The Villagers

by Gwyn G B

‘It’s Sophie isn’t it?’ he’d asked, the dead eyes looking up from the stamping process and focusing on her face, well aware that he’d recovered the upper hand.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, I’m sure you’ll be meeting her soon.’ Alison smiled to cover her slight discomfort.

  ‘I’m sure I will,’ he’d replied.

  When eventually, Alison emerged from the Post Office back into the sunlight she felt a definite sensation of relief. Neil had been very polite and helpful, he’d even stuck the stamps onto her letters for her, but there was something about him she didn’t like. Those Shark’s eyes of his looked at her almost hungrily and she got the impression that behind the cool, lifeless exterior was a furtive mind. A sad, impotent character, she could imagine him having been brow beaten by over domineering parents and somehow she could never see him being able to handle a real woman.

  Sordid images of blow-up dolls, porn magazines and his thin greasy frame pleasuring himself in the tiny flat above the Post Office, filled her mind. She frowned at herself for such disgusting thoughts and spotting the greengrocers, tried to replace them with pictures of carrots and cabbages. She headed across the high street aiming for its refreshing interior and some veg for the night’s culinary extravaganza.

  On the way back, Alison popped into Martha’s. She recounted her meeting with Neil, minus all her colourful thoughts and was just about to say ‘isn’t he a creapoid,’ when Martha started to sing his praises. Grateful not to have dug a hole large enough to swallow up not only herself, but half of Dorset, Alison just made enthusiastic noises in response and changed the subject rapidly.

  Sophie looked content; she and Michaela were sitting cross-legged, sorting through the baskets of raspberries they’d all spent the afternoon picking. Both girls had pink stains around their lips from where they’d lightened their loads and Alison couldn’t help thinking that Michaela certainly looked like she needed a good dose of vitamin C.

  Sophie didn’t take much notice of her mother, which made Alison realise she was obviously upset about something. She did prick up her ears though when the subject of Beelzebub was raised.

  ‘No of course I don’t mind. I think they’ll keep each other company,’ said Martha and Sophie gave away her interest by allowing a smug look to creep across her face.

  ‘Great,’ said Alison, although she wasn’t sure she really meant it – she wasn’t a big cat fan herself, ‘well I’d better get the shopping indoors.’ Sophie made no move at the obvious invitation for her to follow her mother and so she’d left them to it, a little perplexed at her daughter’s attitude, but fairly sure it had something to do with either her father, or her own lack of enthusiasm for Beelzebub.

  12

  Michaela knew that tonight was to be a big occasion for Martha, her father and the other ten members of the coven. She wouldn’t be allowed to go to the Sabbath until she’d been initiated, but this was one of the highlights of the year and the time when they would call on Lord Satan to appear before them. If she had to be honest, that scared her a bit, but she wasn’t about to admit it.

  Before the two girls had picked raspberries, Martha and Michaela had been finishing off a special herb ointment for the occasion. They had started the process nine days ago. On a Friday night after school, Michaela had been summoned to the cottage where Martha gave her a pair of surgical gloves and beckoned her to follow into the garden. Right at the bottom, almost into the forest, was a specially fenced off area of herbs. Both the children had been forbidden from touching anything within it, but now Martha pointed to some plants and ordered Michaela to pick them.

  ‘Belladonna, sometimes called Dwale or Banewort, helps to deaden pain and create visions. Hellebore, again encourages visions. Hemlock, this is virulently poisonous.’ Michaela shook a little as she picked the leaves and flowers, partly because of their danger and partly because she feared doing something wrong in front of the coven leader. She was itching to ask what it was they were preparing, but she daren’t. She’d wait until she was told.

  Task completed, they moved on to the general area of Martha’s herb garden where parsley grew.

  ‘There’s an old saying that only the wicked grow parsley, well here is some growing and we must pick it.’ Martha chuckled to herself as Michaela carefully cut the stems with the Athame, the black handled knife Martha used for all magical rites. Michaela didn’t yet have one of her own, there would be a special ceremony to purify one just before her initiation. She longed to possess an Athame, to her immature mind it represented total power. Her father had for years wielded his against her so she knew how fearful it could be, and yet beautiful too. Steel sharpened to its peak and polished, with a handle made from blackened bone. Carved into the bone was the name of their Lord so that the knife would always do his work.

  Next Martha had directed Michaela into her kitchen where she unlocked the huge grey larder door at its far end. Inside were literally hundreds of bottles and jars, some of which looked like they’d been there forever’ and all of which bore a label with Martha’s scrawly spider writing. Peering in Michaela could see ‘Dragon’s Blood’ and ‘Camphor’ in small herb jars; ‘goat’s horn’ and ‘toad skins’ in larger pickling jars; and she could swear there was a box marked ‘human bones’. Martha slammed the door shut on her inquisitiveness, making the already timid girl jump.

  ‘You’re not yet ready for all my cupboard holds’, she’d said and handed Michaela a jar of sunflower seeds. ‘Come, we must start making the ‘flying ointment’.

  Michaela followed her to a small room just off the kitchen. It must have once been the laundry room, but now it was itself spotlessly clean and contained only a chopping board, pestle and mortar and some jars. Michaela placed her basket of herbs and the sunflower seeds onto the work surface and awaited her instructions.

  ‘First you must shred the leaves and then place them into this jar.’ Martha placed a large, clean jar in front of her and then stood and watched as her apprentice very carefully chopped them and transferred them to it. Once Michaela had finished this she picked up the sunflower seeds and looked at her teacher questioningly.

  ‘Can you remember what purpose the sunflower has in spells?’ Martha asked.

  Michaela thought for just a few seconds, anxious to ensure she got it right.

  ‘To aid in conceiving,’ the little voice replied. Her mentor nodded, pleased that her teachings were getting through.

  ‘Good. Put two large pinches into the jar.’ Michaela did so, but as she pulled her hand away, the seeds which had stuck to her sweaty hand fell loose and bounced over the work surface and onto the floor. In her nervous state and the silence of the evening, the sound of their escape appeared loud enough to wake the dead. Michaela quickly dropped to her knees and carefully picked up every single fallen seed, desperately aware of the small, bowed figure which stood behind her watching. She was just about to replace the seeds in the jar when Martha’s hand shot out in front of her.

  ‘No. You should know better than that. These are now contaminated and must not be used again.’

  ‘Sorry Coven leader, I beg your forgiveness,’ whispered Michaela, bowing her head and shuffling nervously with her feet. Martha simply held out her hand, palm upwards and the little girl took this as her cue to carefully deposit the seeds into it. With her other hand, Martha passed Michaela a bottle of olive oil.

  ‘Now pour enough oil over the herbs to cover them. Finally, we must cap the jar tightly and store it in a warm place, but away from sunlight. In three days time I will repeat the process and then once again until the oil is saturated with the herbal infusion.’

  Michaela had been told to go round to Martha’s Saturday lunchtime, before she called for Sophie. While her new ‘friend’ sat down to a lasagne lunch with her mother and Charlie, the two servants of the Devil worked on their flying ointment.

  The jar Michaela had seen nine days ago was now filled with the leaves of the various plants. After once more donning her gloves, Michaela
was told to carefully strain the oil from the jar. It sat thick and heavily aromatic, almost sickly, awaiting the final stage.

  ‘Don’t breathe it in too deeply,’ Martha warned her as she placed a small bowl of lard in front of her. ‘The last task is to blend the herbal oil with the fat and then our potion will be ready.’

  The large pot of ‘flying ointment’ stood on Martha’s shaded kitchen windowsill for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. It was only at around eleven thirty that night, when a wizened hand stretched out from under a black cloak, took the jar and then drifted off into the forest.

  Behind it the large house was dark except for one window. Sophie had taken to her bed quite early and of her own volition. Alison still concerned by her quietness, had gone upstairs to kiss her goodnight. Beelzebub was back on her bed and she was lying stroking him. Sophie gave a half smile as she entered and Alison went over and sat by her side. The cat, which had been sprawled across the bed, got up and re-positioned itself, clearly snubbing Alison. She ignored it.

  ‘Are you OK sweetheart?’

  There was no reaction from her daughter who carried on looking at Beelzebub.

  ‘Sophie is there something worrying you?’

  This time she shook her head.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Alison reached out and touched her arm to try and make contact. ‘Are you happy here?’

  Now Sophie looked up and very briefly caught her mother’s eye.

  ‘Yes I like it here.’ Then she looked back down again. It was obvious that there was something else on her mind, but it was also obvious that she wasn’t in the mood to talk about it right now.

  ‘I love you sweetheart, if there’s ever anything worrying you, you must talk to me, no matter what it is, OK? We’ve got to look after each other now that daddy has gone.’

  The little girl nodded and Alison gave her a hug, but the body she embraced remained stiff and un-giving. Beelzebub stood up and stared, annoyed that his strokes were being interrupted.

  ‘Goodnight, see you in the morning.’ Alison went downstairs hoping that whatever was worrying her daughter might melt away during the night.

  Downstairs, Charlie had opened their second bottle of red wine. They’d already drunk one over dinner, a quieter than usual event with Sophie being down in the dumps and both Alison and Charlie dwelling on his imminent departure. In between mouthfuls of Beef Bourguignon and fruit salad, they had talked inanely about the outstanding decorative and DIY requirements of the house, just like any married couple, and as if it were just as much Charlie’s house as Alison’s. She watched him as he talked, occasionally flourishing his fork in enthusiasm, or enacting his favourite mannerism, which is to tug gently at his left earlobe. His large face crept closer to the shade of the wine as more of the beverage slipped down with his food. She looked at his nose, tinged pink from the sun and wondered if the top layer of skin would survive the week, or float away in flakes along with his memory of their day in the garden.

  Afterwards they’d curled up together, half watching an old movie on TV. The film was about a newspaper reporter and it reminded Alison that she hadn’t done any work in months. She’d given up her job as a Producer with Radio 4 after Sophie had been born, Phil’s contribution to the family income being more than adequate for them. But for the last few years she’d built up regular freelance work, keeping her hand in and her brain alive. Now she was away from London, freelance radio jobs would be thin on the ground, but she told Charlie she’d like to have a go at writing features, plus there was always that book she’d been meaning to write.

  ‘I think working again would do you good. You’re going to need to get out of this house and socialise a bit, otherwise you’ll go barmy with just a nine year old, a ninety year old and a grumpy cat to talk to,’ Alison giggled but agreed.

  ‘You’ll have to come down lots and keep me sane,’ she kissed him.

  He returned her basic act of affection with one a little more passionate and wanting. Alison became aware of the area between her legs and they began foreplay. She’d resigned herself to the fact that she was falling in love with him. Not even the fear of losing him could stop those feelings, and although she wasn’t yet ready to say she loved him, she was ready to take him to her bed. Like teenagers, they crept into her room, frightened of waking Sophie, and started to undress with just the light of the moon illuminating their skin.

  Deep in the forest, the eleven remaining members of the coven were gathering for their night of ecstasy. The white stone had been covered once more with the black silk cloth. The altar was set with black candles and incense ready for the ceremony of pure adulation of their master, Lord Satan. To represent his physical self, a billy goat was stood behind, its four legs attached by ropes to stakes in the earth. Unable to move and not yet possessed by the Devil, the poor creature was too terrified even to bleat.

  From out of the shadows a black cloaked figure appeared and, with its staff of wood, began to draw the circle around them, chanting into the hushed silence as it went. The other Coven members were skyclad, their robes discarded as the Book of Shadows dictates. In the moonlight their pale flesh shone like skinned animals as they sat on the ground, heads bowed in reverence.

  Once the circle was drawn, the black cloaked one disappeared momentarily to return draped in animal fur, with a headdress of horns. The first task was to take Communion. A chamber pot filled with piss from the goat was presented at the altar. One by one, the skyclad figures stepped forward and knelt before Satan to drink. Throughout it a prayer is spoken, the hatred in its words rustling the leaves of the trees with its chill.

  ‘I deny God and all religion,

  I curse, blaspheme and provoke God with all despite,

  I give my faith to the Devil, and my worship and offer sacrifice to him,

  I do solemnly vow and promise all my progeny unto the Devil,

  I swear to the Devil to bring as many into his society as I can,

  I will always swear by the name of the Devil.’

  Next it was time for osculum obscenum, the ultimate tribute to their Lord. Led by the coven leader they each walked up to the goat and kissed its arse, their traditional greeting to the Devil. The ecstasies would usually commence next, but tonight their leader called them to order and a prayer was said to make Alison Swift fertile and to create a suitable sacrifice so that their number may return to its full strength of thirteen.

  Prayer said, they could at last act as Satan would wish them to. One of their group disappeared into the trees, returning a few minutes later with a teenage girl. She was crying hysterically.

  ‘Dad, please, please, don’t do this to me, please… I beg you.’

  The only notice that is taken of her cries was when she was gagged by a leather thong. Then she was stripped and laid across the altar as an offering, a new bride for Satan.

  The coven leader washed the trembling girl’s genitals with the remaining goat’s piss. Then each of the eleven men in the group took it in turns to mount her. Behind the gag her screams strangled in her throat, and her tears disappeared into the dust of the dry earth. There was no sound except for the whispering chants of the coven.

  ‘Ofano, Oblamo, Ospergo.’

  A searing pain ripped into her, through her tears she saw her father’s wild eyed, manic face just inches from hers.

  ‘Hola, Noa Massa

  Light, Beff, Clememati, Adonai’

  The next one was on her now, clawing at her breasts.

  ‘Cleona, Florit.’

  The coven leader, produced a large black dildo and she closed her eyes.

  ‘Pax, sax sarax

  Afa, Afca Nostra

  Cerum, heaium, Lada Frium.’

  She was left sobbing and in shock on the altar, too weak to move, trickling blood onto the black silk. Her tiny, hard little breasts, pink and bruised, pointing skywards, exposed to all and deserted by God. All around her the Satanists smothered themselves in the flying ointment and commenced an or
gy of buggery. As the hallucinant worked, the clearing dissolved into a mass of writhing bodies. All twelve go from one to another, lost in the adulation of their Lord. Tongues licking, arses offered skywards, until eventually exhausted and under the effects of the ointment, they collapsed into a sleeping vision, moaning occasionally or whispering the devil’s name.

  Across the forest, Alison cried out in orgasm. She clutched at the pillows as her muscles contracted in ecstasy. Charlie’s tongue searched deep into her, savouring her release. As the strength returned to her, she pulled him away and up, reaching to slip his penis into her. She wanted him inside, desperately craving the intimacy and closeness of their body jigsaw. At first, she was almost too wet and his dick, rock hard and rippled with desire, slipped away. She tried again firmly, grasping him and it slid in. Alison groaned with delight. Eager to please, she started to move her hips and tightened herself around him. Suddenly he grabbed her and thrust deep, as deeply as he could go, pushing and pumping until he too climaxed silently, mouth open like some primeval scream. Then they fell together, holding each other, their body fluids mixing and becoming one.

  In the clearing the worshippers have stirred, their skin turned red from where the flying ointment quickened their heartbeat and raised their breathing. It had been a night like tonight that had killed John Hurrel. He died as he’d have wished, buggering and smothered in flying ointment – Satan welcomed him with open arms.

  The coven leader was once more cloaked in the animal skins and crowned by the horns. She removed the young girl from the altar. Still shivering in fear and shock, she was barely able to walk. She was dressed and sat down to await her father. He will take her home to his wife who isn’t sleeping. She is sitting, rocking in the worn armchair by their impotent fireplace, knowing what her daughter is going through as she relives her own ordeal from two years ago. Her fear of Satan and his earthly servants, including her husband, is so great that she knows it is pointless to try escape. She knows the consequences of that, Sarah West paid the price. She has often been forced to watch the videos of their acts, read the crude magazines and look at the photographs. Her husband would point out reports in the national newspapers and claim them as the Devil’s work. She knew that even death offered no release. As one of Satan’s brides, he would claim her soul and take her to the depths of Hell. Everyday she prayed for help, everyday her prayers went unanswered.