Cat Magic

by Whitley Strieber

  Sometimes even now he dreamed that he had been brought up in an orphanage. He had to work to remember his real childhood. In his teens he’d been impoverished, living in a slum with his wasted old ruin of a mother, and she went crazy one night and tried to set them both on fire. At the age of fourteen he lost her. It was bitter because he was so lonely without her, and yet she had been so bad.

  As he grew older, moved from one foster home to another, he found that his exploding adolescent sexuality was ail twisted. He could not love women, not even those his own age. He just couldn’t face them. His feelings concentrated on little girls. They were so helpless, and he felt so safe with them.

  Then had come Atlanta, and his conversion, and this stem life of remorse. He was doing two good things today: strengthening his own people and bringing the witches a chance to see the error of their ways.

  If this was so good, though, why did it feel so bad? Sometimes he saw Christ as a red-eyed monster of his own making, and he wondered, Do I worship the Lord, or have I been deceived by a demon in a beard? He fought the tears that had appeared at the edges of his eyes.

  The air was warm, the sun spreading long shadows across the fields. He glanced at his watch. 4:30. To throw the witches off, they had decided to come in broad daylight, when they would be least expected.

  Indeed, all was quiet. There was the familiar melancholy of harvested fields, but there was something else, too, something awful. You could smell it. The place was just plain too fertile. It looked good until you really looked, then you saw the obscenity. God never intended His land to work this hard.

  This richness was a gift from Satan. Thinking thus, it would not hurt so much to burn the land.

  “Hey, look here.”

  “What is it. Brother Turner?”

  “Just about forty quarts of blackberries.” The short man was smiling, standing next to a massive blackberry bush to the right of the gate. He held up a steel bucket. “We can have a feast!” The other men laughed. Turner took a handful of berries and began to eat them.

  Simon knew just what he had to do. He leaped at Turner, grabbed his wrist, and flung the berries aside.

  “Don’t be a fool! That’s witch poison!”

  “They smell fresh.”

  “I’m tellin’ you, if you want to eat the produce of the Devil’s farm you go swear on the Devil’s Bible! You eat only of the garden of the Lord.” He snatched the bucket from Turner. “Do not ever put this sort of foulness to your tips!”

  Now would come the first test, for Simon and for them all. The blackberries were fat and had been picked with proper care. None were broken. Simon knew how meticulous the work of blackberry picking could be, with the thorns and the delicacy of the berries. So much effort was in this bucket. To lay it waste took strength.

  “Jesus,” he whispered, “I love you.” He poured the berries out onto the ground. He kicked the ‘sodden mass. “Come on, this is what we’re here for! This garbage is probably going to be sold right in Maywell.

  Your children might be the ones to eat these devil’s berries!”

  There were several full buckets by the bush. He took another and raised it high over his head. For a shivering moment, he held it there. The bucket was heavy. When he flung it to the ground, it hit with a thud and a splash of fat, ripe fruit.

  Simon stood, surveying the rest of the buckets. A curious feeling, almost of relief, replaced his former regret. He recognized this as the Spirit of the Lord working in him. “Praise God!” Sad it may be, but this was certainly labor in His vineyard.

  But the other men hung back. Deputy Benson still stood near the gate, his hand nervously resting on the butt of his pistol. His badge, Simon noticed, was not on his chest—as if people wouldn’t recognize him without it.

  Simon shuddered. Now the Spirit of the Lord twisted and turned in him, and met up with the softer spirit of the hand. The hand had belonged to a wonderful little person, a saint, Simon was sure, and it did not like these evil fields. The hand revealed to him that death itself swarmed in the stubble, as if the borderland of the Lord’s world was back there at that gate. Brother Turner stooped over and picked something up.

  “What’s this?”

  Simon examined the plump little packet of cloth. “Open it.”

  “I don’t want to open it.”

  Simon took it from him. He undid the thong that held the package together. Lying within was a withered image of a fat little man with roots growing out of it every which way. He threw it down. “Mandrake,” he said. “They put them in the fields to get the Devil’s blessing.”

  “I’m gonna take that little thing home—”

  “Leave it. Turner. This isn’t a game. They’ve charged that thing up with so much satanic force it just might come alive at night and get down in your throat.”

  “Lord.”

  “You don’t know what it’ll do. People these days have no idea of the Devil’s power. Just sheer power!

  You take that thing, and it will drag you right down to hell, mark my words.”

  The men backed away from the poppet. The hand told Simon to get out of this foul place. The hand said,

  “Do God’s work, and do it fast.”

  “We will baptize ourselves here, my brothers. We will each of us take a bucket and cast it down.”

  Let blood, and blood will flow. But first the knife must slash the skin. After they participated in the destruction of the berries, Simon knew that his followers would grow more bold. And then the next act would embolden them further, and so on until the grand plan that God had given him could be fulfilled.

  He looked across the wide fields. Beyond them he could see the slate roof of the Collier mansion, just visible above the trees.

  The hand stirred in his pocket, touching and tickling and thrilling.

  She had thrilled him unforgettably, that gentle child.

  He spread his arms beneath the fire of the sun, for a vision came upon him. He saw all this land as it would be, cleansed in the fire, all these fields as black as death, and the house beyond the trees a smoldering ruin. “On yonder hill,” he said, pointing directly at the roofs of the house, “I will build my church.” And he saw it as clearly as could be: a fine brick church, with a tall steeple and a graceful portico. As proper a place of worship as Rugged Cross in Atlanta, a real House of the Lord, where His fire and His righteousness prevailed. “Oh, the Lord has shown me such a sight. Rising from the ashes of the witch house, the triumph of His Name!”

  “I hear something.” Deputy Benson pointed. In the silence that followed his words, Simon heard it also, human voices twisted to an unholy rhythm. “Moom! Moom! Moom!” And within the longer notes, bright children’s voices chanting faster, “Moom moom moom! Moom moom moom!” There was another voice, this one single. An old woman was calling somebody.

  “What’s that name?”

  “Amanda. She’s calling the name Amanda.”

  “Amanda Walker. The devil woman herself. The devil rider.”

  “We’re not certain it was her. It could have been any one of them.”

  Simon fumed on the deputy. He was getting tired of Benson’s way of sapping energy with his satanic hesitation and questioning. “Praise the Lord, Deputy.” He snatched up a bucket of the berries, “For you.”

  Benson was the kind of man who used to get into trouble in bars before he got himself saved and became a man of the law. He smiled past his false teeth. “Sure, Brother. Praise the Lord.”

  “Praise His Name!” This was an important moment. If Benson didn’t pour out those blackberries—

  He did it. He turned that bucket over and they spilled right into the road in a pretty pile. O Lord, wonderful are Thy ways! Just for good measure the deputy lifted his right foot and stepped carefully into the berries, crushing them good.

  The Spirit of God came upon them all. Previously hesitant, the other men now went about eagerly destroying the rest of the blackberries. Brother Pierce kept an ear cocked to t
hat devil chant. No telling how many demons were over there beyond that stand of dry cornstalks. He was not here in strength, not yet, and couldn’t withstand a supernatural attack. He did not want his people to end up having to run off this place. He wanted them to walk away.

  You had to build a thing like this. Boldness would grow with success.

  There were blackberries and blackberry juice all over the ground, staining the road, the dry grass beside it, and the shoes of some of the men. Simon could have kissed those stained shoes, and he would have been kissing the holy feet of the Lord. “I think we oughta light the fire right over in that stubble. It’ll spread to the standing corn on its own.”

  “The ground’s awful muddy,” Turner said.

  “The sun’s dried the stubble. We’ll be okay.”

  Turner hefted the five-gallon can of gasoline. “I still think we oughta do it in the corn. We aren’t gonna cause ‘em any trouble burnin’ a harvested field.”

  “The fire will spread. The Lord doesn’t want us to get too near the demons.” The chant made Simon’s scalp tingle.

  He walked a little distance into the field. The chant was hypnotic, intoxicating. They had to hurry. “Okay, now, pour it out in a line right across the road. We’re gonna be behind it, see. They’ll come runnin’ soon as they see the smoke. So the fire’s gotta be between us and them.”

  “Good tactics,” Deputy Benson commented. “Let’s not get caught.”

  “We are doing the work of the Lord, Brother Benson. I am proud to be acting in His Name.”

  “Yeah, but I still don’t want to get caught by a bunch of damn witches.”

  Simon allowed himself a small smile. Brother Benson would have a lot of trouble explaining himself to his boss. A lot of trouble, given that the sheriff was himself a witch, Who knew, maybe good Brother Benson was a spy for the witches.

  The gasoline smelled nice. Simon had always liked the odor of it. When he was a very little boy and things were still good, and his dad would bring the DeSoto in hot from a long day on the road, Simon would like to sit on the bumper and smell the smell of gasoline fumes coming out of the grille. That was a wonderful odor, and he remembered it fondly even to this day.

  “Step back,” Benson said. He had a match lit. He leaned forward and tossed it into the just-soaked grass. There was a crackling sound, and a wall of fire spread a hundred feet across me field and twenty feet into the air.

  “Ohh! Oh—God, God, God!”

  Turner was on fire! His arms and his chest blossomed with angry, orange flames. Frantic, he flapped his hands. The flames sounded like an awning fluttering in the wind.

  Benson grabbed him—and got a fireball of a hand in the cheek. He jerked away, his own hair and shoulder burning.

  “A curse, a witch curse on us!”

  Turner was burning bad, his face a horrible mask of terror and agony, his chest and arms blazing. “Help me! Oaaahhhh Qod! Aaaahhh!” He started running, then fell in the road. He was hitting his head with his fiery hands, and his hair was burning with blue spatters of flame.

  Two of the men had their coats off. Then they were on top of Turner, smothering the flames. Greasy smoke came out from under their coats.

  When he was put out, Simon rushed to his follower, knelt beside him. He almost screamed to see the hideous damage the fire had done. He had to force calm into his voice. “You’re gonna be all right.” he said, “God will heal you.” But the man was far from all right. His hair was melted black, his cheeks and shoulders were livid red where they weren’t crisped. And his hands, the poor man’s hands were just two seared stumps.

  Simon couldn’t control himself anymore. He wept. Poor Turner’s eyes rolled in his head.

  “Hey! You men!”

  A young woman in jeans leaped right through the fire they had set, followed by two more, and then three young men. Simon jumped to his feet. He was genuinely terrified now. It was a curse and a spell, too—those witches weren’t even hurt by the fire. “O Jesus, they’re demons incarnate!”

  Simon turned around, saw most of his men spread out along the road, running for all they were worth.

  First in line was Deputy Benson, clutching a handkerchief to the cheek Turner had burned.

  Simon looked at the two men who had stayed with him. Then he looked down at Turner, whose eyes were rolling, whose legs were moving slowly, as if in some terrible dream he ran yet from the fire that had consumed him.

  The witches had stopped. They were standing together, staring in surprise at the burned man. Simon saw hard, inhuman faces, evil grins. “Let’s get goin’!” he yelled.

  “What about him?”

  “He’s a dead man.”

  Three more witches jumped through the flames. They carried shovels. On the other side of the fire somebody was shouting instructions.

  Simon gave way to the same kind of wild, panicky flight that had overcome the rest of the group. As he ran he heard his last two supporters, their feet pounding close behind.

  Those witches were a well-organized bunch. They were already burying the flames, damn their black hearts. As Simon reached the gate he turned to see their progress—and his feet flew out from under him.

  He landed with a thud and a splash. He had slipped down in the blackberries. Davis and Nunnally raced past. For a moment Simon thought he was going to be caught by fierce witch women, who were coming up the road in their blowing cloaks. They waved long wooden staffs. He scrambled to his feet and hurried on. His right leg hurt like hell and his hands and clothing were stained purple.

  “Simon,” he heard behind him, “Simon Pierce, you fool.” It was a familiar voice, a very familiar voice.

  “Don’t run away from me! Don’t be afraid.”

  He hesitated. That was a voice from his own church! He had heard it raised in song and in prayer. He had heard that woman get saved. She was one of the ones who had walked out on her husband, taking her two youngest children. He turned around. “Effie, by the love of Jesus, let me take you home.”

  “Oh, Simon, no. I can’t do mat.” She came up to him, her cheeks flushed red, her eyes flashing. “You’re making a great mistake. These are God’s people, too. We just worship in a different way.”

  “The damned worship Satan different from the way the saved worship the Lord.”

  “You don’t understand. This is the best, the happiest, the most morally pure place I have ever been. I’m strong and healthy. Even my allergies have disappeared. And you ought to see Feather—that’s little Sally’s witch name—she’s no longer the shy little girl her daddy used to beat. Now she’s high priestess of the Children’s Coven, and she’s so devoted. Oh, Simon, this place is full of love, just as Christ is full of love. You cannot be Christian and have so much hate.”

  “You serve the Devil!”

  She raised her head, proud and defiant. “No, sir, you are the one with the torch in your hand. If there is a Devil, you are the servant.”

  Simon extended his hand to his lost follower, but she drew back from him. The other witches were crowding around, those who weren’t back with Turner. Simon turned and walked briskly off their land.

  The van was already in motion when he reached it. “Stop! Wait for me!” Eddie Martin was driving; it was his van. Simon hit the gleaming black side of the thing. “Eddie, please!”

  Finally it stopped. The back door slid open and Simon pulled himself in. It was a comfortable van, with seats around the sides and a big cooler just behind the driver. Eddie would fill that cooler with Bud for hunting trips into Pennsylvania. You could shoot right through your limit of deer back there in the Endless Mountains.

  “We left Turner! Oh, Jesus, we left Turner!”

  “Take it easy, Benson,” Eddie said from behind the wheel. “Look at it this way. We did damage to Satan’s farm and most of us have lived to tell about it.”

  Simon couldn’t have said it better himself. Eddie was the Lord’s kind of a man.

  “The witches might have killed
us all,” Simon added. “Running is no shame in the service of the Lord, men. The important thing is that we will return!”

  “A man is dead. There’s gonna be all hell break loose around here. We ain’t had a murder in Maywell in twenty years, not since Old Coughlin went around the bend and shot up the Unitarian Church.”

  “Who said the word murder. Brother Benson?”

  “The man was set on fire by—by a spell!”

  “Here you are a man of the law and you don’t even know the law. The State of New Jersey isn’t gonna buy any stories about spells, true or not. The coroner will rule it an accident. We’re the only ones who know what it really was, and we can’t prove a thing, can we?”

  “That mandrake thing. We’ll go get that.”

  “You’d still have to prove black magic, which has been around since the day Satan got thrown down into hell, and it ain’t been proved yet. No, Brother, this is our own private problem. We know there was a spell worked, and a hex on that poor man of God, but the State of New Jersey doesn’t know and doesn’t care. Why do you think the state’s got witches living in it anyway? Don’t tell me the bureaucrats don’t know about ‘em. Those government people, they like the work of Satan being done in their midst!

  Sure they do! We are soldiers, every one of us, soldiers of the Lord. But you ask the State of New Jersey, and the state will say, an accident!”

  There was a chorus of amens. Poor Turner had died hard in the service of the Lord, but he had given them all a great blessing. His death made him a martyr, and would be proof positive to the whole congregation that the witches were evil and had to be destroyed. Simon would create such a funeral for that fallen saint as Maywell had never seen before.

  The Lord’s people were not going to give up because of a martyrdom. Far from it, the tragedy would strengthen them. They had been plunged into the tempering bath of blood. Before this they had been a bunch of scared children.

  Now they would become a fiery sword, wielded by the righteous hand of God.

  Chapter 20

  TORTURE