by R N Merle
‘Come on then, lass.’ Mr Cox said not unkindly, as he opened the cell door.
Insensible, Darklin did not hear him, and did not move. The jailor and the hangman each took one of her arms, and lifted her to her feet.
Mr Hawkes, the hangman, whistled cheerily to himself through gaps in his yellow teeth, as they dragged her down past the other prisoners, some of whom started jeering again. Their voices faded as Darklin was carried up the twisting stairs, and was replaced by the clamour of a crowd gathered in the courtyard.
‘There are many who have been waiting for this day to come.’ said Mr Hawkes.
‘Not all of them are so keen after last time.’ replied the jailor, not missing the eager look in Hawkes’ eyes. It made him shiver.
‘She was just as guilty as this one, otherwise she would never have been suspected.’ Mr Hawkes snapped back.
‘I’m just saying, there are those who weren’t happy about it.’
‘Well there ain’t much any of us can do about it now, is there?’ said Mr Hawkes. A cruel smile slid over his face.
When they reached the top of the stairs, they stopped in a small stone hallway, with a high, thin slot of a window, and a wooden bench.
‘Would you like to speak with an holy man?’ Mr Cox asked Darklin.
Darklin did not respond.
‘I suppose we better get on with it then.’ said the jailor reluctantly, as he tied her hands behind her back, and led her through the castle.
At the door leading to the courtyard, seven of the Squire’s largest men stood waiting.
‘There about ready to tear her limb from limb,’ one of them said gruffly.
The shouts from the crowd intensified as they pounded loudly against the door, the irregular rhythm of their fists boomed and echoed around the room.
Mr Hawkes took Darklin by the arm, and the men formed a circle around them, linking their trunk-like arms together tightly. They seemed to take a collective deep breath, as the jailor bellowed, ‘Make way!’ and slowly opened the door.
The dawn was misty, sunless and still. A roar went up as the crowd caught sight of Darklin, and the irate mob surged toward her. Some tried to grab at her clothes and hair. One women lunged forward and scratched a red line down Darklin’s face. The seven men barged them away roughly, slowly gaining momentum. Darklin was pushed and half carried by Mr Hawkes, as the party stumbled down the hill toward the crossroads.
The blazing red leaves of the gallows tree looked like fire against the smoke grey sky. A platform had been prepared under its boughs, and the noose swung ready from the sturdy branch, that was always assigned the same grim purpose. Nearby, the Squire, his steward, the Parson, and the witch hunter, waited on horseback. Another group from the village had collected under the tree, and stood by sombrely, some of them dressed in black for the occasion.
While the crowd started jostling for the best view, Darklin was carried onto the platform. The jeers quietened to whispers, then silence, as the hangman placed the thick rope around her neck, and lifted out her hair, arranging it around her face with peculiar care. A narrow line of drool edged out of the corner of Mr Hawkes’ mouth, and his hands twitched as he stood back, and waited for the Squire to speak.
‘My good fellows. I am sure you are all well aware of why we are gathered here. We people of Fallenoak, have suffered long and hard at the hand of an invisible foe. No longer. You see before you, the witch who has made your lives a misery. The witch who has stolen from you, tormented you, and filled your hearts with fear. The witch who has served, and been branded by the devil himself. The witch who we will banish to hell this very morning!’
The crowd erupted with a bloodthirsty roar. All eyes turned to Mr Hawkes, who watched the Squire with unblinking eyes, waiting for him to give the nod. The noise of the crowd diminished. The Squire inclined his head a fraction, then a harrowed scream broke through the quiet. The crowd stilled in shock, and fell silent.
‘Stop! Stop! This is not right!’ Mary Sparrow clambered onto the platform, and stood in front of the crowd, shaking with fervour. ‘She is not the witch, I have seen her, and it is not this girl. They’re doing it again, they’re going to hang another innocent child!’
‘Get that woman down, get on with the hanging!’ cried the Squire, but before anyone could touch her, the sound of hoof beats at a gallop thundered toward the crossroads. The crowd gaped and parted, as a golden horse strode between them, tossing its long silky mane and snorting with exertion. Ben Westwill rode upon the back of the horse, his face unable to contain his outrage, as his blue eyes swept across the crowd in ill-disguised disgust. He dismounted before the horse had stopped, and pushed his way to the front of the crowd.
‘Stop this at once. People, hear me! This is not justice. We don’t know who this girl is, for all we know they could have dragged some poor waif off the road and made up a story about her. She should be tried. Innocent ‘til proven guilty. We don’t even know what her name is.’
A cacophony of shouts came from the crowd in reply.
‘Hang the witch!’
‘Get on with it!’
‘Let the poor lass go.’
‘Let her go! You have no right to touch her!’
‘Hang her!’
‘Send her to the devil!’
A pistol shot flew into the sky. Everyone turned to look at the Squire. ‘Quite, please.’ he said. ‘This man, you know is an expert. He will explain why he knows she is guilty.’
The witch hunter cleared his throat, and spoke his words slowly and clearly. ‘I found her in Fallen Woods, in a God forsaken place. She had burned down her dwelling, to hide the evidence of her evil deeds. She has a mark on her wrist, it is a devil’s mark. The Squire, as well as his men, will vouch that it does not bleed. And if you will have a little patience, I will soon be able to show you her black heart. She is the witch. There is no doubt in the matter.’
‘There was no doubt in the matter when they hung my poor Annie!’ called back Mary.
Yells of support came loudly from the crowd.
Ben spoke out again. ‘I am not saying whether she is innocent or not. I am saying she needs to be taken to the assizes and tried. We are fair minded folk in Fallenoak, and the girl should have a fair trial! We all know what happened with Annie, let us not make the same mistake again. We don’t want the blood of another innocent girl upon our hands!’
Cries for and against the hanging, warred in the air above the crowd. The vehemence of opinions was equal on both sides, and soon no one voice could be heard over the masses. The crowd was split equally in half, those that wanted to see her hang there and then, and those that thought she should be tried.
The Squire looked significantly at the witch hunter.
‘Well, Colonel, they don’t believe you. What do you suggest we do now?’ he sneered.
The witch hunter stood up in his stirrups.
‘Folk hear me!’ he bellowed over the throng, cupping his hands around his lips. The Squire drew another pistol and fired, and the crowd quietened enough for the Colonel to speak. ‘If I can prove she is a witch, would there be no objection to seeing her hang?’
‘No objection, Colonel!’
‘No objection!’
There was a rumbling of discussion amongst others in the crowd.
‘How will you prove it?’ asked Ben, crossing his arms over his chest, his voice steeped in mistrust.
‘We will try her in the water. If she is a true Christian, she will sink and be baptised by the water. If she is unholy, she will float on the surface, for all to see the pure element of water has rejected her. Is that not right, Parson?’
The Parson nodded solemnly. The crowd quietened again.
‘It’s not been done in a hundred years.’
‘That’s little better than hanging her, for if she’s innocent she’ll most probably drown anyway.’
‘She will drown as a Christian, and be rewarded in heaven.’ the Squire countered smoothly.
&nb
sp; ‘You’ll have her dead any which way, just like my Annie.’ cried Mary.
‘Throw her in!’
‘Take her to the river!’
‘The river!’
‘This is not justice!’ shouted Ben, his voice straining as loud as it could. But the majority was against him; too interested in seeing a spectacle now, than to wait for what was right later.
The noose was abruptly loosened from Darklin’s neck, and she was dragged down to the riverbank, followed by the excited crowd. Ben took hold of Mary’s arm, and turned her away from the crowds.
‘They’ll drown her, Ben. They’ll murder that little girl.’
Ben’s eyes narrowed in sorrow and defeat. ‘If I could swim, Mrs Sparrow, I would jump in to save her myself. I think you are right, the Squire and his men will see her dead before the hour turns.’
Darklin and her escorts were surrounded by an impatient crowd, as they stood by the water’s edge, waiting for someone to fetch a boat. The river was almost perfectly still, and covered in a veil of mist.
‘We’ll not get a good view of it!’ a woman complained.
‘I’m off to stand on the bridge, we should see better from there!’ The villagers split up, trying to find the best place to secure a view of the event.
Meanwhile, the hangman, the jailor, and the Parson, stood with Darklin until they heard the sound of oars through water, and a boat emerged through the mist. Other men had collected ropes, and piled them onto the floor of the boat as it drew against the bank.
‘Someone holds the end of the rope from the bank, not from the boat, surely?’ asked Mr Hawkes.
‘I don’t know. Someone fetch the Colonel.’ replied the Parson.
‘It must be from the bank, so that if she sinks, they’ll be able to drag her in easy.’ mused Mr Cox.
‘I wouldn’t bet on it.’ muttered Hawkes.
Colonel Bowen cantered over to them.
‘Cox and Hawkes, tie her hands with a long stretch of rope, tie her feet with another. Take off her boots, they’ll weigh her down. Row to the middle of the river, and near to the bridge, so that the people may witness. Each of you will hold the end of a rope, then you must push her in. I will signal to you from the bridge when the trial is over. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, Colonel.’ said the hangman.
‘Better to tie her now,’ said Mr Cox, taking the end of a rope from the boat, and tying Darklin’s hands. The hangman did the same with her feet, and then Mr Cox lifted her into the back of the boat, and sat alongside her. The hangman and the Parson climbed in after him, and the oarsman pushed the boat away from the bank.
For a while, no one spoke in the boat. The only sound was the movement of the oars, sending wide ripples across the glassy river. A crow shrieked out five calls from the treetops. The sound scraped across the ears of the men in the boat, and echoed in the mist with an eeriness that seemed to affect even the hardened hangman.
‘We should’ve just hanged her. She hasn’t got no fight in her. A hanging would have served ‘em better than a drowning.’ he muttered, to which no one replied.
Soon the oarsman stopped rowing. Midway across the river, they could barely make out the faces of the people on the banks and bridge. The calls of the crowd became distorted in the thick mist, seeming to come from any and all directions,
‘Are you ready?’ the Colonel called from the bridge.
‘We’re ready,’ called back the hangman.
‘You may commence!’ announced the Colonel.
‘Stand up, then.’ Hawkes said loudly to Darklin, as though she was hard of hearing. Darklin did not move.
Mr Cox stood, and pulled her to her feet. The boat rocked unsteadily, as the hangman moved toward them to take her other arm. They lifted her so that she stood balanced on the side of the boat, and waited until her ghostly reflection became still in the water.
‘May the Lord have mercy on your soul,’ the Parson said uncertainly, and made the sign of the cross in the air. The men let go of her arms, and with a slight push, Darklin fell into the river’s depths.
Splash!
The shock of the cold water jolted Darklin out of her state of oblivion, and her eyes opened to a wall of green translucence. The last thing she remembered was being inside the dark dungeon, now she was underwater, now she was drowning. The instinct to stay alive took over. When her head bobbed above the surface, she took a deep, life sustaining breath. Although water filled her ears, she could hear both angry shouts and gleeful cheering. She had thought she would die by hanging, how had she come to be in the water?
She suddenly realised that her hands and feet were tied. While she was able to move her arms freely, her legs were held rigid. She wriggled her hands trying to get free, and to her amazement the rope quickly loosened and dropped away.
In the boat, the hangman cried out, ‘You fool, you didn’t tie her properly!’
‘Then draw her back in.’ replied Mr Cox.
‘I have a good grip on her. She won’t get away.’ said Mr Hawkes, as he looked up at the witch hunter to see if the trial would proceed. He couldn’t clearly see his face, and heard no order to stop, so he turned back to watch Darklin struggling in the water.
Darklin tried to untie her feet, but they were too tightly bound. Her head descended under the surface for the third time. She could feel the weight of the thick black cloak pulling her under. She began to wave her arms up and down, quickly learning how to draw herself upward. She surfaced for a moment, and gasped in a lungful of air, but then went under too soon.
As she descended again, the cloak lifted and billowed, and Darklin managed to untie its cord from around her neck and slip free. Still, in the light dress Bess had made for her, she was being weighed down. Her arms, now exhausted and burning with effort, brought her up to the surface again.
From the bridge, the crowd observed the cloak floating on the water. ‘Witch! She does not sink!’ a woman cried, shrilly. As the cloak drifted toward them, a man with a boathook, drew it up to be examined. The cloak was searched carefully, as if they were afraid that Darklin had somehow magically transported herself inside it to escape.
‘She has shed her cloak, watch her closely!’ the witch hunter called to the men in the boat.
Darklin knew she was running out of time. Her head sank back beneath the surface, until she could only hear the swirling of water. She kicked and thrashed against the rope that held her. If she could get free of the rope, she thought, if she could only get to the other bank, and escape into the woods, then she could follow the river to Shadows End…
She couldn’t hold her breath any longer. Her lungs felt like they were about to explode. She let out a rush of air, and a long stream of bubbles poured from her mouth. She pushed with her arms to reach the surface, but it was taking her longer, and sapped more of her energy, each time she tried. As her head emerged above the water, the hangman deliberately pulled up on the rope, so that her upper body was forced back under. She had less than an instant to draw breath.
She knew she couldn’t last much longer. Her lungs were on fire. Her head pounded so intensely that she could not think straight. Her thoughts were liquid, rushing too quickly to hold on to one idea. Beside her, she saw a golden leaf, twisting and gliding in the gentle current.
Darklin mentally grasped onto the image of the leaf floating away. A last, desperate hope dawned. She could call the water. She remembered the spell from the witch’s book to make the river surge. Her instinct to survive, instantly outweighed the danger of calling the dark magic.
This time, she had sunk far down to the river’s depths. She needed at least one good breath to have the energy for the spell. She beat down the water with her arms, but barely rose. She panicked, and her head began to spin. She kept on thrashing with numb, leaden arms. Slowly, slowly rising.
She broke to the surface, gasping. She filled her lungs with as much air as she could. She sank for an instant, then resurfaced, holding her head above, desperately sucki
ng in air, before she began to sink again. She took out her wand from her stays, and gripped it in her hand. She recalled the words of the spell with calm accuracy, and quickly started chanting the words in her mind.
River rush, swiftly flow,
Current strong and undertow,
Send a wave like the tide,
Flood the banks from side to side.
Then, fearing the spell would not work without being spoken aloud, she garbled the words into the river, taking in water, as her mouth opened to summon the dark power.
As she had in her cell, she again plundered her most horrible memories, channelling all of her hurt and hatred, drawing on its dark force. All the ire that had lasted Gressyl a lifetime, Darklin fed into the dark energy, in one moment. The tingling coldness swirled around her, then surged down into the water like a lightning bolt. Darklin felt the aftershocks of its power disturbing the currents beneath her.
From upstream, a ripple glided down the river, followed by a succession of wavelets, that stirred the fallen leaves at the side of the bank. The crest of a wave formed, and built, growing larger and swifter, as it swept down the river. It sped under the bridge and towards the wooden boat. As the wave hit, it tipped the boat heavily to one side, sending the occupants into the water. The hangman let go of the rope.
As she was released, Darklin rose to the surface, and felt the surge of water carrying her downstream. Darklin used the tiny amount of energy she had left in her body, to lift her head out of the water, and keep hold of her wand.
‘She’s getting away, stop her!’ screamed the witch hunter. He grabbed the boathook, holding it like a knight’s lance.
Beside him, spooked by the commotion, the Squire’s horse reared up violently. The Squire was tossed backwards, and his head smashed against the stone parapet as he fell. He landed in a heap on the filthy cobbles, blood gushing from the wound at the back of his head, and pooling in the dirt.
‘The Squire, the Squire!’
A hushed crowd formed a circle around the Squire’s unmoving body. One man ventured towards him, crouched nervously and put his cheek near the Squire’s nose and mouth.
