Dangerous Magic

by Sullivan Clarke

  “You want me to inform against her?” Millicent looked stricken. “Why? To what end?”

  Gertrude reached out and took the younger hands gently in her own.

  “To save her soul, of course,” she said, her high reedy voice shaking with false emotion. “Tis likely that poor Lark doesn’t recognize the devil’s hand in her work, or how his assistance stands to taint those who come to her for aid. We - the church ladies, I mean - merely intend to help her understand this. But we can’t help her without the word of someone who can remember - in detail - something to prove our suspicions.”

  “And you promise not to hurt her?” Millicent’s lip was trembling and a tear slipped down her cheek as she asked the question.

  “I promise I won’t hurt her,” said Gertrude, thinking that the girl before her was incredibly stupid. No, she’d never lay a hand on the high-minded little forest waif. That would be a task for someone else.

  Millicent took a deep breath. “Well, she can talk to birds.”

  “Really? What kind of birds?”

  “Owls. There was one outside her cottage the last time I went there. It screeched at her and she threw it a bit of meat. It seemed unnaturally tame. And she has a cat that follows her everywhere. A black one.”

  Gertrude nodded. “Go on,” she said hastily.

  “And the day I scalded my hand she gave me ointment but also asked if she could do a bit more to help me. Of course I said yes and she said she would need a lock of hair. I gave it to her and the next day.” She looked at her hand. “I never expected it would heal so fast.”

  Gertrude raised her eyebrows. “Anything else?”

  “Yes,” said Millicent reluctantly. “Her cottage is full of strange things. There are carvings in the beams that I don’t recognize and herbs I’ve never seen before. There are deer antlers on the shelves and the clay from of a —well —an unclothed female tucked away in the corner cabinet. I saw it when she got the bottle for the salve.”

  “Hmmm. Thank you, Millicent.” The older woman smiled. “You did very well.” Then her face grew serious. “In a few days time I will need you to repeat what you have told me to Reverend Pratt. That is the only way we will be able to help poor Lark. After you speak to him, and only afterwards, will we consider this matter resolved. Do you understand?”

  The girl swallowed hard and nodded.

  “Very well, then,” she said. “You may go.”

  “Not so fast.” Lester stepped forward, rubbing his meaty hands together. “I think she needs a bit of a reminder of what will happen if she tells a soul about our deal.”

  Gertrude looked up at her son, but she knew by his expression that whatever he had in mind would not be denied.

  “I’ll speak to her alone, Mother,” he said.

  “As you wish, son,” said Gertrude and turned to exit out the back.

  As she did, Millicent turned to Lester, her eyes filled with fear. “I don’t understand,” she said as he took her by the arm and pulled her to the back, where a wooden chair stood by the wall. Sitting down her pulled her across his lap.

  “Just in case you think of telling anyone,” he said by way of explanation, pulling up her skirts. Realizing his intent, Millicent began to kick and squeal.

  “No!” she cried. “Please don’t beat me. I’ll not tell a soul.”

  But Lester wasn’t listening. The bare bottom before him was a sight to behold, round, plump with charming little dimples where they began to swell at the lower back. He laid a heavy hand on one buttock and squeezed, feeling his cock harden under his apron as he did so. Oh, yes, this was going to be a message they’d both remember. Raising his hand, he brought it down hard across the white globes of flesh, relishing the ‘splat’ sound the impact made and the way his handprint bloomed across the milky skin.

  Millicent bucked and whimpered so charmingly that the only thing he could do was hit her again. And again. And again. Soon she was squirming under his rapidly spanking hand, unaware that as her bottom reddened her tormentor was being worked into an increased state of excitement. He only stopped when he feared her wails would turn to screams that would be overheard by anyone passing the shop, but did so reluctantly and only after casually dipping his fingers between her legs to slide through the lips of her cunny. Millicent groaned in shame, for she was as wet as he was hard. With a grunt, he yanked her skirts down and raised the girl to her feet. Their eyes locked as they did so and at once they knew they were made for each other. But Lester knew the delectably spankable washerwoman would not be in his future, especially if his mother had anything to say about it. On the other hand, if the gold really did exist perhaps once he and Lark were married, he could hire Millicent to work in their house. He could spank both of them, even have both of them at the same time if he so wished, and there would be nothing they could do. He would be the head of the family and they would have to obey. For a man sick of heeding every beck and call of a domineering mother, the idea of having two women at his cruel mercies delighted him.

  “Don’t forget what my mother said,” he barked and directed her, with one parting slap on the bum, towards the door. “Now off with ye.”

  Chapter Four

  As the carriage hit a rut in the road, its occupant lifted his cane and banged hard on the roof of the vehicle, a wordless warning to his driver to be more careful. Above him the driver winced at the sound, and reined in the pair of coal-black horses, his eyes scanning the road for any more dips or bumps that would disturb his passenger.

  It wasn’t that the man in the carriage was particularly important. In truth, his name was just starting to get attention. But there was something in just a single glance from Reverend Maximilian Fordham that made anyone in his presence feel instantly vulnerable and diminished. Perhaps it was his dark, penetrating eyes or his seeming inability to smile. But whatever it was, his knack for harsh, calculating assessment was transforming him into a rising star in a church that had become eager to purge what it saw as a growing threat to its flock..

  From the window, Rev. Fordham surveyed the passing landscape. The light had grown dimmer as the day grew long, and the slanting rays of late afternoon were just enough to emit a golden glow along the road that ran through the forest. The village, he knew, was remote. Just the place where so called wise-women - a misleading euphanism for hedge witches - could still practice. When the bishop had received the urgent letter from the village preacher, one Reverend Pratt, its tone and content had made it stand out from all the other requests for investigations. A woman in his village, it said, had begun to raise suspicions among the Faithful. She cured with unnatural ease, had an allegiance with all manner of creatures. There were hints that she was in possession of strange artifacts and likely demonically possessed objects. Cats and owls were sometimes seen in her presence, even by day - an indication that she worked closely with demon assistants, or familiars.

  Of course, the letter hadn’t been worded in exactly that manner; those were his impressions. And he’d interrogated enough witches by that point to know that what appeared innocent to the average person - an unusually loyal pet, an uncomplicated, easy connection with the natural world, even a broom displayed in a place of prominence within the cottage-could be signs of Satan’s influence. This woman also, he’d been told, possessed a great and alluring beauty, with flaming red hair and perfect skin. Another trick, he was sure. Witches were vain creature, and the adept ones were skilled at effecting a glamour - a spell that made them appear especially comely to the weak. He doubted that she was the beauty she was renowned to be. A man of his godliness would take one look and see her for the hag she really was.

  But just to be on the safe side, Rev. Fordham had prayed for strength so that when it came time to question Lark Willoughby, the beauty -should it actually exist - would not raise his compassion.

  It was always easier to extract the truth from the ugly ones, the ones whose enchantments had not been strong enough to change their appearance from ordinary or wi
zened village women into supernatural beauties. Once the bodices were ripped away from their sagging breasts, it was all too easy to find the devil’s mark - the telltale third nipple used to suckle their Satanic consort. He wondered if - underneath this Lark Willoughby’s clothes - such a mark would exist, and his eyes narrowed as he told himself that if she was as beautiful as Rev. Pratt has claimed, he’d be sure to search every inch of her personally, just to be on the safe side.

  The carriage dipped again and this time the driver did not wait for the rap of the cane before yelling his apologies from above. Rev. Fordham leaned back in his seat, clutching the cane, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. As he brushed a strand of lank black hair away from his pale face, he resumed his thoughts. If the mark did not exist, then that would be the indication of a truly powerful witch. He’d only encountered two before, but both regrettably died before he could get them to admit that their arts and beauty were gifts in return for their allegiance to the devil. The last one, the midwife Mary Winfield, had screamed in such exquisite agony on the rack. Even now, when he closed his eyes, he could hear the sound of that scream, along with his voice calmly offering her relief if she would only confess., as had her sister the day before. But Mary had defied him, thrashing her head and whipping her thick mane of chestnut hair back and forth over her beautiful face. When she’d begun to wheeze, Rev. Fordham had moved closer to her, sure that she was about to break. But when he commanded her to speak he saw that she could not. Her eyes were fixed in a stare and her lips were turning blue. Moments later, the shallow breaths had stopped and she was dead. Her family, already devastated over her sister’s confession - for who want a witch in the family? - was distraught over Mary’s death, and tearfully claimed that she had suffered breathing problems from the time she was a small child. But Rev. Fordham knew better. He knew that the devil had come and taken her soul just to deny him the joy of a double confession. He’d been disappointed, for he’d planned to beat the girl personally if the rack did not work. But disappointments were part of the territory, and part of the sacrifice he was willing to make for his job, which was in a constant state of refinement. No, the best thing to do when dealing with suspected witches, especially beautiful, young suspected witches was to start with the beatings first and then employ the rack.

  He looked out again at the blazing autumn foliage and wished the ride would be over soon. And then, as if God himself had heard his heart’s desire buildings came into view - small cottages at first, sparse and Spartan no doubt. Pig pens stood beside the poorer folks’ abodes. The wealthier ones had a milk cow tethered nearby. The wealther still a horse or two. Soon the cottages became closer together and then just over the hill appeared more buildings lining the tree-lined path. At he center of the village stood the church, the cross casting an upside-down distorted “T” across the steep, shingled roof.

  The carriage stopped in front of the church, next door to which stood a simple but comfortable looking parsonage. Rev. Fordham heard the driver scramble down to open his door just as Reverend Pratt and his wife emerged from the cottage to hasten in his direction. He stepped out of the carriage as they approached and drew himself up to his full 6′2″ height. The couple stopped in their tracks for a moment, gawking. He was used to that. An imposing man, Rev. Fordham towered over most everyone in the villages he was called to. His severe black suit and long black traveling cloak only served to make him seem more intimidating. . He knew he looked frightening to some people, but also knew they’d be more comfortable once he reminded them that only the guilty had anything to fear.

  “Reverend Fordham?” The short, squat Rev. Pratt stepped forward and extended his hand. “Well, of course you’re Rev. Fordham. Welcome! Welcome! We’re so glad to have you here.”

  He stepped aside. “This is my wife, Greta.”

  Greta Pratt dropped into a sharp curtsy that set both of her chins to wiggling. “So pleased to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” came the deep-voiced reply. “I only wish I were here on better circumstances. The shepherd’s flock is under increasing attack from the dark forces, more often those cloaked in kindness and beauty. I have received your letter of a fortnight ago and as you know believe an investigation into this matter is warranted.” He stopped and looked both at the couple, his eyes lingering on Reverend Pratt’s wife. “I trust you honored my request and spoke of this to no one. I know how tempting it is to gossip.”

  “No, I’ve said nothing to my parishioners,” Reverend Pratt said.

  “Nor have I,” said Mrs. Pratt. It was an honest statement, and she did not elaborate on how difficult it had been to keep the news of the investigation to herself. The Reverend Maximilain Fordham coming here - to her village - to investigate witchcraft! It would have been the juiciest gossip of the day. But now, looking at this stern, black-robed man she was glad she had resisted.

  “Good,” he said quietly. “Very good. We do not want the young woman to be forewarned, for if she is indeed a witch she would use the knowledge to create enchantments to bolster her resolve and resist the questioner. It is always best to get to witches before they can call upon Old Nick to help them.”

  “Indeed,” said Rev. Pratt. “But, of course, we don’t yet know if she is a witch. These are just suspicions, and Lark Willoughby is well-liked in the village.”

  “Tell me, Rev. Pratt.” Rev. Fordham’s dark eyes bored into the smaller man’s watery blue ones. “Is this young healer among your flock? Does she attend services?”

  Rev. Pratt shook his head with a sigh of regret. “No. She does not.”

  “Then might I suggest you ruminate on your shortcomings as a preacher of the gospel?”

  Beside her husband, Greta Pratt gasped in outrage, but both kept silent as the visitor continued.

  “This young woman should have already been made to account for her avoidance of the house of God. Those not firmly brought into the flock and held there - especially women - are easy prey for the devil when left to their own devices. Does she have a husband?”

  The couple shook their heads..

  “Another problem,” Rev. Fordham continued. “Women are, by nature, full of mischief, wanton and deceit. They need male leadership and a firm hand to mold them into their proper place as obedient helpmeets. Why have neither you nor any of the elders of your church not arranged for a marriage for this young woman? From your letter I understand she is quite alone, and has been so from a rather young age. Do you not see how your neglect may have created an open door for Satan himself to enter your community?”

  Reverend Pratt stammered while beside him, his wife was now covering her mouth with her hand, looking a bit sick as she frantically searched the streets in front of her house for signs that anyone walking by heard the comments.

  “We—we didn’t know,” stammered Rev. Pratt. “She’s a healer in the community and, as I said, well liked…”

  “So for the sake of a few tincture and salves for your flock you may have compromised their very souls.” Reverend Fordham shook his head, a look of grave disappointment crossing his pale face. Then, turning his dark eyes towards the house, he began to walk towards it while announcing that he expected an early supper after such a long trip.

  Behind him, the couple exchanged stricken and embarrassed glances before hastily rushing to show their guest inside, eager to being redeeming themselves in his eyes.

  *

  “You’re in danger!”

  Lark, who had been stirring the coals of her fire jumped from the stool she’d been sitting on. But if the sound of a voice in her house had startled her, it wasn’t nearly as surprising as it’s source. Standing before her was her grandmother.

  “Gran?” Lark closed her eyes and shook her head. But when she looked up again there was her grandmother, standing there with a frightened expression on her face.

  “You can’t be here, Gran,” Lark whispered in disbelief. “You’re dead.”

  “I know,” said the old woman. �
��And I don’t want you to be alarmed. I’m in a better place, just as I promised I would be. Both your grandpa and ai are here with your parents. But I don’t have time to explain. I’ve come to warn you. You are in danger! Grave danger!”

  The old woman rushed to the window and pointed out. “Look!”

  Lark rushed to her side and looked through the glass. Outside, yards from her door sat the biggest wolf she’d ever seen. She’d spotted wolves in the forest before, and they’d never harmed her, for she and they had an understanding that if they did not bother her she would not tell the villagers where they were. But she did not recognize this wolf, which was solid black and stared directly at her without the usual wolf-like shyness.

  “See, about it neck? It carries the mark of the oppressor!” Lark’s grandmother pointed her bony finger at the wolf and Lark narrowed her eyes, trying to get a glimpse of what the old woman was talking about. And then she saw it. The wolf was wearing a large cross hanging from a chain. And just as she figured it out, the animal stood, baring its teeth. It began to advance on the house and Lark’s first thought was to protect her grandmother, but when she turned the old lady was gone. The wolf was moving closer, running now. Instinctively, Lark backed away from the window and watched, helpless, as the animal launched itself at the cottage, shattering the window with it massive body as it plunged through the glass.

  Lark screamed and the sound of her own voice pulled her back from the dream and into her own bed, where she was now sitting bolt upright and shaking from head to toe. Rays of light were slanting bright through the Irish lace curtains. The curtains had been made by her grandmother, a grandmother who’d just appeared in a dream so vivid that she didn’t doubt for an instant that she’d received a very real warning.

  Standing, she rushed to the window and looked out, her eyes scanning the outside of her cottage for the huge wolf. She was just about to breathe a sight of relief when she detected movement in the forest - subtle movement but still movement. It was human movement, and - heart pounding - Lark picked up the fire poker and moved towards the door, just in case the warning in her dream was connected to the person lurking in her forest. A rap on the door caused her to jump and when she didn’t open it right away, a familiar voice called her name impatiently. With a sigh that mixed both relief and frustration, she opened the door.