Witch Island

by David Bernstein

  Eshram was informed of Salisbury Mills’ situation, how a witch had been burned at the stake, but not properly vanquished. She had supposedly cursed the town, specifically damning the ones who put her to death. She threatened to return one day and take her vengeance on the kin of those who had wronged her.

  Eshram wished to have had the chance to see where the witch lived, get a sense of her power, what he was up against—if she had been a witch at all—but the ignorant villagers had burned her abode to the ground.

  Most of the time, when dealing with a supposed witch, it turned out that the accused had been innocent, Eshram finding no evidence of the sort. An innocent woman killed by ignorance and stupidity and ridiculous superstition. As with most things, the few evil creatures that were in the world made people wary of anyone who was different, whether by appearance or practice of religion.

  When Eshram arrived in town, Salisbury Mills hadn’t received a full time replacement for its original priest. Father Donovan was still on call, serving to keep the town in order and assure the people that all was well.

  Eshram had been informed that the witch’s husband’s body had burned to a crisp when the house came down. His remains were given a proper burial and set at the far end of the town cemetery. He asked Father Donovan why this had been done, for it wasn’t often that the mate of a witch was treated so well.

  “Only the woman was of the Devil’s consortium,” Father Donovan said. “The man was weak, sickly even, and obviously under the witch’s spell. He was nothing but a living zombie, tormented to serve the witch and act as a loving husband.” The priest tapped the side of his head. “Messed him up inside, she did.”

  Eshram smirked. “A man can be just as evil as a woman, Father, and a witch no doubt. They are called by another name—warlock.”

  “It was the woman who possessed the power,” the priest insisted. “She is the one who shot and killed men when they simply wanted to talk to her. She was the one who cursed the town and its people.”

  How little commoners understood, Eshram thought, shaking his head. Most witches were good people, harmless. They only wanted to be one with nature, and were simply misunderstood.

  Eshram stayed in a room above McSorlee’s Pub. He was given food and drink, but not spoken to for more than necessary. The people of the town, although they were grateful for his presence, feared him, and wanted him gone as soon as possible.

  When the moon was high and the townspeople were fast asleep in their homes, Eshram grabbed his bag of herbs and brick dust, snuck from his room, and made his way to the graveyard. It wasn’t difficult to find John Rivers’s grave marker, the dirt freshly turned before it.

  He stood over the grave, held out his hand, palm down, and closed his eyes. His flesh did not grow warm, indicating that the man’s remains were not haunted, and that his spirit had moved on.

  With the first task taken care of, Eshram returned to his room and went to sleep.

  The following morning, as the sun breached the horizon, he met Father Donovan in front of the pub.

  “Good morning, Father,” Eshram said.

  “Morning,” the holy man returned. “But good? We’ll see about that once you’re done with the business at hand. The entire town is worried. People won’t go near the lake, and fishing is a large part of this community.”

  “After we eat, we can get started,” Eshram said, rubbing his belly.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I smelled something delicious being cooked when I awoke. As I came down the stairs, my mouth watered, and my stomach spoke of hunger. I beg to know what is cooking.”

  “I’ve had eggs, bacon, oatmeal and coffee prepared for you.”

  “You won’t be joining me then?” Eshram asked, knowing the man would not dine with him. Almost no one ever did when he was among traditional Westerners. He was needed and paid by them, but treated as if diseased. He found this comical, yet sad.

  “Err,” the holy man said. “No, no.” He held out a hand, then smiled. “I have to see to something before we set off for the island. Let’s say we meet here at the next chime of the church bell?”

  “I shall eagerly await your return.”

  Though expected, Eshram never got used to how people relied on his services, yet were afraid of him, found him unsettling, as he’d been told once.

  Eshram sat at the bar, his salivary glands pumping away as the aroma of food filled the air. The barkeep set down a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, a rare and fine drink for these parts. The food and coffee arrived soon thereafter.

  “My name’s Belvin Winbrook,” the barkeep said, with a smile. “Is there anything else I can get for you?” He was a burly man with a patch over his left eye, and didn’t look the least bit bothered by Eshram’s presence.

  “No, thank you. Everything looks delicious.”

  “I don’t mean to be a pest,” Belvin said, leaning his elbows on the bar, “but do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  Eshram was somewhat surprised by the man—not the question, but the fact that the man wanted to do more than simply serve him and be gone.

  “Not at all,” Eshram said, shoving a forkful of eggs into his mouth.

  “How is it you do what you do?”

  This wasn’t the first time he’d been asked such a question. He figured most people were curious, but it was rare that anyone bothered to speak to him. He had no idea why he possessed the abilities he had, or why the spells worked when his kind practiced them, while with ordinary folk, spells were nothing more than superstitious activities and words. The spells Eshram practiced he had learned from his father and mother. The spells had been passed down by his grandparents, who also learned from their parents. One day, when he had a son, he would teach the boy the ways of his people.

  “I don’t know,” Eshram said, answering honestly. “I was simply born this way, as my parents, brothers and sisters were too, though not all take to going to the route of a Spirit Warden. The ways of the West are powerful—money and fame—and very much catch the eye of all humans.”

  “And you can sense true evil?”

  “In a living or dead body, yes.”

  “Could you take a look at my wife then?” Belvin asked with a straight face, then burst into laughter.

  Eshram nearly choked on his food, he laughed so hard.

  “All kidding aside,” Belvin said, “I’m curious about such things.”

  Eshram finished chewing before he spoke, then wiped his mouth and said, “When I’m near evil, I can sense it.” He held up his hands. “My palms grow warm, sometimes hot. Spells and charms have been made and blessed by my people, passed down through the ages. It’s my job to take care of such matters, like the one you’ve got here in town. My people believe they are just one of the many forces put on the good earth to battle evil.”

  Belvin looked to his right and left, then leaned in. “To be honest, I never had a problem with the Riverses. They seemed like nice people, even the missus. Then again, I guess evil can do that, you know, act good and all.”

  “Evil comes in all forms and can be tricky,” Eshram said, nodding. “It’s why I’ve been brought in, to make sure everything is okay, and if it’s not, then I will make it so.”

  The barkeep stood. “Well, I’ll leave you to your food. Thanks for chatting with me.”

  “It was a pleasure.”

  Maybe there was hope for the world, that one day his kind, and people of all kinds would be accepted and welcomed amongst each other. Eshram was glad for the talk, especially for hearing that not everyone had thought the woman a witch.

  As Eshram upended the last of his second cup of coffee, the church bell rang. He thanked Belvin before leaving and asked him to tell the cook how wonderful the food was.

  He met Father Donovan outside. Together, they traveled to the lake where a small rowboat waited. A shovel rested at the bow. Eshram placed his satchel inside the craft, then motioned for the priest to step into the boat, but the ma
n didn’t move, only stared down the shore, in what Eshram could only guess was the direction of the island.

  “Father? Are you not coming with me?”

  “Of course I am,” the man said, snapping back to the present. “I have a job to do as well, to place a blessing on the land and inform the people that all is well.”

  “That you do. Your kind are powerful, don’t forget that, Father.”

  The man nodded, then stepped into the boat. Eshram pushed the craft into the water and jumped aboard.

  Priests were involved in many things when it came to battling evil—exorcisms and the blessing of artifacts at the forefront. For some reason, they didn’t know much about dealing with witches, or non-Christian evils. And after Eshram was done, a blessing on the land couldn’t hurt.

  Eshram did the rowing.

  Neither man spoke, but Eshram saw fear in the priest’s eyes. Halfway there, the Father produced a small leather-bound book from his robes and silently read from it. Father Donovan’s fear seemed to vanish—not completely, but he looked much more grounded.

  Finally, they reached the island, the boat running aground. Eshram hopped out and pulled the boat farther onto land. He grabbed his satchel and waited for the priest. The holy man closed his Good Book, stuffed it back into his robe and stepped out, then straightened his robe.

  “Father, are you ready?” Eshram asked. “I have some ideas what we may or may not encounter, but we must remain vigilant.”

  “God is with us,” the priest said. “I’ve read passages and said prayers. We are as protected as we need to be. Combined with your gifts, we shall be victorious in vanquishing and setting the witch’s curse back to Hell with her.”

  Eshram didn’t agree with everything the man said, but he was glad to see his convictions.

  They made their way through the thick brush, following the vague path, made more obvious by the witch’s executioners a few nights ago. Briars and sticker bushes snagged at their clothing, the island’s poor attempt at keeping them from entering it.

  Eshram heard not a bird or grasshopper, saw no tracks from raccoons, possums, or squirrels. As a woodsman, he could easily spot such things, and even an island as small as this would have plenty of life on it.

  Three days had passed since Margaret Rivers was put to death. Word had reached him quickly. He hadn’t been but a day’s ride north, having recently finished up taking care of a demon in the city of Poughkeepsie. Time was always of the essence when dealing with the supernatural. A recently deceased witch, bent on revenge, could easily hold onto its remains, creep into its surroundings, as witches had a great affinity to the earth and its children. The Good Mother took no sides. She was a neutral, nature-abiding entity that cared not what the dead did, whether they moved on or stayed, but granted her worshipers with their desires if she saw fit to do so.

  Most witches were good people, and when they died, whether wrongly or not, they moved on. But anger was a great emotion, one that could transcend death and corrupt the soul. Hopefully, Margaret Rivers proved to be like her husband, and had moved on, but Eshram didn’t like the signs he was witnessing.

  They came to a clearing at the center of the island. The grass was brown and brittle, crumbling under their footfalls. The tree line was beginning to die as well, half the trees no longer flourishing with fine greenery, but fading to yellow. The lack of animal presence, the dead grasses and dying trees were all negative signs. Eshram feared that the witch had not moved on, but even worse, that she was an extremely angry and powerful spirit. Corrupted energies usually took time to manifest; he couldn’t believe how quickly they had spread, killing all surrounding plant and wildlife.

  Eshram hurried to the witch’s stake, an iron pole singed with charred remains. He could still smell the horrendous odor of scorched flesh. The ground was blackened, save a six-foot by four-foot rectangle of freshly churned earth that extended from the pole. His body grew immediately warm. There was no need to hold his palms over the burial site. There was indeed an evil presence here.

  “The witch’s spirit hasn’t moved on,” he said.

  Eshram reached into his satchel and removed a small linen bag filled with various herbs, salt and brick dust. He sprinkled the concoction around the area. Smoke seeped from the soil in protest.

  Father Donovan was reading aloud from his Bible.

  Whoever you were, Margaret Rivers, Eshram thought, you are that person no more. He reached into his bag again and withdrew a handful of iron spikes, each one engraved with binding runes. Using only his hands, he hammered the railroad-like spikes into the soil around the grave. The heads of the spikes glowed orange-red, absorbing the wickedness that was the witch, holding her at bay.

  Father Donovan had stopped reading.

  “We can use all the spiritual power we can get, Father,” Eshram said. “Do not stop your prayers.”

  The priest began reading aloud again.

  Eshram removed a large vial containing a mixture of red brick dust, witch hazel and saffron, and poured a line of the stuff from spike head to spike head until all were connected. The orange-red glow ceased.

  “That should hold her for a long time, but keep up the prayers for now until we are finished here. I’ve never dealt with such a powerful spirit before.”

  Winds kicked up, bringing a thick fog into the area that refused to disperse. The witch’s essence had already spread into the island. How much, Eshram did not know, but the devil’s blockade that he had set around her grave would severely limit her power. He only hoped he’d be able to get to her bones.

  Eshram’s body was covered with sweat. His flesh had never grown so hot when dealing with a witch. He feared he would not be able to completely eradicate the spirit as he had hoped, but he would try.

  With demons, priests were very helpful, aiding in the ritual to vanquish the evil creatures, but witches were a whole different matter. He feared that her hate was too strong to banish her completely, and that only time and solitude would allow this to happen. But he would try, and the priest would help him.

  Eshram grabbed the shovel and dug. His clothes were soaked through by the time he reached the cloth sack that held Margaret Rivers’s bones. Why the villagers had dug a full-length grave for only a bag full of the witch’s remains, he did not know. Most times when dealing with the damned or something unholy, a shallow grave was customary. He never knew why, except in the event the body needed to be unearthed again.

  Lying on his stomach, he reached into the hole, untied the cloth sack and opened it, revealing a charred skull, part of a hip, femur and hand, with the rest of the bones below. Eshram recited a protection spell from memory, having memorized all the spells in his arsenal by the age of thirteen, and grabbed the femur, lifting it out of the ground.

  Hot pain radiated up his arm, curling around his bones like a fiery serpent. He hadn’t expected it to hurt as much as it did, and bit down, fighting against the need to cry out.

  Kill you, a raspy voice said. You will die a miserable, agonizing death. I will flay the flesh from your bones, pluck out your liver and devour your tongue while you scream. Take the knife. Gut yourself. Then consume your entrails until they are gone. You will not die until I have made you suffer greatly.

  Eshram found himself lying on his side, one hand on the femur, the other holding his own knife to his abdomen. He wanted to obey the voice and plunge the blade into his flesh, see his innards pulled out of him by his own hand. He had stopped reciting, but heard the priest’s prayers, then continued with his own. Hearing the words of his ancestors, he broke the witch’s hold.

  Eshram dropped the leg bone in disgust. The voice ceased. He was in complete control of himself again, but he also felt an overwhelming sadness fall over him, a hollowness, as if the witch had taken something from him. He wanted to crawl away, curl up somewhere and cry.

  Through it all, Eshram recited the spell. He remembered why he was here. Remembered his training, his upbringing. He had a duty to perform,
to finish.

  Mustering up his fortitude, knowing there was much more pain to come, he pulled out a small tin box from his bag, opened it and set it on the ground. Next, he held onto the witch’s femur and began slicing off slivers of bone. The raspy voice returned, demanding that he stop, promising pain and death, demanding that he pick up the femur and jam it into his eye. But Eshram spoke the spell with determination, relying on his blessed jewelry to get him through the arduous task.

  The hot pain in his arm spread into his head. His clothes were dripping with sweat. His thoughts were riddled with torment, flesh melting off of bones, a woman, Margaret, watching her beloved perish, herself feeling the agony of being burned to death, watching her executioners’ faces glow with wickedness.

  Then he saw his mother, strung up and left for all to see, a heathen and daughter of Satan. Nails had been driven into her chest, fingers bent at awkward angles from having been twisted and broken, teeth missing, hair yanked out, revealing a bloody scalp, and her clothes dripping with water from having been drowned in the lake.

  Eshram was a little boy, standing on the dirt road that led into town, staring up at his dead mother. The taut rope creaked like an old door as she swayed in the gentle breeze. His mother’s eyelids were open, revealing empty, pulpous sockets of gore. Blood trailed down her cheeks, her face decorated in horrific clown-like fashion. Even though his mother had no eyes with which to see, Eshram felt her gaze upon him. Then she raised an arm and pointed at him, the broken bones of her finger crackling back into place.

  “You,” she said. “You did this to me.”

  “No,” he screamed, backing away, his breath caught in his chest. This was all too much.

  Eshram picked up Margaret’s femur, broke the bone in two, then shoved a jagged end into his left eye. The sphere exploded with ease. Blood and ocular fluids spewed forth. Eshram screamed, returning to the present, no longer the boy watching his mother hang.