Hohman had found the charm in a book attributed to Gypsies. He had placed it in his own work, in hope that it would pass on some luck to his buyers. He now wished the same for himself.
Hohman was a braucher, one who used herbs, prayer, talismans, and the spoken word to ward off disease, misfortune, and the wiles of the Devil. Even among his countrymen such practices were regarded with suspicion, and his English-speaking neighbors scorned healer and client alike. They claimed that brauchers exploited the needy and helpless. Hohman had used his talents to make ends meet at times, but he saw it not as exploitation, but as a holy calling. People still called him from miles around, and they went away thanking him, often with no money at all changing hands. He had driven off fever or rash, cared for a sick horse or cow, and battled the malign devices of witches.
Witches? Oh, yes, they were real. Growing up in Germany, Hohman had heard many stories about them from his grandmother. They lurked in secret in every village and hamlet, making their secret pacts with the Adversary on dark nights in deserted graveyards. They blighted crops, tangled the manes of horses, and stole milk from cows. On the holy nights of the nearly-forgotten pagan calendar, they met on high peaks, most notably the Brocken in the Harz Mountains, for wild revels at which the Prince of Darkness presided.
Some said that belief in witches died in a small Massachusetts town called Salem nearly a century ago, but Hohman knew better. Did not the Bible proclaim their existence? Had he not seen the results of their handiwork in the suffering of his neighbors? Had he not seen a witch turn up at his clients’ doorsteps to borrow a cup of milk or piece of bread, hoping to break the charm Hohman had turned against her? He had heard protest after protest from those who had been accused, stalwart members of the community and good church-goers, but he could see the fear in their eyes. Witches were real enough.
John Schild was proof.
One summer day, sixteen years before, Hohman was walking with a kerchief full of pears and apples to the Schild household. Schild had spent the past year following him on his curing appointments, hoping to learn some of the cures for himself. Schild went to the Reformed church up the road, but even the Protestants turned to Hohman’s prayers when needed. He was a patient and careful learner, and the two had soon passed from an apprenticeship to a friendship. Perhaps, Hohman thought, he might leave a legacy in this world.
As he walked down the path toward the farm, something rustled among the trees on the hill nearby. Peering past the branches, he saw John’s wife, lying in a pile of leaves behind a tree, each arm around two of her children. Their expressions silenced any questions Hohman could have asked. He dropped the kerchief and moved slowly toward the farm. The woman bit her lip but said nothing.
At the edge of the property, he saw a pillar of smoke. Breaking into a run, he found the barn aflame. The roof caved in, sending up a flurry of sparks followed by a pillar of flame. He called out for Schild. Accompanying the scent of burning wood was a crisp smell drifting from the cabin, across the vegetable garden. Hohman recalled a patient of his, a blacksmith who had dropped a hot iron on his arm. This smell was the same. He moved closer.
Outside the door was a small round object—a smashed pumpkin? They were not in season. Then he realized he was viewing the left half of the head of Andreas Schild, John’s father. The remnants of his jaw hung slightly open, and a few flies had landed on it. A trail of gore led into the house.
Hohman squinted into the darkness. Littered about the cabin were the hacked-up portions of man and beast. Smoke emerged from the hearth, blackened bones protruding. He ran a short distance away and retched.
Still on his hands and knees, Johann heard footsteps in the grass. He flipped aside, just as an axe cleaved into the turf where he had rested an instant before. Over him loomed John Schild, his eyes dull. He pulled the axe out of the ground and swung again.
Hohman rolled, jumped to his feet, and ran. Schild was in better shape than he, so he had no chance of flight . Running to the woodpile, he grabbed a stout log and turned toward Schild, who ran at him. Hohman ducked to one side, catching him in the gut with the wood. Schild grunted. Hohman took the opportunity to dodge aside, looking for something else he could use.
Recovering from the blow, Schild brought the axe down again. Hohman, holding the wood in both hands, caught the axe at the cleft below the blade. Schild tried to wrench it aside, but Hohman pushed forward and up, stepping forward so that his face was inches from Schild’s. He could see the flecks of blood in the man’s beard, as Schild hissed in frustration. Before Schild could pull the axe away, Hohman whispered a charm against witchcraft.
Schild crumpled to the ground, sobbing. “The witches… the witches… I was strong… the cattle were sick… I thought I could…”
The axe had fallen to one side. Hohman slowly moved toward it, picking it up and tossing it away. He then put his hand on Schild’s shoulder, quietly reciting the first holy words that came to mind. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He leadeth me…”
Schild joined haltingly in the Psalm. Hohman quietly chanted, moving to the Creed, then to “A Mighty Fortress is Our God.” Halfway through the second verse, he heard voices on the path.
Hohman thought of staying, but he had little patience for the courts’ justice. The courthouse in Reading was not always kind to those who spoke in German. After muttering a farewell to Schild, he walked into the woods and made his way through them back to Rose Valley.
After what had happened to Schild, Hohman knew that he must go alone. Any one of his neighbors or fellow church-goers could be among the witches, and others would be vulnerable to their charms. One of the white-robed mystics of Ephrata would have been above suspicion—he had learned to trust them, despite their unorthodox beliefs—but the last of them had died fifteen years before. And the professor from Wurttemberg who had sent him was long gone.
The snowfall tapered as he continued on his journey, crossing the Saucony at Kutztown. He kept his hat pulled down on his chin. He passed the road houses along the route; they were too public. Outside Breinigsville, as the light faded, he noticed a barn, well off the road and away from the house. He hesitated for a moment, then pragmatism won out over scruple and he led his horse inside. It was easy enough to quiet the animals and push together a bed of straw. He ate two biscuits in silence, and then risked a candle. He smoothed the folds in the letter from his satchel and re-read it.
My dear Mr. Hohman,
I fear I have grim news to bring you, and a great responsibility to pass on.
I know you have expressed skepticism toward my findings when we met this summer. You will recall our discussion of the Old Ones, those hideous demons that dwell, not in hell, but in the deep seas and caverns of the world, or in the stars beyond, and who will one day return to take the world again in their possession. I have seen but the merest tendrils of their influence—but we have argued over this before. Despite your doubts, I would remind you that, even if these beliefs are the delusions of the Adversary, those who believe and worship them are real enough.
An associate at the Bibliothèque Nationale sent me a letter regarding a disturbing event. One day in early October, when the head librarian was out, one Frank Barnett from Britain came to that institution seeking the Necronomicon. I am certain you have never heard of that work, but rest assured it is one of the most blasphemous books in the world, penned by a mad Saracen poet over a thousand years ago. I know you will know whereof I speak when I say it is infinitely worse than Faust’s Threefold Coercion of Hell or the Great and Powerful Sea-Ghost. The man viewed it for but an hour, under the careful eye of the assistant. When the head librarian returned, he questioned his assistant as to the exact pages consulted, found the visitor’s name in the register and made enquiries at the docks. He uncovered that “Frank Barnett” was actually Francis Barrett, once an occultist and balloonist from London who vanished some years ago, but whom rumor has since associated with Jacobins, Martinists, Satanists, and other
disreputable sorts. He had set sail for Philadelphia with a formula in the forgotten Aklo language intended to raise the Sabaoth—a Hebrew word meaning “host” —from “the Hill.” Though less powerful than those called “from the Air,” they are nonetheless terrible in their coming and the effects on those who cannot escape.
Having read the Necronomicon, I understood the dire import of this phrase. I wrote a friend in Philadelphia, who confirmed my suspicions. Barrett had left the Mansion House Hotel on Third Street only a few days before, heading toward the Blue Mountains with a great wagon with unknown contents. I doubt he could go far in the present weather, but sorcerers hold the winter solstice—the longest and darkest night of the year—especially sacred. I made arrangements to follow, but pressing business has called Ladeau and me away.
I write you for two reasons. First, that you might know that such a dangerous individual is on his way to your country. Second, that you might find a way to stop him from his desperate act—he will need confederates, and you likely know better than I who they might be. After the incantation starts, Alhazred warns us, nothing but his death might bring it to its end.
Yours sincerely,
Friedrich von Junzt
Professor, Wurttemberg
Hohman blew out the candle and tried to be comfortable under his woolen blanket.
At three in the morning, he awoke, shivering uncontrollably as his mind turned relentlessly back, time and time again, to the phrase, “Host from the Hill,” in a delirium that merely echoed, keeping him in the edge of false revelation. He burrowed deeper into the straw and pulled his blanket more tightly about him, thinking of the warmth of the hearth across the yard. He muttered a charm: “Abaxa Catabax, Abaxa Cataba, Abaxa Catab…” As the phrase diminished, so would the fever. It should work for a short time, he knew, but he had found himself remarkably resistant to the working of his own remedies. Nonetheless, his head ceased its whirling, and he fell into a dreamless sleep.
Schild’s trial was a fair one, if one discounted the reality of witches who could drive men mad. His lawyers had kept him off the stand for fear of what he might say, and Hohman learned that his confession—the one that clever printers had not invented, at any rate—was carefully expurgated of all mentions of Satan’s minions. What remained—wild protestations that he had killed various people, a belief that his wife had poisoned his tea—was more than enough for local sensibilities.
At the end of January, Hohman joined the milling crowd on Gallows Hill, listening to coughing and sneezing of the crowd and the cries of peddlers hawking broadsides. Schild walked up to the platform as the crowd sang a hymn. As the executioner was pulling the hood over Schild’s head, Hohman could see his friend’s eyes sweep the crowd. He knew that Schild was looking for him. Before their eyes could meet, the hood was on.
A short jolt later, Schild had gone to what reward God deemed him fit, and Hohman was alone once more.
Hohman awoke before dawn. He ate another two biscuits from his pack. He took out a dime to leave on the lip of the stall, and then thought better of it. He pressed on down the road, barely cognizant of his surroundings. The world had become a haze, with even the overcast light of the darkness. He could not continue in the same, cautious manner under these conditions. He mumbled questions to someone in Bethlehem; he could not recall the man, but the man knew him nonetheless. After he asked two or three times, they reached an understanding. An Englishman had come through town not so long ago, on a wagon filled with wicker and canvas. He had passed on; they did not know where. Hohman asked for the road to the Hexenkopf. After hesitating, the man pointed him toward a road leading through town, shaking his head.
Even in the gloom, Hohman could feel the Hexenkopf, the mountain of the witches, rising above him. The hill was spoken of in whispers, even as far away as Philadelphia and Harrisburg. It was not unknown for other brauchers, seeking a locale to which an illness might be transferred from a sick person, to send it into the looming crags of the hill. Others whispered that the place served as a meeting place for the witches, who would fly there on their unholy festivals to meet with the Devil as they had on the Brocken back in his homeland. Now, toward the top, he could see the glow of a bonfire and hear the shrieks and cries of abandon of the celebrants. If Barrett was to perform this ritual anywhere, it would be here.
He tied his horse to the tree, dismounted, and loaded the flintlock. He moved through the trees, as if stalking a pheasant or deer, watching the ground for roots or traps. Even this was a chore, and he hoped he would be up for the task.
“Jesus, God and man, do thou protect me against all manner of guns…”
He had assembled a repertoire of anti-weapon charms, but he had never any reason to use them before now. He recited every one he could remember, and then did so again for good measure. He hoped that at least one would be effective.
The top of the hill was near, the pounding of drums resonating in time with his waves of dizziness. The wind picked up, but the biting cold brought with it clarity. Hohman crept forward on his elbows and knees, holding his musket barrel up to keep it clear of debris. He lowered himself into a slight hollow and peeked out.
In the midst of the summit was a bonfire, built of logs stacked like a log cabin. Snowflakes hissed as they struck hot coals. The firelight touched dozens of naked bodies, whirling about each other. He glimpsed faces he had seen in Reading, while many were unfamiliar—this must indeed be an important gathering. About the circle stood large, burly men, cradling muskets in their arms. A table covered with wooden plates and goblets, bearing the remnants of a feast, sat farther back from the firelight.
At the edge of the glow stood a man, scarcely five feet high, in a black coat with a high collar and plush sleeves. He had been a handsome man once, with expressive eyes and a fine aquiline nose. Now his face was creased and sagging. A purple silk cravat protruded from the neck of his coat, and he held a cane clearly intended as fashion, and not for support. He looked with disinterest at the raucous crowd before him, crinkling a few sheets of parchment in one hand. Behind him, next to a smaller fire, loomed a canvas globe, rising in shadow above the scene, slowly shifting with the wind. A large basket was tied to its base, with small canvas bags attached to the sides. Hohman had never seen a balloon, but Niles’ Weekly Register had described their ascents well enough.
Schild had once said that, if you really wanted to end an enterprise in disaster, you should find an Englishman. Hohman sighted the musket on Barrett. He could see at least forty men and women, five armed, with the dancers weaving across his target. Making his way about the perimeter would be risky, and it might take too long.
He aimed at one of the guards, but he could not fire. Sending a bewitchment back on its source was one matter; setting out to kill such a witch was another. He held still for a moment, wondering what to do.
He remembered sitting on a bench in a cabin near Lebanon. A young girl poured coffee into his tin cup. The father of the household looked at his hands, speaking of sick cows, failed crops, a business deal gone badly. The girl turned the spout over her father’s mug, and the pot’s handle broke. Rivulets of boiling coffee ran down her arm, and she screamed. Hohman grabbed her arm, ran his fingers over it, and chanted. He knew then what he would have to do for this family, that it would be long, that they would likely go away with resentment even if he succeeded. He also knew he would see it through.
Hohman thought of the girl’s screaming face. He pulled the trigger. He felt the impact of the stock against his shoulder. The man toppled over.
Hohman stood up. Temporarily deafened by the shot, he could not hear himself howl. The entire crowd stopped its dance. Many broke and ran. Harsh voices called out, and two of the guards leveled their muskets and fired.
Hohman staggered back, falling into the hollow. He dimly realized that he was uninjured. He jumped back to his feet, reaching inside his shirt for his weapon. The men ran at him, pointing at his uninjured chest and drawing swords and cud
gels. Some still looked about, anticipating other attackers. Hohman pulled out the sickle—no ordinary agricultural implement, but forged with a hint of silver and honed to razor sharpness. Would it be effective?
He found out quickly, as a hulking figure struck at his head with a cudgel. It glanced off, with not even the slightest impact. Hohman swung the sickle and caught the man in the stomach, slicing through muscle and viscera. Intestine uncoiled through the gaping wound. The man gurgled and slid to the ground. Hohman turned to the next attacker, who had circled around and hurled himself at Hohman from the side. Hohman swung upward, striking just under the breastbone and cutting upward, the sickle sticking in his ribcage. Hohman pulled back on the handle, finally wrenching it free.
Those witches who had not fled circled him, their bare feet padding on the hard ground. Through them strode Barrett. He stepped forward, his arms spread open, a grin on his face. Hohman swung the sickle at his face, catching it on the cheek. He heard a metallic snapping, and glistening shards fell to the ground.
Barrett gave a small, mocking bow. “Welcome to our revels, Mr. Hohman. As you can see, I’ve greatly enjoyed your book.”
Something struck the back of Hohman’s head.
Strong hands gripped Hohman’s arms as he awoke, his mind swirling from the fever. He stood near the fire, a guard on either side. The other witches, reassembled, thrust their hate-filled faces toward him. Barrett stood before him. He grasped the braucher’s chin and pulled it from one side to another. His vision blurred.
Shotguns v. Cthulhu Page 9
