The Wicca Woman

by David Pinner

  ‘We’ve brought Hopkins here to be our Millennium Sacrifice to the Half Light,’ Gwynne cried.

  ‘Fucking hell!’ expostulated Biggs. ‘Look, Gwynne, we all know Hopkins is a total shithead, but surely…?’

  Gwynne silenced Biggs by cracking her whip close to his bulbous gut.

  ‘Hopkins wanted me dead, Dave! In fact he stood outside my cottage when Vince set it on fire, and he applauded Vince while Vince was trying to burn me to death.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, what a sadistic swine,’ exclaimed Bob White.

  ‘Yes, Bob, and the monster did it all in the name of His Lord Jesus Christ. And then tonight, Hopkins went completely crazy because he tried to strangle Lulu,’ Gwynne said, pointing her gnarled finger at Lulu, who was now standing beside her.

  At that moment, the immense, chafing weight of the cross brought the breathless writer to a bowed standstill. Shaking her head derisively, Lulu kicked some sand up into Paul’s groin.

  Gwynne pointed to the petrol canister in Lulu’s left hand as the witch went on with her indictment; ‘What’s more, if we women hadn’t disarmed him tonight, Hopkins would’ve poured all the petrol in that can, over Lulu. Then he was going to set her alight, so he could applaud her burning body. You see, we overheard Hopkins talking to himself, and he said that he wanted to burn every woman in this village to death. So now we’re going to give Hopkins some of his own medicine, and we’re going to burn him alive tonight – as our Millennium sacrifice to the Half Light. And his ritualistic death will definitely guarantee us all a great harvest this coming Millennium-Year!’ Gwynne announced.

  ‘So, the question is; are you guys going to help us, or aren’t you?’ Rachel demanded, swishing her coiled rope against her thigh.

  Lit by their torches that were wedged in the clefts of the rocks, Dave Biggs, Bob White and the other men pushed back their hoods. After exchanging looks, they nodded decisively. Then all the men started to applaud the witch for her damning, but righteous judgement, and also for providing their benighted village with the perfect sacrifice.

  ‘Well, Hopkins, you can’t say I didn’t warn you,’ Biggs bellowed, his reddened cheeks looking even more bloated in the torchlight. ‘Well, I told you that you’d really suffer if you were dumb enough to come down here tonight.’

  Paul licked his blistered lips, and he was about to defend himself, but before he could utter a word, Lulu stepped in front of him. Derisively she tossed the petrol canister into the sand, and she snapped her fingers in front of his dumbly-pleading mouth. Instantly the writer realised that, once again, Lulu had taken away his ability to speak, while helpless tears blurred his vision.

  With an desolate hiss, Paul let the cross tumble out of his numbed hands. In wordless despair, he lurched forward. Then he lost his footing, and he tripped over a slippery rock. But despite thrusting out his splayed fingers to try and break his fall, the throbbing-weight of his body drove Paul’s startled face down towards the plethora of pebbles and broken mussel-shells, which were embedded in the beach.

  As the writer’s nose and mouth ploughed helplessly into the shells and pebbles, at the very same moment, the children stopped playing ducks-and-drakes on the waves.

  Simultaneously all the children turned away from the sea, and they started to run back up the beach towards the prostrated-figure of Paul, who they could see in the moonlight as he lay quivering beside the assembled bonfire.

  As Paul’s fall had badly-bruised his nose and his forehead, the writer no longer had the strength to move, or to respond to his baying neighbours, who were still berating him. With his eyes closed, the writer remained face-downwards on the beach, waiting for the worst.

  The phalanx of running children burst into the villagers’ midst. When the children saw the blood on Paul’s back as he twitched helplessly in the sand like a dying dog, they were distraught.

  Lulu registered their fearful reaction, and quickly she whispered something in Gwynne’s ear. In tacit agreement, the witch nodded as she snatched the blood-stained rope away from Rachel. Surreptitiously Gwynne dropped the rope and her own whip behind her ankle-length skirt, and she trampled them underfoot until they were fully-covered by the sand. Then the witch stepped in front of the slumped-and-bleeding writer, and deftly she covered his wounds with her shimmying cloak.

  As Gwynne wanted to gain the disturbed children’s attention, with a theatrical flourish, she pushed back her black hood, and she announced in her most penetrating voice; ‘There’s nothing to worry about here, my dears. You see, children, Mr Hopkins has just had a brief, little fall,’ she went on reassuringly. ‘And that’s why your Mums and Dads are now going to look after Mr Hopkins until he’s as right as rain again.’

  Then Gwynne jabbed an imperious finger at the torches in the rocks to her left.

  ‘But while your Mums and Dads are helping Mr Hopkins, they want all you kids to come along with me to that cave over there,’ she said, pointing at the furthest cave at the bottom of the beach. ‘Because, you see, my dears,’ the witch continued in her most beguiling tones; ‘Once we are inside that far cave, and we go down into its most secret-and-magical depths, then I have laid on for you…the Most Wonderful Surprise of your lives.’

  Uncertainly the children glanced around at each other. Then Bella and Scarlet, who were determined to be the first to give voice to their concern about Paul, tugged off their plastic horse’s and crocodile’s masks.

  In response Mary and Sue stepped forward, and, in turn, they removed their animal heads, and they revealed themselves to their daughters.

  ‘What Mrs Spark says is right, Bella,’ Mary said, reassuringly hugging her wary daughter. ‘You see, there’s nothing to worry about because we’re all going to look after Mr Hopkins. And, believe me, we’ll give him absolutely everything he needs.’

  As Sue took her daughter’s hands in hers, she concurred; ‘So, Scarlet – while we’re looking after Mr Hopkins - it’s important that you and all you friends go into that magical cave with Mrs Spark because she really has got the most Magical Surprise for you all in there. So now stop worrying, and go off with Mrs Spark as fast as you can.’

  ‘And my wondrous surprise is this way, girls and boys. It’s this way!’ Gwynne called out to the rest of the children, who had now gathered around her in excited anticipation of her forthcoming, ‘magical’ revelation.

  Then Gwynne clapped her hands, and as the other cheering children started to follow her, she urged the still-semi-reluctant Scarlet and Bella to move away from the supine Paul and his ‘helpers’.

  Moments later, the witch, with her eager entourage, passed the whinnying horses, which were tethered by the nearest cave.

  Then Gwynne selected the brightest torch that she could find from a cleft in the rock. With the aid of its flames, she led the excited children into the entrance of the furthest cave. By now, Bella and Scarlet had forgotten their concern for Paul Hopkins, and they, too, were enthralled by the witch’s promises.

  As the children rushed into the cave’s echoing confines, Gwynne halted their chattering commotion by announcing her demands; ‘And now we are in these sacred confines, my dears, you must do exactly as I say. So as we go down into the depths of the cave, I want you all to remain totally-silent for the next few minutes. Then I will reveal to you the Magical Wonder of all Wonders.’

  After nodding their animal-and-reptile-heads in agreement, obediently the silent children followed the witch deeper into the shadow-enshrouded cave. To ensure that her young adepts remained under her spell, the witch weaved her billowing torch in front of their entranced faces like an ensorcelling will-o’-the-wisp as she lured them further and further down into the cave’s deepest recesses.

  *

  At the top of the beach, and lit by a dozen torches, Dave Biggs and his cohorts were forcing Paul’s blood-spattered body down onto the wooden cross in the sand. But as the writer was still subject to Lulu’s hypnotic power, he had to suffer in spluttering silence.

&nbs
p; Further down the coast, more fireworks exploded in the moon-silvered-sky.

  Now terror-stricken, Paul struggled weakly against the combined strength of Dave Biggs, Bob White and Don Winterton. Implaccably the three men shrugged off the writer’s efforts to free himself, and they wrenched his contorted, shaking limbs out to their full extent. Then the six-foot-five Don Winterton pinioned the backs of the writer’s heels against the base of the cross, while Biggs and White slammed down both of Paul’s arms along the diagonal crosspiece.

  Tina, who was carrying Paul’s toolkit, dropped the bag onto the beach close to the cross. She shoved her podgy hands into its leather confines, and pulled out a hammer and a six-inch-nail.

  Wielding the hammer in one hand and the nail in the other, Tina advanced on the terrified writer, who was now spread-eagled on the cross, and who was still being pinioned down by his draconian neighbours. With the vociferous encouragement from his three captors, Tina raised the hammer above her head, intent on driving the six-inch-nail through Paul’s ankles, and deep into the cross.

  With an ululating whoop, Tina swished the hammer down towards the nail that she was holding against Paul’s ankles. At the same moment, Lulu charged forward, and she seized Tina’s swooping forearm. Then inexorably Lulu prised the hammer and the nail out of Tina’s hands.

  ‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing, Lulu?’ Tina protested.

  Lulu tossed the hammer and the nail back into Paul’s tool-kit, and she yanked out some yellow electrical wire from the bag.

  ‘Use this wire instead,’ Lulu ordered.

  ‘But, Lulu, you said you wanted us to nail this fucking bastard up, so he can suffer - like he wanted to make us fucking-suffer!’ Tina shouted, with her hands on her hips, mystified by the perplexing turn of events.

  ‘He’s still going to suffer, believe me,’ Lulu said as she moved back to Paul, who was so exhausted and desolate that he was no longer attempting to struggle against his three captors.

  ‘Oh come on, Lulu. You know that Tina is right, and we should hammer those nails into him,’ complained Mary.

  ‘He won’t suffer enough that way,’ Lulu riposted.

  ‘So if you don’t want us to crucify and sacrifice the evil sod,’ intervened Sue, ‘Then what the hell do you want us to do with the bastard?’

  ‘Yes, and after what he tried to do to you and Gwynne, Lulu,’ nodded Biggs, with his double chins quivering, while he punched the writer’s beard. ‘Well, surely you’ve got to be the first to agree that Hopkins is our perfect sacrifice.’

  ‘I do agree, Dave. But there are different ways of doing things,’ Lulu said as she knelt on the beach beside Paul, who was still being clamped down on the cross by his neighbours.

  She waved the length of electric wire, which she had taken from Paul’s toolkit, at her mystified audience. While everyone watched in disbelief, she pushed the length of wire down into the sand next to the foot of cross. Deftly she forced the wire through the sand, and under the foot of the cross. And as Don Winterton was continuing to press Paul’s heels against the cross, Lulu pushed Winterton to one side, so she could wrench the wire up from under the cross. Then she wrapped the wire around the writer’s ankles, and she began to bind his ankles against the base of the cross.

  ‘Why the hell are you bothering to tie his ankles to the cross with that wire, Lulu?’ Dave Biggs expostulated, with his bulbous stomach heaving above the writer’s terrified face. ‘Surely it’d be much simpler, and a lot more satisfying, if we just hammered some nails into the bastard’s hands and feet. And once we’ve nailed him to the cross, than we’ll stick him on the cross – in the middle of that lot,’ the obese farmer yelled, pointing at the assembled bonfire. ‘And just before midnight, we’ll light the fire under his cross. Then we’ll crucify, burn and sacrifice this know-all, interfering, little sadist. And if that doesn’t guarantee us lots of fucking great harvests for many years to come, then nothing ever fucking will!’

  ‘We are going to sacrifice him, certainly, Dave,’ Lulu agreed as she finished binding the writer’s ankles to the cross with the wire. ‘But if we hammer six-inch-nails into his hands first – like you suggest – then Hopkins will be in such terrible pain that he won’t be able to “appreciate” the excruciating agony of being burnt alive on his cross. And as that’s the death that Hopkins deserves, then that’s the death that he’s going to have.’

  ‘Yes, Lulu, but as Hopkins is going to be the first human to be sacrificed on Thorn Beach for ages and ages,’ interjected the six-foot-five-figure of Don Winterton, ‘Why don’t we just compromise a little on the subject of nails? So instead of nailing both his hands, and his feet, to the cross; we could just hammer a six-inch-nail into one of Hopkins’ hands. And that’ll give the murderous arsehole something to really think about before we start burning him.’

  Simultaneously Winterton’s long, muscular arms reached forward, and he grabbed the hammer and a nail out of the toolkit. Then with a stentorian screech, he hammered the nail through the palm of Paul’s left hand. In furious response, Lulu charged at Winterton, and she attempted to grab his swinging arm, but the giant shrugged her off, and he sent her sprawling headlong onto the beach. Then adamantly he went on hammering the nail through Paul’s scrunching hand-bones until the metal was embedded in the writer’s outstretched palm and the crossbeam.

  ‘That’s enough, Winterton!’ Lulu cried.

  As the pain-convulsed figure of Paul howled silently, in grinning triumph the giant farmer continued to loom over the prostrate Lulu. But to Winterton’s obvious surprise, Lulu recovered quickly, and her gaze zeroed in on the farmer’s elated eyes.

  The next moment, Winterton’s head snapped back, and the hammer slid out of his now-seemingly-lifeless fingers into the sand.

  ‘Lulu…you’re right,’ whispered Winterton, with his pupils dilated.

  As Lulu continued to transfix him with her hypnotic gaze, obediently the giant slid down onto his knees, and his huge frame jerked forward. A blink later, Winterton’s gaping mouth was buried in the sand, and his body was motionless.

  ‘What, in God’s name, have you done to Don?’ Dave Biggs said, now standing uncertainly by the discarded hammer.

  ‘One nail is much more than enough,’ Lulu replied.

  As she appraised the disquieted expressions on the faces of all the villagers, her eyes were two glacial lakes.

  Then she looked down at the stricken writer, who was lying on the cross in the sand. Through his tears, Paul gawked at the blood throbbing out of the palm of his crucified, left hand. Whimpering he tried to move his other hand, but Lulu stamped her foot hard down onto his right wrist.

  ‘Dave, bind this wrist with wire,’ Lulu ordered the horse-farmer while she pulled another ball of electrical flex out of the toolkit.

  The next moment, Lulu found she was looking up into the night sky, while a cloud, shaped like a battleship, was converging on the moon. But as she was now mentally-whirling inside her own violent maelstrom, in an act of defiance, Lulu turned her back on the moon because now she knew that she had to go through with the ritual, whatever the consequences. Decisively she threw the bundle of wire to the cowed Dave Biggs, then she glanced at her watch.

  ‘In less than fifteen minutes, my friends, The Millennium is upon us. So when you have finished binding Hopkins, Dave, I want you and your mates to go and erect the cross in the centre of your assembled bonfire,’ she commanded, pointing at the pile of collected fuel. ‘And once Hopkins is in pride of place, I will do the rest – with this,’ she said as she picked up the petrol canister.

  Then the battleship-cloud blotted out three-quarters of the moon, and Lulu ignored the terrified whinnying of the three horses by the furthest cave. Instead she turned to Biggs, who was feverishly, but robotically, binding Paul’s right wrist onto the crosspiece with the wire.

  Once she was satisfied that the perspiring Biggs had completed his task, Lulu nodded at Bob White and four hooded villagers, who immediately r
an forward to join Biggs. Then the six of them lifted up the cross, with its tortured victim, who was now nailed and tied to its wooden frame. As they carried the immense weight of Paul on the cross towards the assembled pile of fuel, the men panted while they stumbled across the beach.

  A moment later, the battleship-cloud totally obliterated the moon, and Lulu’s lips curved into a lethal smile of anticipation.

  29

  Inside the bowels of the cave, the children were bareheaded as they all stood silently, clutching their animal and reptile masks. In open-mouthed awe, they peered into the deep, phosphorescent rock-pool at their feet. By the ghostly light of the witch’s torch, the children were entranced by six giant crabs and seven sea-anemones, which were gyrating in the depths of the shimmering water. And to the children’s bewitched eyes, the crabs and sea-anemones had already transformed themselves into giant, mythic entities.

  ‘So what do you see in my dragon-pool, my dears?’ intoned Gwynne, fully aware that the echoing cave made her voice sound ominously-sepulchral.

  Alfie’s plump cheeks were about to burst as he whispered; ‘Oh, are we allowed to talk now, Mrs Spark?’

  ‘Yes, Alfie. So tell me what you see in the depths of my dragon-pool?’

  ‘Wot we’re seeing down there in your pool, well, it can’t really be true, can it?’ Bella asked, screwing up her eyes in disbelief as she continued to peer down at the monstrous crustacea and gigantic sea-anemones that were swirling and writhing in the deep water.

  ‘Oh, everything is true in the world of the imagination, Bella dear,’ the witch said, ‘If you believe it to be true.’

  ‘Wot’s all that mean?’ Scarlet demanded, unable to turn away from the churning commotion at the bottom of the pool.

  ‘It means that what you are seeing, Scarlet, is as real as anything that you have ever imagined. So the question is, my dears; what are you seeing in my dragon-pool?’