael would normally dismiss such a thing as a trick of the moonlight, the fact that she had successfully summoned a devil meant she should try to be as open-minded about such impossibilities as she could.
“Faust has blessed each one of these bullets – see how they shine even in the darkest forest! It requires more than a flintlock to kill your quarry, Ishmael. These magic bullets, forged by the incredible Faust herself, can find and kill anything the shooter desires.”
“What do you get out of the deal?”
“Faust is highly generous; your soul isn't on the bargaining table. What Faust shall have is quite small, a mere trifle.”
“Go on.”
“Of the seven bullets, six shall strike and kill targets of your choosing. One shall strike and kill a target of Faust's choosing. Certainly a fair and equitable arrangement.”
Ishmael thought it over. Six bullets – enough for Ahab, the beast, and four things along the way, should she have to kill a certain animal or person. Tempting, tempting, she thought, imagining standing tall against the barn-sized thing all covered in white fur, fearless this time, blasting it to pieces, banishing her nightmares. And she imagined finding Ahab – that old bastard has to be somewhere – and making the madwoman pay. Then the hunting party, all dead but one, could rest easy at last.
Too good to be true, she thought, deliberating internally while Faust observed.
“How do I know which is your bullet, and which are mine?”
“You don't. Only Faust knows.”
“And who might Faust wish to kill?”
“Only Faust knows.”
Ishmael paced, thinking this through. In happier times she'd been taught to be wary of strangers offering things that seemed too good to be true. And she worried; what would happen if she fired a bullet and Faust sent it into little Don's head?
“Suppose I kill Ahab and the beast, and never fire another silver bullet ever again in my life – what then?”
“Then Faust would say you've lived an enviable life and shown exceptional self-discipline. These forests remain very dangerous, even as humans begin to encircle them; surely you understand that very clearly, my hunter friend. Faust senses uncertainty. Perhaps a demonstration will put your concerns to rest.”
Faust plucked a single bullet from the bag and held it out for Ishmael, who very reluctantly took it.
“Go hunting with this bullet, and see for yourself what Faust's magic is capable of; attempt an impossible shot and you will make it, guaranteed. Then you'll summon Faust once more, and we shall complete our business.”
“What if I'm not impressed with it?”
Faust hadn't considered the possibility; what kind of ignorant bumpkin would not be impressed by a magic bullet that never misses?
“You will be.”
“And how do I know this isn't your bullet, you clever thing?”
Faust smiled smugly.
“You don't. If you truly wish to walk away with nothing, Faust shall not impede you. But if you truly wish for vengeance, you'll seek Faust's aid.”
Ishmael looked at the gleaming bullet in her hand, and looked at Faust, wondering perhaps if her demon horns were hiding under that large hat, and wondering whether it would be impolite to ask.
“Faust comprehends your unease; O sweet hunter, consider all possibilities and don't be rash. Take all the time you need to think. Faust is yours to summon at your convenience – here.”
Faust produced a small whistle, carved from someone's fingerbone.
“We may dispense with the rituals and rigmarole, if you prefer. Blow this whistle; Faust shall hear it in Hell and come to you at earliest convenience, unless Faust is in the bath.”
“The bath...?”
“Every devil requires some creature comforts. Faust shall look forward to hearing from you, and bid you good morning here.”
“...good night – or good morning, Faust,” Ishmael said, taking the whistle, scrambling for something to say. “It was nice to meet you.”
“And even nicer to be met,” Faust replied before doffing her hat and bowing; sure enough, two bent white horns were on her head. Then she vanished, her will-o'-the-wisps dissipating.
Ishmael fidgeted with the whistle and the bullet the entire walk back to her cabin, ruminating. She weighed the reasons for and against going any further with this plan, above all doubting her sanity somewhat – she summoned a devil in aid of her pursuit of vengeful murder. But she mostly thought of Faust's uncanny beauty, and the subtle musicality of her voice – no, no, Ishmael, you can't let yourself get distracted...
-
She noticed a little light shining inside her cabin as she approached; a candle. With a sigh, she went inside and saw Don, her fellow hunter and – perhaps her friend – lying in her bed, the little candle nearby. There was very little in Ishmael's home. A stove, a bed, a chest, a table on which she repaired her gun and butchered her kills and ate her meals. She pulled her boots off and set them neatly by her chest; it was damned cold in here, maybe even colder than outside. She tucked the bone whistle and the bullet in her boot.
“Don... what's the matter?”
“Why art thou so late, Ishmael?”
Ishmael irritably set to work lighting the stove to chase the chill from her little home.
“If you're going to sneak into my house, you may as well light the fire and get some heat.”
“Answer mine question...”
“You first. Old Gregor is nice enough to let you stay in the tavern even after that mess you made. Why'd you come here in the dead of night?”
“Why were thou elsewhere?!”
“I had business, Don. Now tell me – why are you...”
“I missed thee, my lady. I was very lonely in the tavern.”
“With all those people?”
“They understand me not so well as thee. Thou wouldn't turn me out, wouldst thou?”
Do I understand Don? Ishmael asked herself. She wasn't looking, but she was quite sure Don was making sad baby animal eyes at her. The short hunter with the mop of yellow hair was tossed out of a speeding carriage as it sped through the town a few years ago. She had a piece of parchment which she kept showing to people, babbling in a language nobody here knew. Aside from that parchment and a sack of dolls, homemade toy knights and horses, and the burlap sack she was dressed in, she had nothing.
Several people in the village, Ishmael included, had made an effort to teach her the language and the ways of life in the village, but she was mostly interested in stories of knights and adventures and wouldn't speak in anything other than her butchered approximation of what they sounded like in those stories. Only Ishmael continued to play along with her; she was prepared to indulge little Don since she was (somehow) a crack shot. If that meant pretending to pretend that a deer was a dragon, so be it. Ishmael reckoned she'd grow out of it as the years went on. She didn't; and fewer and fewer of the villagers tolerated her strange behavior. So now Ishmael was the closest thing she had to a friend, and soft-hearted old Gregor allowed her to live in the tavern.
“No, I won't give you the boot.”
Ishmael watched the fire roar to life and took a moment to bask in the heat.
“Thou truly hast business in the dead of night?”
“Truly. We'll talk about it in the morning.”
Ishmael got into bed with Don, who cuddled up with her. Ishmael was willing to tolerate this kind of behavior here and there, especially on a cold night. The lunatic could generate quite a lot of body heat, and it was all trapped nicely under the thick blanket Ishmael had made from various shaggy beasts.
“All right. You can stay – just go to sleep.”
Silence. Ishmael closed her eyes, and though her head was full of doubts and questions, she was well on her way to sleep.
“Lady Ishmael?”
“No. Shush. Time to sleep.”
“But...”
“No buts. Sleep time.”
Don made a disappointed little hmph sound; moments later, her breathing became slow, soft, and steady, and she was asleep. Ishmael put an arm around her and gave her a squeeze before falling into a deep sleep.
-
Faust, pleased with herself, returned to her villa, close enough to Dis to be included in Hell's bustling social scene but sufficiently far away that Faust could enjoy some peace and quiet. She walked through the great obsidian doorway and through the crimson halls to her study, her cloven hooves echoing as she went.
“Boy.”
Her study was a chaotic scene; scrolls, huge tomes, piles of newspapers from all around the mortal world, and all sorts of books were on shelves, tables, any horizontal surface except for Faust's preferred reading chair. Her apprentice, the shy young devil Sinclair, sat at one of the desks, scribbling notes here and answering letters on Faust's behalf there. His red, leathery wings and spiked tail fluttered anxiously as he heard her voice.
“P-pale Prince Faust? What is it you'd ask of me, O genius whose machinations confound the hopes of men?”
Faust plopped down onto her chair; the mortal world caused her such fatigue even if she found human women rather fetching. She smiled coldly at him as he turned to her, dropped to one knee, and bowed his head.
“Faust is well on her way to another success; it is certain that I will be heading to the mortal world with some frequency. You, boy, shall be entrusted with some of Faust's affairs in the event that I am so engaged.”
“R-r-really, Pale Prince Faust?! I'll prove myself worthy of such an honor, O wise one who, um... misleads the righteous!”
“See that you do. You can start by improving your note-taking skills; your dossiers on humans can best be described as shambolic. If my trust in you is misplaced, boy, Faust shall disassemble you for parts. Understood?”
“Yes, Pale Prince. Set me to one thousand tasks, O merciless suzerain of all she beholds, I shall complete them all. Even if,” he continued, “my work would be but a shadow of yours.”
Faust nodded.
“Good boy,” she said without an ounce of affection. She opened her Dis Daily Gazette and started to read for a moment before snapping her fingers, sending Sinclair fluttering off to make her tea. Obviously it was within Faust's power to simply conjure up as much tea as she liked, but one's apprentice must be burdened with menial tasks lest they get inappropriate ambitions.