by Aaron Galvin
The dancers are different than those I met in the woods before. White, black, red—every color of skin God ever painted upon His children dances there.
I see white men dressed in animal pelts and not a few Indian braves also. Most look of an age near my own, but some as old as Father. A few wear leather jerkins, others bits of raggedy cloth. All are dirty. A breeze carries their musky, sweat-ridden stench into my nostrils.
The moon dance is different, more ritualistic and primitive. The followers twitch and scratch. I cannot discern whether that be part of the dance or from the lack of potion Thomas Putnam wrote of.
A two-tiered earthen mound the size of our cabin sits behind the bonfire. Stone-carved steps make a path up its steep incline. A gaping, black cauldron sits at the first landing with its own smaller fire beneath it. Its flames have a bluish tint to them that greedily race up the sides whenever the liquid contents boils over the edges.
A pair of hooded figures dressed in flowing violet garb stand beside the cauldron. One stirs the vat with a wooden spoon so large it seems an oar. The other unties a tethered black ram and leads the beast up to the second landing.
And there, at the top of the earthen mound, an obsidian table gleams in the firelight. Behind it stands Hecate…the Devil’s daughter.
With the hooded figure ascending to her, Hecate takes a dagger from a hidden sheath in her violet robe. With her other hand, she lifts a golden chalice from the table.
The ram bays loudly.
Hecate quickly bends. In a single, swift motion, she slits the ram’s throat.
Bile rises in my own as she holds the chalice before this sacrificial fountain of blood.
Hecate steps away. Lifting both the chalice and dagger skywards, she offers them first to the moon. Then, pours it into the flames.
A raucous cheer rises from the crowd.
“Father...” I whisper.
His gaze will not leave the ritual, nor will he answer me.
I turn back to see Hecate’s honor guard lift the ram’s carcass onto the table. The guard moves his arm back and forth in a sawing motion. A moment later, the ram’s head rolls away from the body.
Hecate takes it by the spiraled horns. This too she offers skyward before thrusting it down upon a pike inserted near the head of the table. With a hammer given to her by the guard, she taps the animal’s nose, forcing the severed head to stare upon the table. She tosses the hammer aside without care and bows low before the sacrifice.
The drumbeats taper until only one is heard; the gathering’s living pulse.
“Sisters.” Hecate’s voice rings out above the rest, quieting them. “Brothers! Family all! Tonight another heeds our Father’s call. Let her step forth!”
All sit in the circle of oneness, save for a single girl.
“Charlotte…” I whisper.
Father places a steady hand on my shoulder to keep me from moving.
Hecate beckons Charlotte come closer.
I cannot rightly see her face, but Charlotte’s gait is stilted as she climbs the mound. Reaching the top, the guards guide her to lie across the table with her head directly beneath the ram’s gaze.
A hooded guard kneels beside Charlotte’s feet and rises with chained iron fetters in hand. The guard pulls the first chain taut. Closes the shackle around Charlotte’s left ankle. I watch the guard perform the same action at all four corners of the table, binding each of her limbs to form her body into a human X.
I see movement at the lower mound. The pot stirrer lifts the spoon from the cauldron to rest upon the lip. With her free hand, she reaches into her cloak and removes an empty vial. She brings it under the spoon and pours the cauldron’s concoction inside.
Hecate lifts her arms in praise. “We welcome this girl into our fold. With a willing heart, her soul she hath sold!”
Another drum begins, opposite its brother; the two slow beats resembling the thunder of draft horse footsteps over cobbled stone.
The circle of oneness begins anew. The followers clasp forearms, each pulling at their neighbors, chanting. “Todi-ras-ela-nahana. Hama be-la de-za sustana!” the choir of voices rise and falls. “Todi-ras-ela-nahana. Hama be-la de-za sustana!”
The vial carrier reaches Hecate. Kneeling humbly, she offers it up.
Hecate takes the vial in hand. She empties its contents into Charlotte’s mouth then claps her free hand over my friend’s face to prevent her from spewing it out.
Charlotte arches wildly. Her hands yank at the bindings. She cannot break free of them.
Father stifles my scream. He pulls me behind the tree so I cannot see further. I hear the drums crescendo then go immediately silent alongside cries of approval from Hecate’s minions.
I struggle for Father to release me.
He does without much fight.
I poke my head around the tree, and gaze up at the mound.
The whole of Charlotte’s body convulses. I see the chains are meant not only to restrain her whilst she lay there. They prevent her from seizing off the table. She shrivels and straightens like a green sprig thrown upon a flame.
Hecate casts a pouch into the fire. Its flames transform to an emerald hue to match her eyes. She places her hands about the ram’s jaws. Kisses its nose. Then cranes her neck back and howls joyously.
Those in the circle cheer louder.
I cannot look upon Charlotte anymore. I put my face to the ground for the earth to soak up my tears. I feel my body lifted as Father bears me away from the madness.
He strides knowingly back the way we first came, almost as if he laid a trail of crumbs to follow. Not until we are a hundred yards from the gathering does he set me down. He grips my face with his calloused hands. “Go,” he whispers. “Ride for home.”
I shake my head.
“Do it, child,” he insists. “And quiet—”
A witch’s war cry cuts him off. Father pitches me aside.
I land in a patch of brambles. Hear scuffling not a few feet from me.
“They’re here!” a craggy voice yells. “Mistress, I’ve found—”
I hear a grunt and then the voice is silenced.
A hand reaches for me. I scream ere recognizing Father. His face is bloodied. So too is the dagger in his hand. He pulls me free of the brambles and leads me, running, through the trees.
The thrashing of brushwood follows us.
I glance over my shoulder, and instantly wish I had could unsee the fast-moving torchbearers giving us chase.
“Come back!” Voices maliciously cackle. “Come back to play!”
Father stops. He drops to earth and pulls me down with him. “Wait here,” he whispers.
He is on his feet and vanishes ere I can speak against it.
I place my cheek against the cold ground like a scolded pup. With darkness and little foliage about me I feel naked and vulnerable to any who might pass. I spot a fallen tree but ten yards away. The long scar up the side tells me lightning felled the tree. I crawl toward it.
A cackle is cut short, replaced with cries of pain.
“They’re here! Fetch the mistress—” Another voice is silenced.
The tree is five yards away.
“Nooo!” A third voice is cut down.
Two yards.
A cloaked figure appears where I previously lay. It halts to sniff the air.
I crawl into the hollow of the tree to shield me. The dead bark chips easily away. Insects making their homes in it slither over my body. I bite my lip to not scream as I bat them away. It does little good. I feel them crawling down my collar and over my arms.
“-Arah?”
Father…he came back for me! I squirm free of the wood to run for him. Then I hear the laughter echoing throughout the woods, quickly joined by the mirthful hooting and crows of others. I cower back inside the hollow.
“Torches,” Hecate says somewhere in the dark.
Near twenty are lit in a halo of light, and I barely outside their perimeter. Indeed, it seems a
miracle no one discovered me. A torchbearer, an Indian brave with blood painted all over his body, stands but fifteen yards away from me. In the broken moon rays, he looks a demon cast out of Hell. His body twitches subtly for wont of Devil’s powder. I see him grin at the prey they have surrounded.
Father…
He stands in the middle of the circle. His rifle aim trained on Hecate. “Who are you?” he demands.
Hecate steps toward him. “Do you not know a witch when you see one, good doctor? I thought surely one such as you would recognize the Devil’s daughter when she stands before you.”
The ring of followers laughs with their mistress.
“The Devil has no daughter,” Father says.
“Oh, but He does,” she coos. “And you helped birth her…Dr. Campbell.”
Dr. Campbell…My mind reels with the accusation. She confuses him. Mistakes him for an evil man. A poor resemblance mayhap—
“That man died in Salem,” Father replies quickly, confirming my belief. “Along with all the other evils there.”
“Not all of them,” Hecate says. “And you are Dr. Campbell. It may have taken nineteen years to find you, but I will never forget the face of the man responsible for my fate in Salem.”
“Seek you out Thomas Putnam then,” Father says. “It be little secret—”
“I have,” Hecate cuts him off, stepping closer still. “My Salem sisters and I visited him in due course. So, too, did we find his wife, his brothers, and his brother-in-law. In time, we will find the others who played their parts. But you…” She shivers, but I gather it is not due to the cold. “I have desired you most of all.”
Even from where I lay, I can see the delight dancing in her eyes.
“Young, handsome, Dr. Campbell.” Hecate relishes his name. “Tell me, sir. Did you feel an evil presence near the night you fled, hunting you for a betrayer? It found me instead. Took me under its wing and taught me the dark arts of your science.”
“Step no further,” Father warns, his aim poised at her heart.
“Your drugs made me as I am.” Hecate spits. “Aye, and blackened my good name for all time with it.”
Father sneers. “And what be your cursed name?”
“Why, I am Hecate!” She turns and plays to her crowd. “The Devil’s daughter, sir.”
I cringe at their mockery of Father.
Hecate grins spitefully at him. “Do you not recognize me yet, Dr. Campbell?”
The ring of witches takes up her claim. “Dr. Campbell…” they whisper. “Dr. Campbell...”
“He died in Salem!” Father insists.
“As did the innocent girl I once was,” Hecate shrieks back. “Hecate rose from her putrid corpse with a vengeful claim for the nineteen souls you bid my Salem sisters and I condemn to the gallows!”
I see movement high in the trees. A noose dangles over Father’s head where he cannot see, flung over one of the highest branches. I try to call out. Warn him.
My voice will not work.
“Then back to Hell with you,” Father shouts. “And see its fires stoked for me!”
Hecate’s minions let the noose fall round Father’s neck. I witness it tighten as they lift his entire body into the air with a great heave.
Father’s aim is thrown. His rifle barks. The light of the shot is blinding, made worse with the smoke it produces.
My cry goes unheeded amidst the shouting, scuffling, and war cries that follow.
Hecate yet stands when the smoke clears. Blood trickles from the open wound in her shoulder. She seems not pained by it, unconscious of it even.
Father has been uprooted. His toes dangle within an inch of the ground. His arms wave freely in torture.
But there is the minions’ misstep.
Father raises his hands over his head. Grasping the taut rope, he pulls himself up enough to breathe. I see his muscles straining to keep the weight of his body from pulling him down.
Hecate snatches a torch from one of her followers. She removes her hood and tears off her mask of raven feathers. Tangled, rat-colored hair spills over her shoulders. She stops shy of Father, holding the torch before her wild face. “Do you recognize me now, Dr. Campbell?”
Father’s face is purple, his strength waning.
Hecate tiptoes around him. “Do you think on your family? I laugh at your calamity, sir, and will mock the fear I bring upon them! Their destruction comes like a whirlwind for the anguish you caused me!”
Hecate throws away her torch. She jumps and grabs hold of the rope. Her added weight yanks Father higher. His mouth soundlessly opens and closes like a barn door caught by an unrelenting wind.
The voices in the circle begin to chant. “Ersna tela pox-igada! Kruca mera tashee-dada!”
“Call upon me to stop!” Hecate taunts. “I will not answer!”
“Ersna tela pox-igada! Kruca mera tashee-dada!”
She releases her hold on the rope.
Father falls a few feet. His body bounces beneath his own weight. A low gurgle escapes his lips.
Hecate’s followers hold strong.
Father’s feet again dangle and kick an inch from the ground, desperate to find any small hold to leverage upon.
“Curse them!” Hecate addresses her audience. “Hang them! We damned without care.” She points at Father in a demonic rage. “Tomorrow, his daughter’s scalp I shall wear!”
She reaches into her robe and from it produces her dagger. Holding it in both hands, she sneers at Father. “But now, Dr. Campbell…it’s your turn to die.”
“To die,” the crowd chants. “To die.”
“I offer you to Satan, sir, and so—”
Hecate strides quickly to Father…and plunges the dagger deep into his chest.
“Goodbye!”
-10-
My screams go on long after Hecate’s crowd finishes their own joyous cry.
Rough hands grab me ere I can run.
I punch and kick to no effect.
Hecate’s worshippers drag me before her. They restrain me near the pendulum of death that is my Father’s body, the rope creaking with his weight at every tock. I see Hecate’s blade buried to its hilt inside him. A river of blood pulses from it, feeding the growing pool beneath his feet.
“Sarah…” Hecate sings my name.
My captors force me to look at her.
Her angelic face and creamy skin bear no trace of the pockmarks, or scabs littering the picked faces of those around her. She lightly traces one of her fingers over the bruise on my cheek where Father struck me. “Did you find truth in the gift I gave you?”
“I…I…”
“Yes. I see it in your eyes! You learned truth, as I did, and were so grateful you brought me a gift in return.” Hecate laughs and shoves my father’s body.
I shut my eyes of the sight, but cannot block out the creaking of wood and rope.
“And now you wish to dance with your moon sisters in celebration. Come.” She bids me rise with a touch of her hand. “Let us dance with your friend, Ruth. We shall fetch her tonight and remedy what your father afflicted her with.”
I hear the pendulum tick.
“Please…” I beg of her. “Please let me go.”
“But I made a promise to your father,” Hecate says. “I cannot recant unless you would join us.”
“You mistook him…H-he is…his name is P-Paul Kelly.”
“Poor, innocent girl. He spoke many lies to me also.” Hecate strokes my cheek. “Look at me…”
I open my eyes. Stare into her green orbs that sparkle in the firelight.
“No. This can’t be. You’ve learned nothing, have you?” Hecate frowns. “Spineless as your father, you’d flee this instant if I allowed it.”
“I-I—”
Hecate turns to her followers. “What say you all? Should Dr. Campbell’s daughter join us…or him?”
Someone touches my hair and sniffs it.
“Such a pretty thing…” a deep male voice says lustful
ly.
I mean to slap him, but there are several strangers hovering about me.
They laugh in my face.
Backing away, I trip over my dress.
The strangers surround me. A crone with crazed eyes and black-stained teeth pokes at me. “You will join us, won’t you, dear?”
“Join us!” a man calls.
“Aye!” another girl appears, scratching at her pockmarked and bleeding cheeks. “Welcome, sister!”
I cover my face with my arms. “Help me! Someone, please!”
Hecate’s followers cackle. “Help me! Help me!” the collection of voices shouts over one another. “She cries. She cries!”
“Pray, not to her father…”
“He dies! He dies!”
“Leave me alone!” I shout.
“She does not wish to join us?”
“The poor little dear—”
“Look on Hecate”—the crone grabs my chin—“and you will learn fear!”
Hecate pushed the crazed woman aside. With a raised hand, she silences the group. “Sarah Campbell,” she says quietly. “It is now your turn…”
“Her turn,” the crowd whispers. “Her turn…”
“Which will it be, girl?” Hecate steps aside to allow me a glimpse of my fate: several of her manservants stacking a pyre of logs. “Join us, or burn?”
I shake my head and moan.
The witches cackle at my tears.
Something whizzes past my ear.
The witch nearest me falls at my feet.
Another drops beside her, and then a man.
All have arrows shot through their hearts.
The circle of followers erupts with screams at the murder of their companions. Some search for the source. Most scatter into the woods. The few building my execution pyre leave it to protect Hecate, their mistress.
Another witch seeking escape falls in front of me with a long arrow embedded through her throat.
I look to the woods. See the torchlights extinguished one by one; swallowed by the woods, or some unseen presence that makes their bearers cry out ere they are silenced.
A shriek near Hecate wills me back. One of her guards falls with an arrow through his temple.
The others tighten their circle around her.
Another whooshes past me and a second guard falls, this one with an arrow through the neck. He seizes on the ground, trying to remove the arrow even as his lifeblood slips away.
