The Secret

By Janet Baldey

          Harald drew back his arm and an arrow soared into the sky.  Tense, he stood watching, then scowled as it fell short. With a snort of disgust, he tossed away his bow, threw himself flat and lay kicking the ground, his heels sending spurts of dust floating upwards.  

         ‘I’m bored.’

         Alain’s eyes flicked towards his friend. Unease fingered his heart. When Harald was bored, mischief followed and afterwards it was always he who tasted the whip while Harald escaped with a merry toss of his blond head.

         His friend sat up, a grin dimpling his face.

         ‘I know!  Let’s find the witch.’

         The crescent shaped birthmark under Alain’s breastbone started to itch and his stomach cramped. The witch had an evil reputation, it was rumoured she stole new-born infants to roast over her fire.  He looked upwards, although the sky was still blue, the sun had started its downward slide and the shadows had a sharper edge.  Soon it would be curfew when they barred the castle gates and if they weren’t back to help Cook prepare the evening meal, it was they who would be roasted.

         He looked at his friend and saw scorn lurking behind his smile. Although he was by far the bigger boy, Harald was a year senior and never let him forget it; the slightest sign of fear and he would be called a ‘babe in arms.’

         So, he nodded, feeling as though his head was controlled by strings.

         In a flash, Harald was up and darting towards the drawbridge.  Luckily, the day was hot and the guard had downed numerous draughts of ale. As fleet as deer, they slipped past his slumped figure and ran out of the castle and over the moat towards the greensward separating the village from the wilderness beyond.

         At last, their lungs on fire, they threw themselves down at the foot of a grassy hill and squirmed on their bellies towards the top, Harald leading the way. Just before his head crested the summit, he turned and placed a finger on his lips before parting the long grass.

         A rotting pile of wood, masquerading as a cottage, was slowly decaying at the bottom of the hill.  They lay, hardly daring to breathe and as they watched, its entrance darkened and a grotesque figure emerged into the late afternoon sunshine. At first, a matted tangle of hair obscured its face, but when it raised its head they gasped. Its features looked fashioned in clay by a spiteful child; it was difficult to tell whether it was male or female. Their unspoken question was answered when the creature waddled forwards and with a grunt, hoisted its rags, squatted and released a flood of steaming urine.  As the stench wafted towards them, Alain retched and the witch sprang up, her hairy nostrils flaring. Jerking her head upwards she stared in their direction.  Even from a distance they saw her eyes glow like hot coals and she let out a screech rivalling that of a pig being slaughtered. Stooping only to grab a handful of round, white objects the witch hitched up her skirts and lumbered towards them.

         ‘Run’, shouted Harald but Alain’s legs were already pumping.  As they fled, the witch picked up speed and pelted them with the missiles but the boys were fuelled by fear and soon her screams faded into the distance.

         Deaf to the guard’s outraged bellows, they streaked into the castle grounds and ran until their legs shook. Collapsing against a dank stone wall, they slid to the ground, their breath rasping their throats.  Alain felt Harald’s fingers digging into his arm and heard his hoarse whisper.

         ‘Did you see what she threw at us?’  

         Harald’s eyes bulged, his face was ashen and his freckles stood out like breadcrumbs sprinkled upon snow.

         ‘They were skulls, Alain.  Little, tiny skulls’.

        

         Tossing and turning in his narrow cot, Alain couldn’t sleep. His birthmark was throbbing and every time he drifted off, he awoke in a sweaty terror, dreaming he was drowning in a pit of ivory bones while the witch capered above him.

         ‘Hush, my love. It’s just a bad dream.’

         His mother’s hands, cool as river water, stroked his forehead. Alain could bear it no longer, he was tired of being frightened.  He nestled his head against her breast.

‘Mother….’

As he told his tale, his mother’s body stiffened and his words trailed away as he glanced at her. Her head was bent and she sat quite still, her expression hidden beneath a waterfall of ash blonde hair.

At last, she roused and shook her head.

‘She’s just a lost soul. Touched in the head.  Forget about her.’

Rising, she left the room.

 

Of all the people he knew, Alain hated the Cook the most. Gross and evil tempered, he treated those working under him with spiteful cruelty. While his own belly overflowed his breeches, he slapped away the hands of hungry kitchen boys sneaking scraps destined for swill.  In return for turning spits all day, they were rewarded with a single mug of gruel but a surfeit of kicks.   

One market day, when Alain out was with his parents, he spied his persecutor waddling towards them and his heart sank.  Knowing the man’s malicious nature, he stepped to one side but as the Kitchenmaster drew abreast, the man deliberately changed course and barged into him, his heavy bulk sending him flying.

‘Out of the way, boy.’

His falsetto voice sliced through the hubbub.

Alain lay, drinking puddle water. Rage flooded his mind.

‘I wish you dead old man,’ he thought.

There was a crash, followed by silence. Then, women began to scream and men shouted, deepening the tumult.

         Startled, Alain sat up, wiping mud from his eyes.

         The Kitchenmaster lay sprawled under a barrowload of spilled golden russets, his face as red and swollen as a turkey’s wattle.         

         He looked around for his parents; they were standing a little way off staring, not at the fallen man, but at Alain;  their faces twin masks of despair.

 

         Alain heard his mother sobbing as he neared the cottage.  Entering, he saw his father comforting her; their heads pressed close together.

         Hearing the creak of the door, his parents looked up:  his mother’s face was streaked by tears.

         ‘Mother?’  

         Quickly, his father rose, holding up a hand to block his advance.

         ‘Son, there is something you should know.’ Alain frowned, his father’s voice sounded strange; it was off-kilter, like a bell with a hairline crack. 

         ‘Before you were born, my wife and I longed for children but we had no live births. We both grieved deeply and at last, I plucked up courage and went to the Witch for a potion. I went expecting a hag but was spellbound by the evil creature and saw, not her, but the phantasm of a beautiful girl.’

         He stared at the floor.

         ‘I was given no potion but was told to go home and wait. Nine months later, a basket containing a babe was left at our door.  A note was pinned upon its shawl. The babe was ours for a while. It said we would know when it was time to return the child.’

         He gave a deep shuddering sigh.

         ‘We will always love you, my son, but now you must go back to your true home.’

The seconds lengthened, and the innocence in Alain’s eyes faded:  when he spoke, his voice was wary.

         ‘What are you saying Father?’

         ‘Son, you are not your mother’s child. You bear the witch’s mark.’

         He lifted the boy’s shirt to reveal the half moon, glowing scarlet under his breastbone.

         ‘No!’   The word erupted from Alain’s mouth. He shook his head wildly until his coarse black hair stood on end, his thick eyebrows drew together in a scowl and his body started to swell.

         His father stepped backwards;  the love on his face changing to fear.

         Then, the only mother that Alain had ever known, spoke; her voice husky as if the words were being dragged from her.

         ‘Alain, do you recall what happened in the market place. When the kitchenmaster threw you to the ground, did you wish him ill?  Alain, we fear you have powers that can harm.  Powers that will grow just as your body does.  ‘Tis not safe to keep you with us.’ 

         Alain stared at his mother, mixed emotions of guilt and horror plain upon his face.    He whirled and fled outside where he stood trembling in the darkness.  He’d meant the Cook no real harm, ‘twas not his fault.  Hate welled as he realised how his parents had lied to him.  He wished they were…. his fist blocked his mouth and he tasted blood.  He squeezed his eyes shut, his lids glowing pink as he felt his heart pounding, like a mailed fist on an oak door. He fought to bring himself under control and when at last, his rage ebbed, he slumped against the cottage wall, his body weak and drained.  Slowly, he raised his head, moonlight washed over his face and as it did, a great weight rolled away.  Suddenly, he knew how to end his misery. He would wish himself dead.  He had the Power.  But, he would be so lonely in the afterlife without parents, for all their faults he loved them dearly.

         He felt no pang as their bodies thudded to the floor. After all, they would soon be together, reunited in some magical kingdom beyond the stars.  ‘I’m coming’, he thought as he willed himself dead.  Minutes passed and nothing happened.  Gritting his teeth, he concentrated harder. ‘Die,’ he commanded.  But no matter how many images of death he conjured, his heart beat with a steady rhythm. With rising panic, he rushed inside, grabbed a kitchen knife and stabbed himself repeatedly. The pain was immense but when the knife was removed his flesh healed over and not a drop of his blood was shed.  Bawling and wailing, he blundered about the cottage, beating his head against the walls, begging for death but still the breath in his treacherous body refused to still.

         When, at last all hope had gone and he’d found his way to his only refuge, he learned the true price of evil.  His stomach rebelling against the sour smell of her breath, he lay half smothered in the foetid embrace of his birth mother and listened as she whispered their secret.

         ‘Witches and their kinfolk live forever.’

 

Copyright Janet Baldey

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        

 

 

 

 

 

 

KAYA KOY (Ghost Village)

(Vacated during Turkish/Greek repatriation 1923)

By Peter Woodgate

I climb your polished cobbles

seeking visions of the past

but your grey and weathered walls

have vacant eyes;

The sun beats down exposing

unprotected frames,

bones, without the flesh,

beneath the skies.

 

And when the sun sinks low,

quenching daylight thirsts,

night will cast her shadows

on the scene;

A whisper, through the silence,

is all that can be heard,

as creatures roam the paths

where souls have been.

 

Tell me what your thoughts are,

do you resent all humankind,

for deserting, leaving feelings of mistrust?

And do the spirits linger,

in the by-ways of your heart,

weeping, as you slowly turn to dust?  

Copyright Peter Woodgate

 

 

One of the moment.

One of the moment.

Brexit

Rob Kingston

They put the boat of cohesion to sea

Plied it with lies and ambiguity 

Stirred the ocean, steadied her down

Docked her gently filled up with clowns

They set out their stall, expecting no one to guess

No embarrassment followed for they couldn't care less

They have what they wanted through division they rule

Now comes the bloodletting as our society stalls

The serpents had risen defending their quest

Among them the cobra who dithered and guessed

He stood there in yellow proud and astute

Now awaiting his lordship with other cahoots

Enter stage left the Blairites all stream

This man of cohesion is dead they all deem

Plying the media who from him had strayed

Disgrace to this nation leaving laymen they've played.

Copyright Rob Kingston

Time ~ The Acolyte

Time  ~  The Acolyte 

By Len Morgan

Two tree sparrows perched on one of his outstretched arms, arguing gregariously with regular comments from other pairs perched nearby.   Morlen stood on a four-foot stump, arms akimbo, eyes closed, swaying gracefully in a light spring breeze, to all intents and purposes he was a tree.   Neither the sparrows nor their neighbours had any doubts.   The hen bird was busy scolding her mate completely unconcerned by her perch.

“Boy, you’ve been at it for two hours.   I think we can safely assume your concentration and visualisation are acceptable, but can you tell me what they are saying?”

“She’s saying, (the birds took to the wing in alarm, talking trees did not fall within their experience), I’m not tall enough and have insufficient foliage.   She wants him to build their nest higher.”   He dropped from the stump, landing lightly on the balls of his feet.   Don’t be alarmed, little sister.   It is I Morlen, we have spoken before, and I mean you no harm.

The very idea!   Talking with humans, it’s disgusting, the cock scolded her.   Come away, its mind is filled with hunger.

Reynon chuckled, “I did warn you they look down their beaks at anything that cannot fly.”

“Flight!” said Morlen following their path, with his eyes, to the higher safer nesting boughs.

Reynon scratched his frizzy grey beard noisily, “No, we’ve wasted enough time on that one, when you’re ready you will fly, till then you’ll just have to be patient.”   He spread a cloth over the tree stump and loaded it with sausage bread cheese fruits pies and a bottle of new wine.  Seeing the disappointment on Morlen’s face he shook his head and smiled, relenting.   “Okay!  Eat and drink then you can have two hours free time for your flying.   You have the ability; all you need is a little patience and application.   The second level will come in its own time!”

.-…-.

“A three hundred mile journey, do we have to fly all the way?”  Morlen asked.

“Of course we don’t, just a few miles, there's a shortcut we can take to Enchanters Island,”  Reynon answered in mind speak, “we could walk, or we could always use the Terminus – you do have the key after all.”

“We’ve been through that before, it’s just a ring!   I know, I had it when I arrived two years ago, long before I knew anything of Magic…”

 “But, don’t you see?   I was attracted to the magic in the key.   I was searching for signs of magic or latent ability.   When I found you the key was on your finger, pulsating, if it hadn’t been, the Gyrax would have been the fatter by one medium-sized boy.”

“But, you didn’t save me!” said Morlen indignantly.

“Correct!  It was the ring that saved you.”

Morlen thought for a moment and absently looped a loop, “Okay, lead the way…” 

 Two Gyre Falcon’s angled down towards a rocky outcrop a mile beyond Gyraxs’ lair.    They landed, morphing to human form as Reynon and Morlen.   Immediately the ring started to glow.

“That signifies the Terminus is nearby.   We climb down a chimney, about a hundred feet, here it is,” Reynon sounded triumphant.

Peering down into the shaft Morlen could see a faint pink glow.   There were foot and handholds cut into the rock walls.   So, with Reynon leading the way they climbed down, aided by the strange diffused light.   Its intensity increased as they went deeper but disappeared the instant he stepped off into the lower chamber.   They negotiated a shallow incline.   Morlen could see the ring was glowing more intently now.

“This is the door,” said Reynon, pointing to a wall with strange markings on it. “Touch it with the key.”   Morlen reached out nervously with his left hand and a section of the wall disappeared, revealing a small dimly lit cell.   “In you go,” as they entered the wall returned.  

“We’re trapped!”  Morlen’s voice squeaked.   A panel of buttons appeared on the wall.

“Press number five boy.”    Morlen obeyed and it lit up, “Now press it again.”

“But nothing happened.”

“Do as I say, boy.”

He pressed it again and the door opened.   His olfactory senses were assaulted by the heady perfume of aromatic herbs and medicinal plants.   A kaleidoscope of colours aroma’s and sounds bewildered, and confused him. 

 Reynon led Morlen from the Terminus in a drunken stupor.   “Sensory overload,” he explained.  “It’s a little excessive, but in a few years you should get used to living here in Kryft.”

“You said we were coming to Enchanters Island, nothing was said about staying,” said Morlen.

“You object?   You don’t want to stay,” Reynon sounded surprised.

“I’d prefer not if you don’t mind.”

“Reynon!   I see you just made the deadline, by the skin of your eyelids, again.   Two hours more and I would have had my old job back.”

“Anthrax!   Brother of mine, I wish I could say I’m sorry for your demise…”

“Don’t speak too soon brother, you’re not away yet, there is still the small matter of the testing?”

“I have no fears on that count brother, he’s a real find, You’ll not be rejecting Morlen.   Better luck in five years time.”   He turned to Morlen, “this is my elder brother and twin, Anthrax.   He will continue your training.”

“You mean you want me to stay here while you return to the real world.   I think not, I’m leaving with you!”

“Now don’t be difficult boy, this is all illusion designed to keep unwanted guests away.   Reduce the sensitivity of your senses and things will return to normal—how’s that?”

Morlen nodded, “better.”

Time  ~  The Testing

He opened his eyes, in complete darkness.   He lay on a hard unyielding surface that seemed to sway drunkenly with each breath he took.   He steadied himself gingerly and reached out above his head and to the sides.   He realized then that he was perched on a swinging four by two-foot platform suspended on chains attached to its four corners.   After two minutes he still could not penetrate the blackness.   He attempted to unleash a light spell, without success, then he tried a revealing spell and finally in desperation a transference spell, nothing worked.   He opened his mind tentatively, seeking the minds of others.   There were no extraneous thoughts, not even from lower-order creatures.   He was forced to accept that this place did not allow magic.   He shivered with fear, for two years he had concentrated solely on learning magic, now he found that magic was denied him.   He realized that he was on his own, reliant only on his mind and his body.   He smiled grimly; he should have known that Raynon would not play by the rules.

He sat on the platform using it as a swing, to determine the limitations of his prison.   He swung in all directions without making contact with the walls.   He climbed up the two chains, as far as he could go, and discovered that the ceiling was a smooth but unyielding rock.   One chain was fastened to a large ring firmly embedded in the rock.   The other was attached to a rams-horn hook.        He couldn’t get out through the roof or reach the walls.   His only choice was to go down.   But, even hanging from the platform and stretching his legs out he could not feel the ground.   It could be a few feet or a mile below; there was no way of knowing.  He thought of dropping something and timing the duration of its fall but all he wore was a linen shirt and pantaloons.   He thought a while then stood at one end of the plank, raising it until he could grasp both chains then he climbed as far as he could using both, then transferred all his weight to the one attached to the open hook whilst still holding on to the other loose chain.   He succeeded in looping it over the open hook and transferring his weight to it.    This allowed him to unhook the other chain and allow it to fall into the dark abyss.   He listened.   He’d succeeded in doubling the length of the chain but it still did not reach the ground.   He slid down to the platform and beyond until he was hanging from the lower end of the double-length chain.   His arms were aching, burning from the effort involved.   Still, he felt and saw nothing, and the ground could still be a mile below.   He climbed back up so that he could loop the chain between his legs and looping it over his shoulders to give respite to his arm and leg muscles.

.-…-.

He remembered their arrival and Reynon warning him that testing started as soon as he set foot on the isle.   He’d been taken to quarters in the student wing and told to wait.   He became drowsy and fell asleep.   He awoke with many hands restraining him.   His mouth was forced open, and a quantity of liquid poured down his throat.  

A voice said, “That should dampen his magic,” then he lost consciousness.

.-…-.

He became angry at the realisation that his magic had been stolen.   He used the anger to fire his adrenalin reserves.   Pulling down the front of his pants he urinated a short burst, counting 1-apple, 2-apple, 3-apple, 4…  He heard a faint distant splash.   He was too high to survive a fall.   He repeated the experiment until his bladder was empty but the result was the same.   He lowered himself down the chain and wrapped it around one wrist.  Grasping above it with the other hand he started to swing from side to side until his feet touched a wall.   On the backward swing, he found his feet again touched a wall.   After half a dozen swings in various directions, he concluded that the wall must be circular.   Each time he made contact he walked a few steps anti-clockwise until he judged he’d made a complete revolution.   He took another rest and climbed a few feet higher then repeated another circuit.   He took another rest then tied a loop in the chain, into which he put his foot.   He continued to swing, finding it progressively harder to touch the walls.   It seemed he’d been at it for hours, it was difficult to judge time in complete darkness, there were no reference points.   He was wracking his brain for an alternative course of action when a contact produced a different sound; a hollow sound.   He swung back higher and faster and made contact with the wall, harder than intended.   The wind was forced from his lungs and he was violently sick, still dangling from the chain.   He heaved a second time and tasted the sour stomach juices, which caused him to heave again.   Subconsciously, he cast a soothing spell and the sickness subsided.

 “It worked.” He yelled and tried a light spell.   In the early light given off, he could see a door and a platform.   He swung as close as he could and jumped, grasping the door ring he clung on and swung himself onto the platform.

.-…-.

Reynon roared his delight.   “Well brother, when have you ever heard of an apprentice escaping from the cistern?   Its only purpose is to humble them before the real training begins…”

“He’s not out yet, and his time is running out.”

“He’s negated your damping potion, He’s reclaimed his magic, no other has ever done that.” He smirked, “You’ve lost!   I think you owe me a keg of fortified Vaspellian wine.”

“Wait—“ said Anthrax, as the door handle to the Cistern turned.  

“No!” Reynon gasped.  The door fell inwards, laying flat like a bridge into the abyss.   Reynon fell silent.  

“You caught him?” Anthrax asked of the trainee Magicians who were there to keep Morlen from harm, and rescue him at the end of two and a half hours or, if he fell.

“The web is still in place, if he’d fallen we’d have caught him,” the oldest trainee magician answered. 

Reynon walked slowly to the gaping door.   He stood there for several moments, a hand appeared at the edge of the door, then another, and the old man smiled spontaneously.  Shortly after Morlen’s head and shoulders came into view.   He stepped forward to congratulate his Acolyte but was confronted by a cold uncompromising stare, he backed off.   Seconds later the other apprentices hoisted Morlen onto their shoulders and carried him through the town in triumph.

“I don’t think you’re his favourite person at this moment in time,” Anthrax whispered.

Reynon shrugged, but the hurt was clearly visible in his face.

An ornately dressed messenger boy approached and announced, “Reynon, your presence is required in the council chamber,” so it was that he learned, the Oracle wanted him to travel to Central as chief Druid to Gregorius XIV.   His name would be Aetemus, and he was to leave immediately.

.-…-.

On the following day, Morlen lined up with twenty-three other apprentices to be chosen by one of five clutch mentors Masters: Brox and Agaric, Mistresses: Decamon, Tamrose and Poskiss.   Tradition was for five clutches of four students but this year there were four additional students.   It had been assumed that each clutch would take one additional student, but when there were four unclaimed students remaining the clutch mentors refused to choose further.

“Either you each select an additional clutch member or I will appoint an additional clutch mentor,” the chief counsellor warned.   There was a long pause punctuated by nervous coughing.   “Very well then, I appoint…”

“No need!   I would be honoured to mentor a clutch chosen for me by my eminent colleagues,” said Anthrax.   “I am gratified you chose so unselfishly, I find that I have been ceded the cream of the crop!”   He smiled warmly at the four young rejects, “Miss Cerelle, Mr Zatticus, Mr Hurk and of course Mr Morlen,” he shook their hands warmly and bowed to each in turn.  

He received sympathetic smiles from three of the Mentors but hostile glares from Agaric and Poskiss.

“Why Master Agaric, Mistress Poskiss, have I done something to offend?”

Agaric said, “Not in words but, you have caused offence.   I cannot believe this august body could be taken in by your deception…”

“Deception? How so, cousin.”

“Do not imply kinship where none exists, I will state it plain so there is no doubt in anybody's mind.  Anthrax you aided your brother's apprentice in the first test.   It has remained unchanged since the dawn of time.”

“We are all aware of that,” said Anthrax.    

“The code forbids forewarning…”

“Of course, they are expected to fail the first test it teaches them humility, keeps their feet planted squarely on the ground and their minds firmly in touch with reality.   If anything I would attempt to ensure his failure.   In fact his success cost me a fine keg of wine!”   There was muted laughter at this.

“You have made a mockery of everything we stand for,” said Poskiss.

“I did not train him, Reynon did so.   Why would anybody waste time training an apprentice for failure?   We train them to succeed but the odds of this particular game are heavily stacked against them.   It greatly reduces their chance of success but doesn’t eliminate it totally. ”

“I know he must have been forewarned,” Agaric glared at Anthrax.

“Then select one of your own clutch to duplicate his feat, with the benefit of hindsight, else apologise to me and the boy!”

Agaric clenched his fists, shook his head, and features distorted with rage.  

“It will not end here. There is a case to be answered,” said Poskiss, she wheeled theatrically and followed Agaric out of the council chamber.

To be continued (one day)/... 

THE INTERROGATION

 THE INTERROGATION

by Richard Banks                         

“Do you know who I am?”

         What shall I tell him? That I know him for the murderer he is, the man who has killed more folk in these parts than any soldier of King or Parliament. The Lord's work he calls it. He holds the bible when he says that, turns the pages to Exodus 22.18, then reads what it says: 'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live'. But who are the witches? Is every old woman with a gargoyle face a witch? For it is mainly them that hang. Few men are witches, neither are there many that are young – maid or man. So why me, why have I been accused? Me, Tilly Roe, not yet twenty years of age. What have I done? Who has spoken against me? Someone has.

         “Do you hear me, mistress?”

         “I do, sir.” I must be polite, humble. If this man takes against me, I am lost.

         “Then what is your answer?”

         “You are the Witchfinder General, sir, come to rid us of those who worship Satan and do harm against God's people.”

         “And are you one of God's people?”        

         “I am, sir, truly I am. And whoever says different speaks not the truth.” I look him in the eye like my father taught me; that, he says, is the mark of an honest person. Does the Witchfinder know that? He looks uneasy. Perhaps he thinks I try to enchant him? I look down at his hands. He takes a pen

from the table at which he sits and writes something down on a sheet of paper.

         “Your accusers are five. Can they all be lying?”

         “But who, sir, are my accusers? Am I to hear what they say?”

         “Of course. That is the purpose of this interview. I put forward the evidence against you. Your answer. If you answer well you go free. If not, you will be arraigned at the sessions in Chelmsford. We work within the law, Mistress Roe. The innocent have nothing to fear. Are you fearful Mistress? Your face is pale. What has drained it of its maiden's glow?”

         “I am tired, sir. The searchers would not let me sleep. They kept me standing all night in my night shift.”

         “And did they search your body for unholy marks?”

         “They did, sir.”

         Then they have done their duty well and you should be grateful to them. They watch for Satan, for his familiars that feed on witches blood. They can not suffer you to lie down. A bed has unseen places; there can be no watching there.”

         I pretend gratitude to the searchers. Say I will remember them in my prayers. Does he soften towards me? His face is without expression. He takes up another piece of paper full of writing.

         “Can you read, Mistress?”

         I tell him no.

         “Then I will read for you. Have you know that this is the testimony of Ann Cook spoken to me two days ago. She is your first accuser.

         “And what does she say, sir?”

         “That you did steal by witchcraft the affection of Tom Hewer, who was Mistress Cook's sweetheart, and that you did cast a spell by which you made her unwell of the sweating sickness. And furthermore that you did come to her when she was hot with fever in the form of a satanic imp boasting of all you have done. What sayeth you?”

         “I cast no spells, sir. Tom and Ann quarrelled. That is why he left her. It was no doing of mine. Neither did I bid him to come to me. It was he who did the courting, as all men should.”

         “So Tom Hewer is now your sweetheart and not Ann's?”

         “But not by witchcraft, sir.”

         He looks thoughtful, writes down his thoughts, returns his pen to the inkwell. He seeks to catch me out. Honesty is not enough, my cunning must be the match of his or he will ensnare me.

         “So if Tom Hewer was not bewitched and you did not draw him to you why did he choose you instead of one of the other maidens in the village. There are ten are there not? Comely maids, so I be told, four with marriage portions, one a miller's daughter. Yet he chose you the cuckoo in the nest, the foundling child with heathen, gipsy blood. Why you?”

         “Should you not be asking this of him?”

         “But I'm asking you, Mistress Roe. Surely he told you why he loved you?”

         “He did, sir. He told me many things that should stay a secret between lovers. But this I will tell you, that he thought me loving and kind which is more than Ann Cook ever was.”

         “So you despise Ann Cook? Is that why you put a spell on her?”

         “There was no spell, sir. Ann caught the fever last month along with two other folk. I know not why she caught it. It was nothing to do with me. I cast no spell. Neither did I visit her when she had the fever. She may think I did for when the fever is at its worse people go wandering in their thoughts and see things that never happened. But even if the imp was real why should it be me? I look no more like an imp than you or any other Christian person.”

         He looks angry, commands me not to be insolent. But my arguments are sound. He picks-up another sheet of paper, again full of writing. He asks me if I know Master and Mistress Grindley.

         “Yes sir. Master Grindley is Uncle to my Father.”

         “Your Father?”

         “Yes sir, the man who took me in when I was a foundling child.”

         “And do your Father's relatives have reason to give false testimony against you?”

         “None that I know of, sir. They have always been kind to me.”

         “So, what they say must be true?”

         “I know not, sir until I hear it.”

         “Then hear this, the testimony of Master Grindley. 'On Saturday fifth day of August I rode to Colchester where on passing the parish church my horse, a good and healthy steed, did fall to the ground and die. This being at midday when the church clock was striking the hour. At that time I saw young Tilly on the far side of the road dressed in a black cloak and hood which I never saw her wear before. And though I waved at her and called out her name she made no move to come to my aid. Indeed she stared at me with such unfriendly expression that I thought she meant me harm. When I told Mistress Grindley, my wife, of this she was much troubled because on that same day at a quarter past twelve she saw Tilly in the yard of her father's house astride a broomstick on which also sat a black cat. This we told to the curate of this parish who said it was our duty to tell all to the Witchfinder'.”

         “So Mistress Roe how did you move between two places ten miles distant in only one-quarter of an hour?”

         “Because the journey was never made, sir. I have never been to Colchester, neither do I own a black cloak or hood.”

         “So Master Grindley is also lying?”

         “No sir, Master Grindley is short of sight. Only last week he mistook a horse for a cow. I do not doubt that he thinks he saw me in Colchester but he is mistaken. I never stirred from the village that day. Ask my father and other persons who were with me.”

         “And what of the broomstick?”

         “It is a broomstick, sir. I use it to sweep the dust from the house. When Mistress Grindley sighted me I was holding it steady between my knees so my hands were free for the fixing of a new sweeping head.”

         “And the cat?”

         “What about it, sir?”

         “Is it not your familiar?”

         “No sir, it is not. It is a kitten, eight weeks born and no threat to anything bigger than a mouse. He was climbing on the broom while I was fixing it. I call him Francis after the saint who loved all God's creatures.”

         The Witchfinder is silent. He knows his evidence is not enough. If it be known at the Sessions that Master Grindley is poor of sight the case against me will surely fall. Thank goodness the Witchfinder was not able to persuade Mistress Grindley that Francis is a familiar. No doubt he tried but she stays true to what she saw. How many accusers did he say there were? Five? yes, five. So there are two left. He takes up the paper that has their words.

         “This is the evidence of Mistresses Turley and Brine.”

         “Who are they, sir?”

         “They are the searchers that watched over you; the godly woman whom you spoke so well of.” He smiles, but not pleasantly. Like me, he knows them for what they are, lewd women who take pleasure in touching the private places on a maiden's body.”

         “And what do they say?”

         “That at mid-night Satan appeared in the form of a goat that stood entirely on its hindquarters. And when they asked why it came the goat said to drink the blood of the gipsy girl who was his sister in darkness. And this it did through a mark on the gipsy's leg that was red and tender like it had been used this way many times before.”

         “I protest, sir. This never happened.”

         “So they lie too?”

         “Indeed they do.”

         “And why should they do that?”

         “I know not what is in their thoughts but, like you, they are paid for what they do. No witches, no fee. Maybe that is why they do it, or maybe they delight in doing harm? If so, they are as wicked as the devils they claim to see.”

         “Stop this ranting, woman. The searchers tell the truth. They are servants of the Lord.”

         My mind struggles to devise an answer. What can I say? Then, almost without thinking, the words I need come to me and I am speaking them. “What does the other searcher say?”

         “The other searcher?”

         “Yes, there were three. What does she say? Something else to be sure, or otherwise her words would also be on the paper you read from. What is her name, sir? I demand that her evidence also be heard.”

         “Demand what you will, witch. You will get what you deserve, not what you demand.”

         “Her name, sir?”

         He refuses to tell me. Then I remember. It was spoken by one of the other searchers: Mistress Beecham. She drank less beer than the other two, was quieter for it, hung back when the others did what they did. I confront him with the name. He looks startled, almost afraid. I press home my advantage.

         “Why have you not taken her testimony? Does she say differently from the other searchers? Is that why you are silent about her? You have sent her away, have you not, but no matter, my father will find her and we will know her words as well. And what if she says that no devil came and that you refused to hear her evidence? That would not go well for you, Witchfinder. Does the law allow you to do such things? I think not.”

         I expect him to bark back at me but he says nothing. I have him.

         “I will make a pact with you Witchfinder. Declare me innocent of all charges and in return I will be silent about what you have done. I say this with my hand on your bible. If I lie then God strike me down. ….Now, sir, all that remains is for you to write your verdict and for me to walk freely from this room.”

         He does as I request. He calls out: “Guard, Mistress Roe is leaving, there are no charges.”

         I walk out of the room into the office where the guard sits. He gets up and escorts me to the outside door. He looks surprised but says nothing. The Witchfinder sits at his desk and also says nothing. But my silence is more powerful than theirs.

         Me, more powerful than a man? What need have I to be a witch?

                                    Copyright Richard Banks

Haiku from Rob

Two More Haiku from Rob

By Robert Kingston

dilapidated duck house

still holding

an egg

First published akitsu quarterly,  September 2020

first light

the tree conjures up

a blackbird 

First published, The haiku foundation, August 2020

Copyright Robert Kingston

THE START OF ANOTHER DULL DAY

THE START OF ANOTHER DULL DAY

By Peter Woodgate

Here I am in the laboratory working on my P.H.D. thinking about the Black Death and holding up the skull of a rat.

It was the likes of this poor creature that supposedly caused that awful

Plague, it was, of course, the fleas that lived on the rats that carried the virus but being blamed for most things the poor old rat copped it. In fact, I would not be surprised if the latest virus to hit mankind (COVID 19) will eventually be blamed on “some dirty rat.”

I am now getting rather bored with this project and turn my attention to the world outside my window and am aware of a lovely blue sky. This  causes my mind to wander and I begin thinking about my girlfriend Maria, well she is not actually my girlfriend, but, being the only girl that has ever bothered to talk to me, that’s probably as close to one that I am ever likely to get.

                                                                    

I chuckle as I think back to the laughter caused when I called her malaria, well she always seemed to have a headache, especially when

I mentioned anything to do with sex. It’s no better now and I am thinking of re-naming her Virginia. Don’t think this will help my chances in getting my leg over but what the Hell!

Anyway, better get on with my studies, although this mind-wandering business has made me determined to look for the positives in life and I feel sure there is going to be a rainbow over the next hill. I am looking forward to this huge pot of gold that we will all find at the end of it.

Reality kicks in and I am suddenly aware that refraction disintegrates as we pass through the Brexit rainbow, after all,

Richard Of York Gave Battle In Vain.

Copyright Peter Woodgate