by Aaron Galvin
I slip over the side and dip into the water.
The cold lunges into my body, stabbing me, forcing me draw breath. My toes kick in search of a foothold, finding naught.
I sink up to my neck.
The weight of my robes tugs in threatened warning to carry me down to the ocean bottom.
I shed the robes and release my hold of the boat, then swim toward the shore with my hands and feet beneath the water to quiet my movement. I make for a plot of land further up the beach where there are no boats. The mucky bottom sucks at my feet as they touch down. I will myself on to more solid ground and soon collapse upon the snowy shore.
Move. A ghost of Father’s voice urges me. Move or die.
The sight of fire deep inside the forest warms me.
Trembling, I rise from the beach and stumble toward the growing light. The movement feeds my soul. I plunge into the wooded depths.
The wilderness welcomes me.
Safe in its haven, I flit from tree to tree, steadily approaching the fire deeper inside the forest.
The drums beckon. Though their hypnotic beat plays not for me, I lose myself to their rhythm. Pipes take up the song also, the sharpness in their queer tone a reminder I hunt in foreign lands.
The forest rings with arrogance—voices laughing and calling to one another without regard their greater number means little to me. The lack of brush and bramble grants me clear sightlines through the forest.
I have little need of such gifts.
The woods are my home and the witches live only so long as I allow.
Even without the fire to guide me, I would find their trail easy enough to follow. Their tracks litter the snow alongside tree limbs broken by their carelessness. By the sound of them, several travel in groups.
My search for a lone witch does not take long. Her thrashing and cursing at the brambles draw my attention.
Like Elisabeth’s waif, the witch keeps a scarlet robe tucked under her arm, almost as if she would not risk its purity despoiled by the woods and snow she struggles through.
I easily keep pace with her for a time to ensure she is well and truly alone.
She never once looks back as she stumbles on, unknowing I stalk her. The witch utters not even a surprised cry as I fall upon her, granting her a merciful and quick death.
I strip the dress she wears and shed my own wet clothes, trading mine for hers. Hers stink of unwashed filth and do little to warm me, though hers, at least, are dry. I tuck her body in the shadow of an old oak then don her scarlet hood to conceal my face.
The witch’s blood staining my hand, the scattered glee and laughter of her coven, they wake the hunter in me. All of my being wishes to fall upon the others and leave their bodies in the snow to fear the rest.
The thought of a greater prize bids me wait, for now.
I keep on toward their gathering, following their howls.
The bonfire grows brighter with every passing minute, thrice the height of any man. Indeed, it seems the witches set their torches to a home the flames burns so high.
I halt near the clearing and slink behind an elm, kneeling in patient wait, my mind and body turning to stone.
Around twenty exist near the flames, all of them dressed in the same scarlet robes. All shake and scratch at themselves. Some group together, conversing in hushed tones. A few sit alone, staring into the fire.
One walks among the others—Elisabeth Hubbard’s waif.
My lip curls at the sight of her giving orders to several in the crowd.
They scatter at her words.
My gaze remains with her as she lights a torch from the great fire, then carries it to a pillared hill with two levels. She pauses at the first level, new fires sprouting to life as her torch kisses those previously unlit.
Gnarled and black-stained trees grow to either side of the stone steps, the tops of each sawed off, leaving little more than tall stumps.
The waif continues to the final level, gifting light to a trail of torches as she traipses up the wide and stone-carved steps. She walks a circle upon the hilltop, her torch granting flamed life to others staked around the hill, all creating a halo of light that flickers in tandem with the beating drums.
Their rhythm swells hate in me, my fingers quivering for action rather than merely watch the waif.
She kneels beside a stone table, gleaming black, at the circle’s middle. Her flame touches the kindling to either end, lighting the flames beneath two deep cauldrons.
The witches she spoke with appear out of the wilderness. They hurry up the steps after her, all of them with more wood to feed the cauldron fires.
My anger grows as each witch takes up a post and fans the flames.
The waif rises from the table, bearing a pair of wooden spoons near the size of oars to either cauldron and gifting them over.
The witches dip the spoons deep, slowly working their handles around the cauldron, the efforts requiring two witches each to move the spooned handles.
More witches dash through the wild around me, a few drawing so near they step within my grasp. I allow all pass by unharmed, waiting as I deem Father would.
The lot of them shake and shudder for need of Devil’s powder as they run toward the fire, drawn to its power and the call of drums and flutes. I note none among them wear warm or rich garb, their bodies covered in dirt and grime.
Soon enough witches to fill a village ring the fire, dancing in tandem to the music. Native, white, black, brown—all colors of people under the heavens keep time to the rhythm.
My nose wrinkles at the inhuman scent of the teemed mass gathered round the flames, the heat sheening their unwashed skins with sweat, producing an inhuman odor liken to the rotted dead.
And throughout the dance, the waif stands atop the hill looking down on all.
I begin to think hunting the waif for naught when a deep, bellowing horn sounds, its call ringing over both drums and flutes, quieting both.
Like the whole of nature kneeling to the howl of an alpha wolf, those in the dancing circle turn silent in the horn’s echo.
I awaken.
Several hooded, scarlet-robed figures lead out of the woodland dark. They raise ram horns to their lips. Hollowed and curved, the horns blow as one in sharp, shrieking bursts.
Behind them, a pair of hooded figures lead two horses—one a red mare, the other a black stallion. Elisabeth Hubbard sits upon the mare, garbed in a violet robe, her hair unbound, spilling over her shoulders.
My pulse quickens at the sight of her partner.
His robes bear the same hue as the stallion he rides upon. A bison bull’s skull shields his face and head, its horns like the ends of spears, tipped in blood.
A horde of hooded figures encircles Elisabeth and her partner—men for him, women for her.
Several in the dancing ring rush the riders, their hands outstretched, begging.
I question whether to join them, noting how near they draw to Elisabeth and her partner. A quick kill would send them to scatter, granting me an escape also.
But I do not seek their deaths alone.
I will have Cotton see me plain before the end and know my face.
The guardians shove the beggars away, keeping all from reaching either rider, whilst their fellows lead the horses to the stone steps.
Elisabeth and her partner dismount. They clasp hands and tread up the steps.
The horns sound again, this time to whistles and shouts from those in the dancing circle.
With their attentions turned, I slink out of hiding and slip among the gathering circle. I weave through the crowd, ever drawing closer to the steps. Each step shudders me that I will be found out and not accomplish my goal.
Still, I keep on, driving deeper among them.
A new train of hooded figures emerges from the woods. They lead three captives, bound and strung together, all of them garbed in white robes, their faces shielded by cloth sacks. Two walk tall, even as the witch crowd jeers at them with shrill voices. The third
captive shrinks at every taunt, their head turning this way and that, searching out where the next blow should hail from.
My gut wrenches when the captives are led up the steps, their masters halting them at the first landing. I start forward.
Wait. A patient memory of my father whispers across my mind.
Elisabeth steps forward. “Sisters,” she shouts to the crowd. “Brothers! Family all! Tonight we heed our Father’s call.”
Cacophony surrounds me.
Elisabeth grins. “Look you now on these three treacherous souls”—she points to the captives in white—“each a grievous sinner in the eyes of our Lord. Tonight, the Devil’s Warlock reaps vengeance upon them!”
The witches clamor for more.
My fingers dance on the hilt of Father’s dagger when the bone-masked man steps forward.
Wait…
“Our Master is not without mercy,” says the Warlock, his voice booming deep. “Let the accused cry out for mercy, if they would claim such gifts as the Lord offers.”
One of captives falls to their knees, trembling.
Though I cannot rightly hear their mumbled and whimpered voice, I take the captive for a woman.
“Prepare these others,” says the Warlock. “And bring her to me.”
The crowd stirs in eager whisper at the sight of the captive fetched off her knees and dragged up the stone steps. They separate the other two, leading them to the opposing trees, binding them to blackened trunks.
The guards allow the woman captive to fall before the feet of both the Warlock and Elisabeth.
The Warlock steps forward, removing her hood with a jerk.
The mad woman Elisabeth kept imprisoned in her home cringes to the crowd’s jeers.
Relief spreads through me that the captive were not one of my companions. Then I think on the other two, tied to the trees.
My blood runs cold.
Andrew? I wonder, my sight turning from one captive to the next. Ciquenackqua?
“Confess.” The Warlock pulls my attention as he wrangles the gag from the mad woman’s mouth.
“Mercy…” she cries. “Mercy, please.”
My soul weeps that it were not I to grant her desires before I left the home. Though I do naught to halt her fate, my fingers clench in silent rebuke.
“Confess,” he commands her.
“M-Mercy…”
“Odd you should cry out for such.” The Warlock draws close to her, his voice bellowing. “Did you not abandon your mistress of the same name?”
“Mercy, aye,” says the woman.
Fury stirs in me at the name of my sister’s killer. The mad woman’s confession removing what guilt I felt for her.
“This sinner turned away from what our liege asked of her.” The Warlock plays to the crowd. “Spurned her sisters and mistress when all needed her most, leaving them to the daggers of savages to save her own life.” He points to the woman. “And she dared return to us, begging for the power to witness spirits again.”
“Mercy…”
The Warlock ignores her pleas. “Our Lord demands obedience. Abandon the commands He entrusts you at your peril.”
Near faster than my eye can follow, the Warlock unsheathes a bone-dagger and plunges it into the woman’s chest. He removes it as quick and kicks her body hurtling down the steps.
My fingers tremble with desire of my bow, that I might fly arrows into his belly and watch him tumble down the steps to me.
The crowd roars approval.
“Only servants of the Christian god beg for mercy,” Elisabeth shouts, descending the bloodied steps. “Fools that these fellows may be, they at least had sense to accept our Lord’s judgment for their sins.”
She approaches the captive on her right and removes his hood.
Despite the fervor with which he spoke to me, the other captive from her home trembles now in facing Elisabeth. His eyes searching for answer anywhere but in her face.
Did you serve Mercy Lewis too? I wonder on the captive.
“Confess,” Elisabeth says.
“I-I am a blasphemer,” he says. “My traitorous wife bid me lie on the spirits the Dark Lord has showed me. She asked me go to God and pray forgiveness.”
“And did God show you favor?”
“No,” says the man. “I f-felt naught but hunger.”
“For his love?” Elisabeth asks.
“For powd—”
“To see spirits,” she silences him.
Lies.
“You begged god’s forgiveness and received no favor,” says Elisabeth to her captive. “Ah, but spirits. Who here has not peered into the Invisible World as our Lord promised? Who among us does not wish to see them again?”
The crowd cheers.
Elisabeth grins. “Would you see spirits again?” she asks the captive. “Will you submit yourself to His judgment?”
“A-aye, mistress.”
Elisabeth gazes up at the witches stirring the cauldron.
My throat runs dry as they ladle buckets inside then draw them out again, their wooden sides coated black.
The waif takes up both buckets by their handles, steam rising from them. She bears the buckets down the steps toward her mistress.
Elisabeth faces the crowd. “Will this man accept our Lord’s judgment with a willing heart, or else cry out for mercy?”
I scarcely hear the crowd’s answer, my heart thundering over them when Elisabeth receives a steaming bucket from the waif.
“Sinner,” Elisabeth says to him. “You have blasphemed against our Lord and so we commit you to the darkness now, that your skin may match your soul.”
She upends her bucket over his head, coating him in black, oily pitch.
The crowd roars to the man’s screams, crying for more as his shoulders pull at the bonds binding him to the tree.
I bear the crowd in silent loathing as Elisabeth takes hold of the second bucket.
“Mercy,” the man cries, the crazed whites of his eyes popping amid the black that coats his face. “Mercy!”
The crowd moans their disapproval.
“Listen to his cries.” Elisabeth shouts above them. “Were he a true believer, our Lord protector should have safeguarded him against the pain.”
I touch Father’s dagger hilt, wondering if her Lord will safeguard her against the pain I will deal her.
As if reading my thoughts, Elisabeth wheels to the crowd, dipping her hand deep into the bucket.
Her display quiets the onlookers and gives me pause.
“Look you to me now!” She unveils her hand, showing it painted black and dripping. “My faith runs strong in our Lord. He frees me of pain and broke the shackles men would place on me. Only blasphemers cry out for the foreign god.” She drops the bucket and looks to the waif. “Give the whelp his mercy.”
The waif draws a bone-handled dagger, driving its tip through the man’s chest before he can beg elsewise.
My anger matches the show Elisabeth makes for the crowd. She stalks to the third prisoner and yanks off his hood.
I thank the ancestors my pained cry goes unheard among the crowd.
His body and face broken, Father glares at Elisabeth with his lone good eye.
I start forward, pushing through the crowd, no longer caring if I go unseen or no. My hand flies to his dagger hilt and pulls to unsheathe it.
“Wait.”
His voice halts me dead, the lone word spoke in the tongue of our people. His eye centers on me in silent rebuke. With a single word and glance, he bids me give up the crazed notion I might rescue him.
“A savage lover,” Elisabeth says to the crowd. “Traitor to his own kind. Tell me, do you yet speak English, dog?”
I hesitate, wanting nothing more than to push my way up the steps and slay her.
Again, Father’s stern gaze warns me against such actions.
“Confess,” says Elisabeth.
My chest shudders when Father grins.
“Come, fair lass,” he sin
gs, his voice quiet and soft in repeating the lyrics Bishop oft sang us. “Just you and me.”
Elisabeth steps back.
I grin at the sight of her so feared.
“We’re bound for them colonies far o’er the sea…”
Father’s voice sets the crowd to disquiet. A hush draws over them and not a few creep nearer to the outer fringes.
“Cease this,” says Elisabeth. “And let you confess—”
“‘Augh no,’ she said, ‘you stubborn ol’ fool—’”
“Cease this!”
Father glares at Elisabeth. “‘I’ve heard of those lands, and them savages cruel.’”
The witches look on one another and then to Elisabeth, rumored whispers stirring among them.
I stand wide-eyed, awestruck by Father’s defiant show.
“So the Lord sent me a bastard,” Father shouts, his voice carrying over Elisabeth’s commands for buckets of pitch. “I came to name Priest.”
The waif and cauldron servants bear their offerings to Elisabeth, near tripping over one another to reach their mistress.
“You have blasphemed against our Lord,” says Elisabeth. “A grievous sin indeed—”
Father’s song grows louder still, his voice gravelly and growling. “Ugly as sin, and a stubborn ol’ beast.”
Elisabeth bares her teeth. “And so we give you to the darkness now—”
“No,” I say, my voice lost in Father’s song.
“‘Come lad,’ said he. ‘We’ll hunt us some witches!’”
“That your skin may match your soul.”
I clap my hand over my mouth to keep from screaming.
Elisabeth and the others move toward him, lifting their buckets.
Father never relents. “All o’er we went and by God, killed us them bitches!”
The buckets empty, their contents covering the whole of Father’s face and body in steaming, black pitch.
Blood pools in my mouth as Father’s body stiffens at the onslaught, pulling against his bonds. His head lolls back against the tree trunk, gasping for breath, snorting pitch clean of his nostrils.
“Do it.” Elisabeth coos to him. “Beg me end your—”
Father raises his head and spits in her face. Then he chuckles.
Several in the crowd flee the circle. More follow still when Father opens his good eye, the lone bit of white among the dark. He turns his gaze on them, his chuckle turning to mad laughter.
