A search was called for, and for two days the whole town looked for Tamara, and for two days she lay rotting, bound to The Witches Fingers…
Weaver refused to give up when talk went to her, maybe, having absconded to Goodrest and that perhaps, she had a beau there. And so the search was widened. Tired and drained, the men walked and scoured the land before them. Weaver comforted her father, for a strange friendship bloomed between them – forged on a united love and Weaver’s steely resolve that he would find her.
‘Well if any shall, it will be you!’ her Father said bitterly through clenched teeth and he was right, of course…
It was Weaver’s cries – his anguish – that brought the terrified man and the others to where she lay, to the horrific scene of her grave.
Weaver knelt by the distressing scene of the posed girl, weeping into his hands at eyes wide open and blood stained lips where she had bit down so hard. Her bound limbs, blackened with bruises and from the time she had lain. Her once beautiful buttermilk hair tethered her head to the tree and her clothes torn from her. The Witches Fingers clutched her to its bows that were heavy, as though it cried…. for was once a lover’s rest, but never no more.
Her father stopped beside Weaver, and gently with shaken hand, touched his shoulder,
‘Leave me, boy,’ he choked, then fell to his knees.
‘No!’ Weaver cried, ‘I must! I must!’ He sobbed as he struggled with her binds, then gently untangled her hair from the tree. Running, he pushed past the crowd that formed and on to the track where he stopped – trembling violently – grief and shock clashing in an agonising assault. Reeling at what he had seen, Weaver would feel the pain later, and like a spirited wind, grief left him for now; it curled and flickered around the others but came to rest with her father where it would feast on his loss and eventually destroy him.
Crying to the Heavens, her fathere’s words were stolen by the wind which devoured his pain and grew stronger with each tear that it thieved. Gently he took his daughter in his arms and proudly he walked past the distressed onlookers who too had no words and slowly began the long walk home. Weaver took a stride beside him, holding his head high and they bore the girl all the journey home with never a word spoken… all the way home to where her brothers and sisters waited, where her mother held her breath and busied herself with a healing of sorts. She had been telling Tamara’s siblings that she had always been a wayward girl, obstinate and for sure – most probably gone off with some lad.
‘No need,’ Meddler wiped a tear privately, ‘to continue. I am sure, looking at your forlorn faces that I have described this awful history enough.’
None spoke, no words were needed.
‘I shall take a minute,’ he continued, ‘I have found this quite distressing in the telling and will just – the pictures were quite traumatizing.’ He scuffed the dusty earth beneath feet.
‘Why, why, why, Malachi?’ could be heard. ‘This is painful, indeed.’ He put his hand into the pocket for forgetting that Nella had sewn him. Pensively, he fished around in it for what seemed an age.
‘Come on!’ Harry said. ‘There is no need to tell the rest is there? After all, we know the worst of it and the reason for the superstition.’
Meddler’s eyes, shadowed by the enormous hat, looked wild as Harry spoke.
‘But I must, Harry, do you see? This is all meant to be and all must be disclosed. The boy, Weaver, suspicion fell upon him. But Tamara’s father championed him; in truth, all knew him not capable and was just the fear of the thoughts that weighed heavy on this town. At the inquest the town doctor gently omitted to say that – in fact, she had been tortured prior to death and instead said that her injuries had been received post mortem and that she had fell and hit her head in a struggle. Continuing, that the ritualistic type marks left on her body were akin to a childish prank, but whose were they?
An experiment followed; any who would volunteer were asked to make their mark on a pig’s hind. Her father was spared this office and thankfully the knowing of it – those that did not volunteer could not be accused for lack of evidence but were questioned quite vigorously. However, for most it was simply out of ignorance and fear that they would be implicated falsely. No children or friends were asked. I put this to you – Niamh had her protectors, you see? Amongst this town’s folk, this we know. And that they were not without influence was indeed an aid – and so this travesty has gone unpunished, until yesterday! Until we saw the Demon Seth, off!’
‘The girls are still too young,’ Reuben added resolutely.
‘And at the time, even younger,’ Bell Baker said, ‘but still they must account!’
‘How? How – when they are still so juvenile? I would have them for my sister’s sake, if I could!’ Harry reminded himself of how fortunate Elspeth had in fact been – and quickly drained of colour.
‘A change, friends! A change is coming!’ Bell Baker was impassioned. ‘And this town has lived under a shadow for too long! I believe again gentlemen! For what we are about to embark upon shall resound as the peeling of a church bell does in a town full of people in dire need of repentance and ultimately forgiveness.’
Harry looked confusedly at him. ‘Surely you do not offer the witches forgiveness, Reverend?’
‘Surely I do not, Harry. I offer those that have been complicit in covering it up a fresh start – and perhaps, in turn we will oust the poisonous seeds from where they hide – amongst the skirts and tails of those who will not speak of it.’
He blushed and took a wee bottle from his robes – sharing with Reuben, who then continued, ‘Meddler, your perspicacity into the machinations of the town’s folk of Hares Folly would be valuable indeed, if you feel able?’
The Reverend teased, quite confident that the enticement or challenge would flush out his magic. Perhaps then it was he that was perspicacious, as he looked upon the dejected little soul so saddened by what he had told and so desperate to make better. Perhaps it was for him to guide him now, that he seemed so lost – where his peculiar innocence seemed lost.
‘We all have our roles to play!’ Meddler teased back with a joyous parry. ‘And thank you, I think!’
Bell Baker nodded. Was it? Had it been that simple? ‘Faith! The loss of which, Meddler, is damaging.’
‘Well don’t look at me, Reverend!’ Reuben squirmed under his hawk-like glare. ‘I never had it in me to lose it!’
Meddler stood before the blushing old dragon. ‘No, but Reuben I have been challenging too much lately; the reasons behind my ambiguity where some fortunes and fates are concerned. I have perhaps lost it in myself. Magic is, after all, that in its very self.’
‘Aye, and elusive at times to even Wakanda, ay?’ Harry added, happy to see him shine again – as were all. For he truly did you know, even if it took time to see.
‘Well then?’
‘No, Reuben, no more shall I question my summations. Let us see if a little of this!’
and he twirled about. ‘And a little of that!’ he said, tapping the old dragon’s head. ‘And a couple of these!’
Bell Baker and Harry laughed, joining in the impromptu dance and incantation.
‘Can’t see this grim – tattered tale, turned into a story fit for bedtimes! Or for those lacking faith!’ Meddler bowed before all, quite taken with a new emotion – feeling – it was hope.
And so they conspired, and so they colluded and watched the town to and fro, until the timing was so exquisite that it did not seem right to postpone their wonderful charade any longer.
Chapter 20
‘She’s a witch! She’s a witch!’ Meddler ran into the centre of the town. ‘No!’ he warned one who came to assist. ‘Back! Back! For I do not know the Devil from good in this town! Help, help me!’ he whimpered – crouching on the floor as though in pain. The man he had shunned confusedly looked around at the town’s folk, who had stopped their business and stood agog.
‘Here,’ he said kindly – approaching Meddler as t
hough he were a wild beast, ‘here. I’m no Devil.’ His old face was soft, softer still for seeing the marvellous display of disrepair that Meddler performed quite excellently.
‘Come, little one, I have seen you many times – and you I.’
Meddler snarled, raising his hands as though claws. ‘No! I have seen you with her , with them all! I have seen you take pity on her wretched state! You cannot pity a witch and pity me the same! Please, please!’ he begged, cowering, as the old man came nearer – pulling his hat down to shield his eyes.
‘What’s this?’ The old man fished in his pockets and fetched out some sweets. ‘What’s this, ay? Surely witches like poisons to suck on? And you see here, I like a bon bon – and you?’
‘If you will not step back for me, Sir,’ and he cringed, ‘then do it for yourself! I feel I am infected with the evil! I feel as though any near me may come to harm!’ And he hissed and spat – covering himself in dust, writhing dramatically and with great effect. The old man stepped back, but not out of fear. Meddler knew he would be the first to his side and had chosen wisely, for he stepped back out of compassion and was a good and kindly soul.
‘Here, Arthur!’ his wife scolded. ‘Here!’ she yelled when he ignored her. ‘ Come !’ She screeched with flushed cheeks and through a whiskered mouth, ‘Leave it be! Someone has gone to fetch the Reverend. What good do you think you do? You silly old fool!’
Begrudgingly he went to her side, where she beat him about the head. ‘Have you lost your senses?’ And was approved of by the growing crowd who jostled for position behind whomever they could.
An awkward silence ensued as Meddler attempted to keep the momentum up. Unfortunately, Bell Baker was either late or Meddler was early; he scurried further around in the dust but with none approaching even a look of disgust, he clutched his stomach. ‘The pain, the pain!’ Weeping and holding his head he continued, ‘Will nobody come to my aid?’
Forlornly, he looked up with outstretched hands – for sure was a piteous display.
‘Not likely! You are bloody weird, you!’ one from the crowd heckled cruelly.
‘It is not that I am weird!’ he shouted, forgetting his dramatics and pretence quite indignantly, ‘it is you who is so, isn’t it?’ He was clumsily trying to regain his appearance of vulnerability. ‘Please, Sir, step forward so as I might see you? Ginger!’ he cried.
‘Yup is I!’ the red haired man answered proudly – short, weather beaten and yes, really rather ginger, with wiry copper like hair that stood on end the longer he wore it – and with this the more status he acquired.
‘ Ginger , your name suits you.’ Meddler had decided that agitating him would suitably fill the void where Bell Baker was absent.
‘What you mean by that, ay? I’m not scared of you! No, no, more God fearing!’ And he looked about for courage from the rest, finding it easily.
Abraham Lickspittle stepped forward, Hephzibah proudly on his arm as though a beauty. ‘Aye, he hangs around with them up yonder, from my farm!’
‘But there is no harm in them,’ Caroline softly said and had come to join them from Fi Fi La La’s and to Meddler’s rescue – for there was none who did not like her. In fact, Abraham more than most.
‘Hephzibah, would you like to observe some frills and lace? I have a new and exciting Parisian consignment!’
Now Hephzibah was not given to lace, it must be said; a rude natured pickle of a girl – and so replied with a grimace, ‘And why would I want to do that, ay? There’s more fun to be had here watching that creature squirm, than in a shop full of tat!’
Her father blushed, and seizing the opportunity to please Caroline, chided the girl, ‘You will go, and now, girl! Is no scene for young ladies or a daughter of mine – you will thank Caroline, as I do.’ He went to kiss her hand, rude faced like his offspring, and with no wife since her birth he was a little too eager to please.
‘Oh, Abraham, is nothing. I simply worried for your dear sweet daughter,’ Caroline teased. ‘Will you come Hephzibah?’
She yanked her arm out of her father’s and kicked dust at Meddler as she begrudgingly took Caroline’s arm.
‘You are a crafty one,’ Meddler whispered to Caroline as she turned to leave – quite impressed at her cunning and she surprised him by acknowledging this with a wink. He cringed as the awful red faced girl went to kick him again, to which Caroline blushed.
‘Oh pity the wee little one, child – he is obviously distressed.’
She nodded to Abraham and left, who so disposed to think good of all Caroline might say, the charade, which truthfully had them all flummoxed as to how it would play out, tantalizingly – began to reveal.
‘Well!’ Abraham announced, so as Caroline might hear. ‘I for one am not a hard man! And this, what’s your name?’ he said, standing closer to Meddler who took a blush from his bag secretly and adorned it.
‘They call me meddlesome, mostly – and I might add that is this that has put me in such a position, I believe.’
He went to continue but Abraham hushed him with a rather firm hand on his shoulder. ‘As I say, I am not a harsh man and that looks like thirsty work, kicking up all that dust, ay?’
Compassion wasn’t his strong suit but Meddler trembled his lips and nodded. ‘Well then, who will fetch a drink for this ?’ Abraham said, unsure what to call him. ‘Who will show pity?’
The black robes and fine figure of Bell Baker brought relief to the unwilling crowd – and with authority he announced, ‘Why yes! Are we not all Christian first, in the Lord’s eyes? Schooled in his laws – but surely born Christian? I am sure not one of you would dare refuse me this assumption? Or have you all truly forgot that this town was once called Summer’s Long, not Hares – Here’s – Folly?’
The crowd looked guiltily to the floor, some looked distraught – all blushed and Ginger, of all, stepped forward with a bottle for Meddler. Yes he threw it, but even still…
‘Progress!’ Bell Baker was well pleased with the gesture. ‘Progress, Ginger!’
Ginger, in turn, huffed and puffed some words of respect – saying he feared the Lord more and was not enjoying his new found empathy with people he generally laughed at, blamed for unanswered petty crimes, mocked even. but Meddler knew that he had a mind –and although it embarrassed him, his musings often kept him company on drunken nights where the liquor relaxed his inverted snobbery.
Bell Baker had taken a position standing directly above Meddler and looking ominously at him – and if he wasn’t quite so knowing he may well have thought that the man looked to disclose him to all. Thank goodness then, Meddler checked, that we are great friends, to which Bell Baker softened his look slightly.
‘What then!’ he said, pointing at him. ‘What is this ? Is his fear of you all, justified?’
The delegation assumed the position of congregation as his words whipped about their ears and teased the fear of the Lord from within them.
‘Well, the poor thing will not let us near him!’ came a response.
‘Aye, we have tried, Reverend, God knows we have tried!’ from another – indignantly; as is a marvellous thing to assume when you are indeed wrong but wish to appear surprised by it, and not stupid.
‘He is making some fuss about witches or something?’ one brave soul spoke the words to set Bell Baker on fire.
‘Witches! Witches? Creature, witches ?’
Meddler looked desperately up at Bell Baker. ‘If I told you, you would not believe me – yet I feel you all know already who I speak of!’ He stood up, shaking his fist at them all. ‘But no, I mustn’t, no.’
‘What has he to fear here?’ Bell Baker questioned, knowing he had them. ‘Does he fear a sympathetic ear? Or that whatever he says will travel on less sympathetic lips? Hawkers – the lot of you!’
‘No, sir! Not I!’ came the cry from his cringing parishioners.
‘But why then, does this piteous soul suffer his misery alone?’
Once again they shuffled and mut
tered awkwardly.
‘Come, friend? Surely in me you may find trust and can relieve your burdened self?’
‘If I say for sure there will be repercussions, I cannot – my people, my family. No, it is too much. I must suffer this alone!’
Not only was the crowd becoming a little tired with Meddler’s procrastination, so was Bell Baker, who whispered to him as kindly as he might, ‘Hurry it along,’
So he fell to his knees, to which the Reverend gave the look – and being the most feared and respected of all the populous, was enough to encourage some sympathy even if it remained anonymous.
‘There now, you see, ’ he gently touched Meddler’s shoulder. ‘They are not only my charges, they are the great and good Lord’s, through I,’ he continued, ensuring that the heathen gathering remained aware of their duties. ‘They would never harm one who truly believed – truly I say, believed he knew of evil. You poor little soul – so convinced that suspicion shall fall upon you. I see the fear!’ He raised his head and voice. ‘Well! Has this not been the case historically? Or are these tales, only? Perhaps!’ he said in a eureka moment, which scared Meddler a little. ‘Tales to instil fear amongst the good – who are too terrified to tell of evil, who would oust it – amounts to us if we were not so quick to judge! Thus, people – preventing the detection of Satan amongst us! This! This is an epiphany!’
The crowd gasped with approval and delighted in Bell Baker’s moment of clarity. Some had epiphanies of their own, and pushed for better position.
‘Here, you can tell us!’ The Butcher’s wife stepped forward. A happily rotund lady, fond of the cards and a nip or two. ‘The Baker’s girl!’ She looked about her for encouragement – permission to continue, and finding no obstacle. ‘She was taken by this evil?’ She clutched her chest – wheezing and colouring purple to faint unconvincingly, as though possessed. She did manage not to fall face down, as was more time the case for one who passed out and was a pity that none came to aid her – if only out of a chivalrous act. All that resulted was a growing hysteria that Meddler noted would somehow have to be reined in.
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