by Dana Donovan
I took it with a smile. Tony gave another look around and said, “We’ll have to get away from here. There’s too much dolomite around to do any real scrying. What do you say we head back to the parking lot by the old marker?”
“Let’s do it,” I said. And so we rolled.
Dominic Spinelli:
We arrived back at the parking lot of what we first thought was Gallows Hill. There we felt reasonably sure Tony would not feel the effects of all the dolomite around town. A lone streetlamp glowed atop a pole at the foot of a dirt path leading to the bench and granite marker erroneously declaring our presence at Salem’s historic hill. Tony cleared a patch of dirt below the light, using his foot to form a near-perfect circle about the size of a manhole cover. He got down on one knee, keeping just outside the circle, but crowding it enough that his body partially blocked the light from the lamp above. Carlos and I assumed a similar position, only not quite as close to the rim.
“I’ve never done this without Lilith,” he said. “I’ll have no way knowing if I’m right until we get where we’re going.”
“You’ll be right,” I said. “I just know it.”
He looked at me with a hooked brow, as if to say, we’ll see. Then he tore open the first package of peanuts and spilled them into a neat pile in the center of the circle. After tearing open the second bag of peanuts and adding them to the first, he paused to study the collection, appearing to give the sum careful consideration. I was just about to ask him if he thought there was a problem, when he reached into the pile and removed a single peanut. Carlos and I both thought it queer, but we held our tongues. Finally, Tony tore open the third package and spilled a single peanut from the bag, replacing the rogue peanut he had discarded. When it appeared he was satisfied with the final collection, he set the open bag aside.
Carlos (as if I didn’t see it coming) pointed to it and asked, “You gonna need those?”
Tony gave him a look of disbelief before handing him the bag. To see Carlos’ smile you’d have thought he had just discovered the prize at the bottom of a Crack-A-Jack box. I smiled as well, but only because I saw it coming.
As Tony prepared himself mentally for the scrying, I readied myself too, settling in on both knees and rocking back onto my heels with hands folded neatly on my lap. Somewhere out beyond the reach of the streetlamp, the wind flirted with the trees, their autumn leaves rustling softly like rippling water. In their whispers, I heard echoes of distance voices, and imagined the spirits of ancient witches gathering around us to help Tony in his charmed endeavor.
A sense of otherness filled me. I looked to Tony and saw that it had consumed him. He seemed at peace, his eyes closed in meditation; his breathing synchronized with the pulse of the wind. I knew then that the scrying would work. I only hoped we would not be too late when our questions were finally answered.
After what seemed like exaggerated minutes, Tony opened his eyes and gazed down on the peanuts with resolute faith in their utility. I held my breath and swallowed, watching as he bent over and scooped them up in cupped hands. He then raised his hands high above the circle’s center and in one quick motion allowed his hands to drop away.
The peanuts fell to the ground in a cluster, scattering upon impact in an asymmetrical pattern like random hail. I saw Carlos looking at Tony, his eyes wide with expectation. I know he wanted to say something, but his better judgment kept the words from parting his lips.
I, too, bated my enthusiasm, realizing that Tony first needed to study the results of the drop before reaching any firm conclusions. His verdict came after much agony, considering a wrong interpretation would likely cost Lilith her life. After wiping the dirt from his hands onto his pant leg, he looked up at us and declared, “We need to go now.”
Lilith Adams:
You know I would have thought the courthouse might empty out like an Argentine soccer stadium: mayhem controlled by devised disorder and restrained havoc. I truly expected a mob scene complete with burning torches and thrusting pitchforks stampeding through the streets on their way to Gallows Hill with me riding the rail at the head of the heard.
Instead, the place emptied out like a Sunday congregation on a summer’s eve; men and women exiting arm-in-arm in a sauntering stroll, peeling off left and right alternately and disappearing into the breezy night. Only Putnam and Hilton stayed with me, each flanking one side and pinching the back of my arms above the elbows to keep me from running.
My hands were still tied behind my back, but I had managed to loosen them some by stretching the ropes while seated on the witness stand. Still, with the witch’s stone around my neck, it left me in no position to escape.
“In you go,” said Hilton, pointing to the limo door that Putnam had just opened.
“To the gallows in style,” I said. “You do know how to make a witch feel special.”
He smiled. “We try,” and he shut the door upon entering behind me. As the limo pulled away from the barn, he said, “You know, Miss Adams, I hope you don’t take any of this personally. It’s just that we have a delicate balance to protect here.”
“We? You speak for the entire town?”
“Better; I speak for the Almighty.”
I shook my head. “I don’t believe in God the way you do, but if I did I should think you have a twisted understanding of how He works.”
He laughed faintly. “No, you don’t understand. I don’t work for Him. I minister for Lucifer. I provide the balance that the church seeks to disrupt. You see, in the old days we had everyone convinced that witches like you were evil, but the reality, as you know, is that they are the enemies of Satan because they do not worship God, and only followers of God wage war. That has always been the compromise between God and Satan. In death, God gets the souls of innocent soldiers and conscientious objectors, while Satan gets the war mongers, dictators and murderers.”
“Sounds like a tidy arrangement,” I said. “So why kill witches?”
“Why?” His brows rose, crowding the lines on his forehead and making him look older by several decades. “Because witches threaten to change the face of world religion back to total pagan dominance.”
“No we don’t. We’re not out to change the world. And we certainly don’t go around trying to convert anyone. The witch’s creed states, if thee harm none, then do as thou wilt.”
“Yes, but it just takes one or two individuals to change that. Christianity began with Jesus; Islam has Muhammad and Judaism has Abraham and Moses. Just one or two Individuals, you see, that’s all it takes. The pagan religion of Wicca, and by extension witchcraft, is among the fastest growing religions in the world. What do you suppose would happen if they found a martyr? If paganism realizes the worldwide success of Christianity, Judaism and Islam then soon we will have no more souls in which to fight over. Wars will cease to exist. Hatred for others will yield to tolerance and understanding.”
“You have got to be kidding me. First of all, you’re putting a lot of stock into something that most people find ridiculous, and secondly—that’s…that’s ridiculous in itself.”
“Is it? Tell that to Christ, Muhammad and Moses.”
“So what are you saying: that Satan’s survival depends upon others believing in him? If they stop believing he will cease to exist?”
“Exactly.”
“Then by your definition, he and Santa Clause share the same misfortune: in that they never really existed at all.”
“Silence,” he barked, and I watched his face flush red with fury. “You’re twisting my words. The Devil is real and so is the God that shall forsake your soul for the blasphemy you spew here tonight.”
“And what about you? Do you believe that your pact with the devil will save your soul from his eternal fires?”
Hilton leaned forward in his seat and the dome light above cast a shadow on his face that only Lucifer himself could find pleasing. “The Devil needs His mercenaries like God needs His angels. We are agents in a surrogate war and our places in
the afterworld have been secured.”
“Then I hope you’re right, Pastor Hilton, because the devil you know is the devil within. And you know in your heart where that devil belongs.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you make your own bed; be it stone or straw, you shall lie in it one day and forever.”
Hilton eased back in his seat, glaring at me as if I had just predicted his eminent demise. I smiled at him as though I had. We maintained that posture for the duration of the short ride to Gallows Hill. When the limo stopped, he hopped out and waited for Putnam to come around before instructing me to exit.
“End of the road,” said Putnam, his demeanor more jovial than that of Hilton’s. But I figured I still had enough time to work on that one too.
The place they took me looked nothing like I imagined it would; barely a slope on the horizon with a lone tree standing in the middle of nowhere. I saw no buildings nearby, save for an old brick church off in the distance, its steeple silhouetted against a low one-quarter moon—maybe the same church Ursula Bishop saw as they lowered the noose around her neck.
Just then, a breeze kicked up, dryer and more brisk in the open than back at the barn, and the chill that ran through my bones from it ushered in a sense of urgency that I had neglected to realize before. It made me wonder where Tony was; why Spinelli hadn’t pulled some sort of GPS locater out of his ass and trained it on mine yet, and if Carlos hadn’t made them stop for Twinkies and cupcakes a half dozen times on their way out to Salem.
After shutting the car door, Hilton spun me around and pointed me in the direction of the slope. “Move,” he said, and gave me a nudge. I stood my ground like a mule, but when Putnam shoved me even harder, I gave in and started that way.
We marched up the slope toward the tree: me, Putnam and Hilton; beside us, three dim moon shadows stretched grotesquely long and barely visible. Still I could see from the shapes of them that Putnam had his pistol pointed at the small of my back.
I kept thinking if I could somehow get my hands around front and pull the witch’s stone from my neck, then I could make something happen, maybe pull some jujitsu on Putnam and wrestle the gun from his hand. But no such opportunity presented itself, and soon we were at the tree, which incidentally, seemed much bigger up close than it did down by the limo. And coincidentally or not, the lowest, thickest branch came with a heavy rope, complete with hangman’s noose. On the ground sat a wooden pail, upside-down and situated directly below the noose: a perfect jumping off point to be sure.
“Niiice,” I said of the set-up. “And convenient, too.”
Hilton seemed none too amused. He pointed to the bucket. “Come on then. Let’s get this over with. Get up on the bucket.”
“What, don’t I get a last smoke?”
“You smoke?”
“No, but I’m thinking of starting.”
“Get up there.”
He motioned for Putnam to help me up, which he did, and then he lowered the noose around my neck and pulled the slack from the line.
“Easy,” I said. “Don’t mess the hair.”
That done, the two men stepped back some four to five feet, adopting a rigid posture as if about to salute me. But then Hilton broke out what I thought was a bible, only the words he read from it were like none I had ever heard from any church-goer before. At first I thought he was reading Latin or reciting Macaronic verses from a long-forgotten text. But soon the words found translation in modern vernacular and I knew then that these two were as loopy as they come.
“Whence ye cometh matters not,” he began, “thy blood doeth feed this sacred tree. Darkness born of shallow hearts split but thrice yet not for thee. Curse this body as thy will; devour all and save the least; let evil lie in patient wait within the belly of the beast.”
He concluded by kissing the opened page and offering the book up to the sky. I cleared my throat to get his attention, and when he looked at me I said, “I think the fellow you’re praying to is down there.” I nodded towards the ground. He snapped the book closed and ordered Putnam to kick the bucket out from under me.
What happened next happened so fast that I’m still not sure of the exact sequence of events. Putnam started towards me, so I shifted my weight onto one foot, and just as he came within striking distance I reached out and kicked him in the balls.
Now, I have to tell you that I have kicked men in the balls before. It’s something I don’t necessarily like to do, as I understand it hurts like hell, but in the past I have used that maneuver to fend off a number of unwanted advances from men who thought they had something I needed and which they intended to give me, like it or not.
In those cases, such a well-placed kick usually produced a groan or a yelp like a dog whose tail had just been mashed under the rails of a rocking chair. Then, inevitably, the man would drop to his knees holding his package, keel over onto his side and then roll up tightly in a fetal position crying the usual obscenities: Fuck, Motherfucker, Goddamn, and my favorite, Goddamn Motherfucker. It’s such a mechanical response; poetry in motion, really.
The only problem was that that’s not what happened to J.T. Putnam. I don’t know; maybe the old bird hasn’t any balls, or they’re just too small to hit. Either way it required additional fast thinking.
After getting kicked in the groin, J.T. did stagger back a bit, but did not follow through with the other poetic sequential steps as expected. He regained footing immediately and came at me, this time with his hands protecting his inguinal region. I don’t know, maybe he thought that was as high as I could kick. No one said the man was a genius.
I waited until he was nearly on top of me and then high-kicked him square in the jaw. He staggered back considerably further this time before tripping over a root stump and falling flat on his ass. Hilton, perhaps sensing Putnam incapable of carrying out the task, started towards me to finish the job himself. Instinctively, I buckled my knees and brought them to my chest, effectively dropping my weight onto the rope and temporarily hanging myself; I know, ironic, isn’t it?
With my body suspended, I was able to swing my hands under my feet and bring them around to my front. At the moment, my boots came down on the bucket again, Hilton stepped into my circle of reach. I turned my hands outward and drove the heel of my palm home with an uppercut to the base of his nose.
His head recoiled upon impact. His arms began flailing in windmill fashion and like Putnam; an involuntary retreat sent him staggering backwards, but not before I snatched the golden crucifix from his chain.
But I was still not out of the woods. As Hilton was going down, Putnam was getting up. He rebounded on his feet, and like a charging bull came straight at me.
Now then, I’m not saying that I am completely innocent in matters where death and my name have shared bylines in the same sentence, but this was different. I had no alternative but to do what I did next, so don’t judge me. Besides, I think you’d approve.
Putnam’s charge was fierce enough to knock me off the bucket, and in fact did. He tackled me around the waist and, whether intended or not, managed to kick the bucket out from under me while doing so, sending it wandering down the grassy slope in a clumsy tumble.
To make matters worse, the perverted slob kept a wrestler’s hold around my waist so that at times, depending on his footing, both his weight and mine were suspended from the rope around my neck.
This is the part I’m not at all proud of, but as I mentioned; it was necessary. I still had Hilton’s crucifix clutched within in my bound hands. Putnam’s arms were around my waist, his head tucked neatly under my left arm. We spun freely, swaying under the tree branch and kicking up enough dust to choke a horse.
In the sporadic glimpses whirling by me, I saw Hilton working to get back on his feet, his bloodied nose spotting his gray beard a crimson red. I knew then I was dead if I didn’t react quickly. The noose would not let me see Putnam, but that didn’t matter. I knew where to strike. I tightened m
y grip around the golden crucifix, and as hard as I could, I stabbed Putnam in the back side of the neck. He let out the scream I had expected earlier when I kicked him in the balls, but for me it was still not loud enough. So I pulled the pointed cross out of his neck and stabbed him again. Then I repeated the measure, thrusting with greater might each time while moving from his neck, down his back until finally his arms went slack and he fell to the ground at my feet.
I stood on his body, taking my weight off the rope, but feeling as though the noose still owned me. So I dropped the crucifix and freed myself from its insufferable grip.
By then, Hilton had found his footing. Shaky though it was, the old man showed remarkable persistence. He started toward me, but then suddenly stopped. At first I thought he had reconsidered his assault after seeing me reach for the crucifix again, but I was wrong. Something had stolen his attention. I followed his gaze to a bare patch of ground where Putnam had been standing. There in the dirt lay his revolver, which Hilton had already begun making a move for.
I picked up the cross and darted in to intercept him. Hilton, closer to the gun than I was, retrieved it, turned and fired, grazing my arm just below the shoulder. I lunged low with a diving thrust, jabbing him in the meat of his thigh. He dropped the gun, squealing in pain. I reeled off to one side, my hands still bound and stretched out over my head.
In that position I rolled, taking advantage of the gradual downhill slope until I felt I had put enough distance between him and me. When I thought it prudent, I scrambled to my feet and ran like hell.
Ahead, the church whose steeple I remembered seeing silhouetted by the crescent moon, lay before my eyes like a desert oasis.
I recall how difficult it was running there with my hands married at the wrists, and how my legs compensated by taking shorter but quicker strides. All the while that infernal witch’s stone kept bouncing off my chest, ping-ponging back and forth from one breast to the other. I grabbed it as I reached the door of the church and yanked it from its chain, dropping it at the threshold before entering.
