Hiding From the Light

by Barbara Erskine

  ‘I hereby mark thee with the triple sign. With this you are received into the service of the goddess.’

  She raised her forefinger towards Emma’s face. In the darkness, barely lit by the flickering lights, Emma saw oil glistening on her fingertip. Slowly and carefully Lyndsey drew a small sigil on her forehead. She remoistened her finger and drew a second figure between Emma’s breasts, drawing it slowly over the cold, marble-smooth skin, then a third time she repeated the action, this time trailing the oil into her pubic hair. Emma did not move.

  ‘Welcome, sister.’ Lyndsey gave a taut smile. She leaned forward and kissed Emma on the lips. ‘See, I have a necklace for you. Dedicated and blessed as my gift to you. You must always wear it in the circle and when you are using your gifts and powers.’ From the pile of items on her altar, she produced a leather thong. From it hung a small silver pentacle. She placed the thong around Emma’s neck. ‘There.’ She looked suddenly triumphant. ‘There is no time to celebrate now. That can come later. I’ll close down the circle and we’ll go to the churchyard.’

  Emma stood still as Lyndsey dissolved the flickering blue light which had surrounded them, packed her things away into the bag and blew out the candles. She turned to Emma at last. ‘Aren’t you going to put on your robe?’

  Emma jumped. ‘Of course! I’m freezing.’ She stooped and drew it up and over her shoulders, aware of the intense cold and dampness of the silk against her skin. She was still wondering whether the light of the circle had been real or merely her imagination.

  ‘And your boots,’ Lyndsey whispered. ‘There are brambles where we are going.’

  Emma followed her obediently across the garden towards the gate. She felt sick. She should go back now, before it was too late. What she was about to do was mad and probably dangerous. She was already cold – under the thin damp silk her skin shrank from the wind – and she was increasingly afraid.

  Ahead of her she saw the beam of Lyndsey’s torch on the path. Stop now. Lyndsey wouldn’t notice until it was too late. Turn. Run. Go back to the house. Go inside and slam the door and bolt it.

  We’re waiting for you, Emma!

  The voice in her head was right on cue.

  It is time, Emma. You are one of us, now.

  ‘Come on.’ Lyndsey had stopped. She turned, the torchlight waving wildly for a moment, the beam cutting across the garden, illuminating trees and hedges and wind-torn roses for a fraction of a second before it moved on, taking in Emma’s startled eyes, her white face, then it was gone, once more pointing at the ground near her feet.

  Somehow they scrambled through the hedge, the brambles tearing at the black silk. Emma heard her robe rip and felt the sudden flow of blood hot on her skin. They climbed the wall, slippery in the dew and sharp under their hands, and then they were in the churchyard. Standing close together, they paused. Lyndsey had switched off the torch. She was breathing hard. Emma could feel the heat radiating off her skin.

  ‘Centre yourself. Get used to the dark,’ Lyndsey murmured. ‘Can you see anything?’

  He’s not here!

  The voice in Emma’s head was clear, slightly sarcastic.

  Why are you here? This isn’t the place!

  ‘Lyn?’ Emma heard her own voice shaking. The wind was rising. ‘He’s not here. This isn’t his grave!’

  Lyndsey spun round. ‘It’s in all the books, and the parish records. I’ve often wondered if it’s really his grave, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve felt him here.’ The torch flashed back on. ‘Look! There! You can see the rectangle on the grass.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘Sarah doesn’t believe it.’ She put her hands to her face. ‘She keeps on. She won’t let me be. She’s in my head. On and on!’ She caught her breath with a sob. ‘Lyndsey, help me!’

  Lyndsey turned off the torch. She dropped the bag on the ground and grabbed Emma by the arms. ‘Let her speak!’ she commanded. ‘Stop fighting her. See what she wants.’

  Emma shook her head. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can!’ Lyndsey shook her. ‘Let go! Step back! Allow her in!’

  Emma gave a sob. ‘I can’t. I don’t dare!’ She subsided to her knees with a groan. ‘Oh, Christ, let me be!’

  ‘Not Christ, Emma! You belong to the goddess now.’ Lyndsey knelt beside her. ‘Sarah, speak to me! I know you’re there. Tell me what to do!’ She seized Emma’s shoulders, turning her so that they were face to face. ‘Sarah? Can you hear me?’

  Emma’s eyes opened wide. For a moment she didn’t move, then she turned and looked at Lyndsey with a frown. ‘I can hear you. Why are you shouting at me?’ It was Emma’s voice, but the tone had changed; the accent had softened into a local burr.

  Lyndsey smiled triumphantly. ‘Tell me what to do, Sarah. How can I help you?’

  Emma frowned. ‘We need to get our revenge, don’t we.’ She smiled. ‘On all of them. On Goodwife Phillips. She died in her bed. She shouldn’t have done that. She should have died by the pricker she used on so many defenceless old women.’ Emma was smiling now. ‘I cursed her, but it was too late. She slipped away from me, but now we’re strong enough to reach her. You and me and Emma, we can go after her.’ Emma laughed softly. ‘I curse you, Mary Phillips! I curse your descendants by the blood and those who inherited your mean, sick spirit. I curse you wherever you are. On earth, in hell, or nestling in some poor woman’s soul.’ There was a short pause. ‘That’s it. That’s where she is, isn’t it? She is hiding inside someone’s head. Judith!’ Another pause. ‘That’s where she is. She thinks we can’t see her there, but we can, can’t we, girls! May you die a thousand deaths in agony, by the pricking of the pin, Mary Phillips, just so you know how they felt! And Master Hopkins!’ Again Emma laughed, only this time there was no mistaking her for Emma. The face at which Lyndsey was staring had coarsened into hatred and spittle had collected at the corners of her mouth. Emma had gone. ‘Now, it’s your turn. Your body may lie in the cold earth, but your soul roams, hunting still for women to torment. And you too have found someone to hide you, haven’t you?’ She laughed again, loudly; coarsely. ‘Oh, yes. So easy, wasn’t it, to creep into another man’s head! But that makes no difference. We can still curse you, can’t we. We three, who have met here on hallowed ground on Hallow e’en. We curse you three times over, Matthew Hopkins.’ Her voice was rising steadily. ‘You will drown in the blood of your own lungs as the women drowned when you swam them, and you will feel the tightening of the noose around your neck and your soul will feel the flames of hell. And the creatures you killed, our familiars, our cats and dogs and small inoffensive pets will follow you and lick your blood and the bear our sisters sent to pursue you will tear the flesh from your bones!’

  There was a long pause after she had finished. In the distance there was a rumble of thunder. A wedge of black cloud drifted across the moon and blotted out its sliver of light. Lyndsey glanced away, down the hill towards the river where suddenly it was misty. She was trembling. Impressed and terrified by what she had unleashed in Emma she looked at her, afraid even to speak.

  The silence around them stretched on and on, then slowly she could hear the ordinary sounds of the country night coming back. A fox barked somewhere over towards the fields; above the wood an owl called, to be answered in the distance by a long quavering hoot and, at her side suddenly, Emma began to sob. The tension had drained out of her body.

  Slowly, Lyndsey reached over and took her hands. They were ice cold.

  Sarah had gone.

  In the lane by the churchyard wall there was a small click as Alice turned off her camera. Neither woman heard it.

  88

  Judith woke with a start, her head splitting. She had been dreaming again and the fear was still with her, but she couldn’t recall what it was she had been dreaming about. She stretched out and remembered with a shock of guilty excitement that she was sleeping in Mike’s bed. She ran her hand over the pillow beside her. She could smell him on the sheets, feel his presence everywhere in
the room – far more than in the rest of the house. Pulling the pillow to her, she hugged it against her breasts, burying her face in the crisp white cotton. She would have to change the bed before she left on Monday, before his cleaning lady came. They must never guess, but until then she was alone with her fantasies.

  The weekend was going even better than she had hoped. The prayer meeting had ended yesterday with the resolution to meet again on Sunday and if Lyndsey had not left the village by then, they would pay her a visit and make it very clear that if she didn’t leave at once, that same night, she would be very, very sorry. She snuggled down further into the bedclothes, reluctant to move. She would go and see Paula West today – was it today yet? She couldn’t see the bedside clock without her glasses. She would check out the children, make sure they were safe and uncontaminated, pray over them. There were others she had to see, too. People who had left messages for Mike; people she was perfectly well equipped to deal with herself. It was so stupid; she would make a far better priest than he; better than any man. Why couldn’t they see it?

  And then there was Emma Dickson; the woman who lived in the witch’s house; the woman who had had two black cats. The woman she needed to keep Mike away from, at all costs. She gave a small shiver and hugged the pillow more tightly. How strange that she had never suspected Emma of being a witch, too. How stupid of her! It was so obvious. She was using her powers to entice Mike; to ensnare the rector, of all people! And he was so weak he hadn’t seen through it. Typical man. Seeing the pretty surface. Ignoring women who were true and honest. The trouble was, Judith couldn’t be everywhere at once. She couldn’t always be watching over him, and she had never really met Emma. Not properly. Well, Paula’s revelation had been timely. Emma was now next on her list of people to deal with after Lyndsey. She, too, would be forced out of town.

  She frowned and with a groan she turned over. Suddenly her head was aching badly. And she was getting pins and needles in her arms. Perhaps she should have a drink of water. She shifted the pillow, trying to make herself more comfortable. The discomfort was still there. In fact it was spreading. It was in her calves, now; and all the way up her inner thighs. She shifted restlessly, rubbing her hand up and down between her legs. The pain had spread right up inside her; sharp, pricking pains. She winced as she tried to change her position. She was sweating. Her nightdress was growing damp.

  Uncomfortably she sat up, throwing aside the pillow, and leaned across, groping for the switch on the bedside light. It was getting hard to breathe and she felt suddenly very faint. Was she having some kind of an asthma attack? An allergic reaction to something? Please God it wasn’t to her medication. Her consultant had just reviewed the prescription for her anticoagulant. Made it stronger. She was due to go for a blood test any day now. She couldn’t have taken too much, could she? She had only taken one pill, surely?

  Her hand missed the switch and knocked the clock to the ground. With it went the glass of water she had brought upstairs with her, and the bottle of pills. She took a deep, gasping breath, aware that her heart was racing uncomfortably, and managed to swing her legs over the side of the bed. Leaning forward she reached for the lamp again and this time she managed it. In the small pool of warm light thrown by the angled shade she stared down at herself in total horror. She was covered in blood.

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ The whispered words came out as a gasp, as she reeled forward, crashed into the table and slid to the floor, blood gushing from her nose and mouth and from the open wound on her leg where it had struck the corner of the table by the bed.

  As she lost consciousness she remembered for a fraction of a second what she had been dreaming about. She had been hunting witches, stabbing at them with a small, pointed knife, listening to them as they screamed …

  89

  All Hallows; All Saints

  On and off Mike had dozed, exhausted. It had been almost dark when Tony and Ruth and he had arrived at the church and he hadn’t a clue where he was. They had walked across a field, watched by the mournful eyes of a dozen cows, and Tony had pushed open a gate in the low flint wall. Inside the small Norman building was all but hidden amongst its quartet of ancient yews and their attendant oaks and rowan trees.

  Tony led the way to the door and produced a huge iron key. ‘They only hold services a few times a year. No electricity, of course. The village is long gone. I suppose before long they will declare the church redundant.’ He sighed. ‘This is a special, holy place, Mike. A good place to be on Halloween. A place to pray for you and for your parish.’

  They had brought with them candles, rugs for warmth, a thermos of coffee, a Bible and a small Communion set in a worn leather case.

  While Tony slipped on his white alb and knotted the girdle around his waist, Mike, a borrowed stole around his neck, lit the two candles on the altar, then he knelt on the step before the wooden cross. Behind him, Tony too was on his knees in a front pew, Ruth a little way behind him, sitting quietly, huddled into her warm coat. Around them the old church settled into the darkness. Mike could smell the dust of ages, the cold damp of the stone, the mustiness of ancient hassocks, mouldy prayer books and above that the sharper note of burning beeswax and, perhaps, so faint it was nothing but a hint in the dark, a four-hundred-year-old memory of gently simmering frankincense, and in his ears the cadences of plainsong echoing faintly amongst the oak hammer-beams.

  He stared up at the cross. How strange that in this battle over a Puritan soul he should be hearing echoes of an older faith. Listening intently, he let the peace and comfort of the place settle over him. Then slowly he repeated the words of the collect from Evensong: ‘Lighten our darkness, we beseech thee, O Lord; and by thy great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of thy only Son, our Saviour, Jesus Christ.’

  Hopkins came to him suddenly an hour later. Strong. Certain in his purpose. Angry. And – a little – afraid.

  So much evil. So many more names on my list. So little time to find them all.

  Mike kept his eyes fixed on the cross. The long candles had burned down enough for their pale ivory smoothness to be marred by a lacy sculpture of drips. He frowned, distracted. Where had those come from? There had been no draught. In the front pew Tony quietly stood up and came to stand behind him. In her own pew Ruth slipped to her knees.

  Help me, my friend. Tonight is the night of greatest evil.

  Hopkins’s voice in his head was growing tense.

  She is collecting the members of her coven. They told me there were no covens. I didn’t believe them. They were there, hidden. Her imps. Her friends. They are looking for us.

  ‘Our Father, who art in heaven.’ Mike raised his voice to try to drown out the other inside his brain. ‘Hallowed be thy name – ’

  She’s coming. I feel her near. But her imps: the two cats who feed upon her, they have gone. They have fled.

  Hopkins was breathless. A sharp crack of something like laughter exploded in the silence. Mike paused in his prayer. The shadows above him in the high roof flickered. He clenched his fists for a moment, then pressed his hands together, palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip. ‘Thy will be done.’

  I can feel her. I can see the Devil at her shoulder …

  ‘Lord, bless Emma. Hold her in the sure safety of your love. Make her strong this night. Be with her. Don’t leave her. Save her, Lord, I beg you.’ Mike paused; he was breathing hard. ‘Save all your servants from the evil of this night. Encircle my parish with your love. Fight back the heathen dark, fill the land with light.’ He waited again. The silence was no longer serene. It was tense. Full of presences. Listening.

  Behind him, Tony’s voice was steady.

  ‘Lighten our Darkness, O Lord.’

  The flames on the candles were flickering wildly.

  ‘Christ be with me, Christ within me – ’

  Listen to the voice of the whore!

  Hopkins was back. Mike couldn’t tell if he was inside his brain or at his ear.
He could feel hot breath beside him; suddenly the air stank. It was indescribably foul.

  You have to kill her, it is the only way. You have to kill her for me, and her companions with her. Together we can do this. Kill the witches!

  Mike was sweating profusely. He clenched his fists again, hearing the knuckles crack. ‘Tony, help me!’

  ‘Be strong, Mike.’ Tony was beside him, his small crucifix in his hand. He raised it high. ‘This is the house of God. I command all evil presences to leave this place!’ Stiffly he stepped up to the altar. ‘Cast him out, Mike. Command him to leave you!’

  ‘Matthew Hopkins, you have allowed yourself to be drawn in by the very Devil you detest! You will not use my body to fight anyone. I will not allow it! Turn to Christ. Throw yourself on His mercy. And in the name of God, Go!’ Somehow Mike managed to raise his voice so loud that it echoed round the church.

  ‘Fetch the bread and wine, Mike.’ After a few moments’ silence Tony’s voice came as a whisper.

  ‘Has he gone?’ Mike’s eyes were fixed on the cross.

  ‘He’s gone.’ Tony nodded. ‘Can’t you feel it? You were too strong for him, Mike.’

  The candles had spluttered wax across the old woven altar cloth. The flames had steadied, throwing strong double shadows of the cross. All Mike could smell now was wax. He turned, surveying the church. Every corner was dark. Somewhere out there Ruth was praying steadily, but he could see nothing beyond the circle of light where he stood.

  The basket packed by Ruth was where they had left it on the ground in front of the choir stalls. He stared at it for several seconds then, shakily, he stepped away from the altar and went to fetch the Communion set. As he picked up the small zipped leather case, his eye was caught by another box tucked into the corner of the basket. Reaching in, he opened it to find a brass thurible, charcoal disks and matches. Beside them was a small screwtop pot. He unscrewed it and sniffed. Incense. Was that where the smell had come from? Not echoes, after all, of times gone by, but traces of more recent struggles in this lonely church. He turned. Tony was standing before the altar, praying steadily.