The Wicca Woman

by David Pinner

  As yet another spasm convulsed his wounded and burnt limbs, Paul shuddered again. Now he realised that if he was to survive, then he had to do exactly as Lulu demanded.

  Gasping abjectly, he pressed his palm down on the Bible, and he declaimed; ‘I swear, by Almighty God, that I will tell the doctors that everything that happened to me tonight was an accident, and of my own doing – just like you said it was. And, equally, in the name of Jesus Christ, I swear that I will never go to the police, and say otherwise to them – so help me, God.’ Then waving his unwounded hand, he cried, ‘Now, for mercy’s sake, get me to the hospital!’

  ‘Yeah, get him to hospital,’ the children chorused.

  ‘Right, Don take him on your horse to your house,’ Lulu said to the hovering giant farmer. ‘Then drive him in your car to the hospital.’

  ‘I will, Lulu. But are you sure you know what you’re doing by…well, by you staying on the beach here?’ Winterton asked, with a look of serious concern.

  ‘Yes, Don, I’m quite sure. Now go. And…thank you, my friend,’ she said, with a weary smile to Winteron as they returned to the prostrate figure of Paul.

  Then while the enthusiastic children cheered, with Dave Biggs’ assistance, Lulu and Winterton lifted the writer’s still-spasming body onto Winterton’s black stallion. After the giant farmer had mounted his horse, he took the reins in one hand, while he used his other arm to hold and support Paul, who was constantly shivering and jibbering in pain.

  Winterton urged his horse across the beach, and past the cheering children. As the stallion, with its wounded burden, cantered by the parents, none of the villagers reacted because they knew that the night was still young, and there was still much to be done.

  When the horse began to climb up the winding path towards the cliff top, Paul’s whimpering lips were muffled in the midst of the stallion’s black mane, so Winterton wasn’t able to hear what the writer was whispering huskily.

  ‘God help them,’ Paul muttered into the horse’s mane. ‘God help them all, because – as sure as there is Hell – I certainly won’t help them. But then…you see, I don’t believe in You anymore…or in your “Good” Book. What’s more, I doubt I ever did believe in You,’ Paul raged as his voice grew stronger; ‘So when I’m better, I’ll…I’ll…’

  ‘When you’re better, you’ll do what?’ interrupted Winterton, holding Paul on the horse with one hand, and the reins in the other, as he leant closer to the writer’s bowed head.

  ‘Well, when I’m better, Winterton, all being well, I’ll be on my feet again, won’t I? And then who knows what the future holds? For any of us.’

  ‘But can we really trust you, Hopkins?’ asked Winterton. ‘Because that is still the million-dollar question, right?’

  31

  ‘So now Hopkins is on his way to the hospital, Lulu, it’s time for you to keep your promise,’ Biggs asserted as he moved behind Lulu, who was watching Winterton’s stallion negotiating the cliff-path.

  ‘No!’ Gwynne shouted, limping towards Lulu and Biggs. ‘Whatever Lulu has promised you, Dave, it’s not going to happen!’

  ‘Oh but it is, Gwynne,’ Biggs interjected. ‘See, it’s the only way that we can be certain of having some good harvests. And that’s why Lulu has said that she’s prepared to be…’

  ‘There can be no more sacrifices!’ clarioned Tina, Sue and Mary together as they converged on Biggs.

  ‘Yeah, no more burning, no more burnings!’ screamed the children.

  ‘It’s alright, my dears,’ Lulu said, raising her arms to silence the children’s clamouring. ‘There’s nothing to fear. You see, I will be perfectly safe.’

  ‘Then how are you gonna keep your promise, Lulu?’ demanded Bob White as he materialised behind Lulu’s right shoulder.

  Smiling, Lulu pointed to the discarded cross that was close to the rock pool. Its blood-stained wood was highlighted by the bonfire’s flames. As she walked over to the cross, she gazed up at the seraphic moon. Smiling serenely, she placed her left foot on the base of the cross.

  ‘Carry the cross down to the sea, gentlemen,’ she said, moving off along the beach, towards the moon-tinged breakers. ‘Because the sea is where I belong. So you can tie me to the cross, and float me on the waves, and then you can leave me to my fate.’

  Instantly the children ran towards her, shrieking, ‘No, no, no!’

  Then the children surged around her, and Lulu embraced as many of them as she could, especially Scarlet and Bella.

  ‘My dears, my dears,’ she said reassuringly. ‘You really mustn’t worry about me. The sea is my home; so on the water, I will be safe as houses,’ she joked, laughing, while she pointed at the moonlit waves. ‘Yes, and very soon, I will be at rest – with my sea-anemones.’

  ‘Aren’t you scared, though, Lulu?’the children asked, clutching at her knees, and grabbing hold of her hands and her arms. ‘’Cause them waves are really big, so you gotta be scared.’

  ‘No, you see, my dears; those big waves will carry me right out to sea – where I will be free to dance with the sea-anemones. And then one day – who knows? – I may come back here to see how you’re all doing.’

  By now, Biggs, White and two other villagers had carried the cross down to the sea’s edge. With an uncertain look on his face, Biggs kicked the cross as he posed his question to Lulu.

  ‘So you really believe if we tie you to the cross, Lulu, then this will bring us good harvests?’

  ‘Well, it is the Millennium, isn’t it?’ Lulu responded. ‘So good things have to happen, don’t they?’

  ‘Yeah, but not with you tied to that cross,’ Bella and Scarlet asserted as they tried to pull Lulu back up the beach.

  ‘The children are right, Dave,’ cried Gwynne, forcing her weary legs to confront Biggs and White. Then she turned to Lulu; ‘Listen, you can’t let them do this to you, Lulu.’

  Immediately the other women ran down the beach to join Gwynne and Lulu, and the women shouted at the men as they converged on them; ‘Yes, you guys have got to stop this, and you’ve got to stop it now!’

  ‘And, anyway, none of your bloody sacrifices have ever worked, have they?’ yelled Sue.

  ‘Sue’s right. All you’ve ever got from all your burnings are lots of poor, dead horses,’ agreed Rachel, waving her arms at the other men, who were now gathered around Biggs and White.

  ‘Yeah, and none of you guys are thinking about what this is doing to all our kids,’ Tina interjected.

  ‘So this has got to be the end of all your sacrifices,’ chorused several other women.

  ‘And the harvests will just have to be what they’ll be,’ Gwynne insisted. ‘You see, so far, all your sacrificial fires have achieved nothing but endless suffering.’

  Now disconcerted but uncertain, Dave Biggs turned back to Bob White and the other male villagers. After a moment’s consideration, most of the men nodded their heads.

  ‘Dave, the women are right,’ Bob White assented.

  After ruefully stroking his moustache, White pointed at the still-blazing bonfire by the rock pool. ‘Yeah, so let’s just burn the cross, and then there’ll be no incriminating evidence against us.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Biggs said as he gestured at the children, who were staring at the hungry flames. ‘You kids have seen more than enough that’s bad already. So once we’ve burnt the cross, we’ll all go home.’

  Then together Biggs, White and two villagers lifted the cross, and they carried it towards the bonfire. They were followed by Gwynne and the other men, while the cheering women and children ran on ahead of them.

  As Bella and Scarlet were approaching the bonfire, they sensed something was wrong. And when they reached the rock-pool, nervously the girls turned to look back at the sea. Mystified, and with one accord, they pointed at the waves.

  ‘Where’s Lulu?’ they exclaimed. ‘Where is she?’

  A moment later, Gwynne trudged towards them, and she wrapped her emaciated arms around Scarlet and Bella
’s shoulders as she tried to reassure them; ‘Lulu has gone home, my dears. Just like she said she would. And now we should all go home, too.’

  As Biggs and White hurled the cross onto the crackling bonfire, Scarlet asked hesitantly; ‘Yes, but where is Lulu’s home, Mrs Spark?’

  ‘I doubt we will ever know, Scarlet,’ Gwynne replied. ‘But her home is most likely…dancing with the sea-anemones.’

  *

  Five minutes later, Winterton, on his stallion, was approaching his house, and he was clutching his wounded burden with one hand, and the reins with the other. Then, again, he heard the writer mumbling something into his horse’s mane.

  ‘What was that you just said?’ Winterton demanded.

  ‘Matthew Hopkins was right,’ Paul hissed, nodding his head.

  ‘Who is “Matthew Hopkins” when he’s at home?’ the farmer asked mystified.

  ‘Yes, of course, Don, you were lying on the beach, and you were unconscious at the time, weren’t you?’ Paul replied, with a mordant smile. ‘But the truth is, you see…well, I lied to Lulu when I said that I didn’t believe in reincarnation – because I do believe in it. Passionately. What’s more, I will finish…Matthew Hopkins’ mission.’

  ‘Yes, well, Paul, I obviously missed a lot when I was out cold on the beach, but I still think all your pain that you’re suffering… well, the pain has made you delirious,’ Winterton said, manoeuvring his horse towards his garage. ‘So the sooner I drive you to hospital the better.’

  ‘The only difference is…,’ the writer muttered, still in his own demented world. ‘…My ancestor, Matthew Hopkins, well, he thought that the gallows’ ropes were only for women. But, in that regard, he was very wrong – because gallows’ ropes are for everyone who deserves them. But fires are much better…because fires are all embracing.’

  ‘Hopkins, you really are in a bad way, aren’t you?’

  ‘No, because…believe me, Winterton…the fire next time…will be for everyone in this village!’

  *

  Simultaneously, in Thorn Bay, a woman could be seen floating out to sea under the Millennium moon.

  Now let me drown, she mused as the cold waves made her body feel as if it was swathed with icicles. In the Goddess’ Name, please let me drown! And then, at long last, I can embrace perpetual peace and forgetfulness. So I beg You; give me the longed-for silence…of nothingness…

  Then the woman heard a voice in the heavens, and to the woman, it seemed that the voice said to her; ‘In the beginning, I created the heaven and the earth. And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep. And my Spirit moved upon the face of the waters. Then on the seventh day, I created woman in my own image; so female, and then male, I created them both from the earth. But the man failed me. That is why you, Lilith, my first creation, have endless time and tides to bide, and, in the future, you have endless deeds to do. Especially by the sea. And with your sea-green eyes, you are my Moon siren, my prophetess, and protector of humankind. So, go forth, and forever uphold the truth. And, remember, you went down to the sea, where you peered at the dancing sea-anemones in the aquamarine rockpools… And for the briefest moment, you found peace. But then, as now, Lilith, once more, I call upon you – to re-commence your endless deeds. You have swum through much colder waters than this, and you have always survived – as you will now - because I need you to.’

  Although the winter waves were buffeting and numbing her weary limbs, the woman peered up at the implacable moon, and instantly she knew that she had no choice. And now she must swim back to the shore, and go on...going on…

  THE BEGINNING

  If you enjoyed The Wicca Woman you might be interested in Ritual by David Pinner, also published by Endeavour Press.

  Extract from Ritual by David Pinner

  1

  The oak tree was very old. One of its lower branches had been recently snapped off. And some five feet below, a monkey’s head and three garlic flowers had been fastened to the trunk by a hat pin. Yet the little girl, who was asleep in its shadow, seemed unaware of the tree or its strange decorations. She did not even notice a rook shuttling towards her. She noticed nothing as the blood whispered between her front teeth and slid down her throat. Soon it streaked into her corn hair but she still noticed nothing. And she wasn’t asleep. Dian Spark was eight years old and very dead.

  Against her thigh she clutched a spray of garlic, but this passed unnoticed by the crow as he jerked from her ankle to her knee cap. He was preoccupied with something else. Twice he snapped at the butterfly and twice he missed. The insect was far too quick for him. Provocatively it flickered in front of his beak before landing on the little girl’s nose. Again the crow snapped, but this time the butterfly spread its yellow wings and flew away.

  It zig-zagged for about a quarter of a mile before catching up with Gully Rowbottom. It fanned past her ear but she did not notice. She was aware only of running away from her dead friend, and the butterfly did not stop for it had somewhere else to go. Her breath flamed in her throat and her throat ached for water. She was running as hard as she could, her knees beating towards her chin. Before she had time to realise it, she had skidded through a stream and the mud was sloshing inside her socks. She had never been so frightened in all her life. And then in time to her breathing, she heard St. Peter’s Church bells bashing out Sunday. This made her run harder and harder through the thick grass on to the cornfields. And then out of the corner of her eye, she saw three farm labourers waving to her. She ignored them so they shouted; ‘Hey, what’s the matter, kid? What’s the hurry?’

  But she still took no notice and ran on. And as if by instinct they recognised her fear and ran after. Puffing for breath she refused to look behind. All she wanted now was to reach the village, but she felt she would never make it. Her throat was really hurting and vomit rose from her chest to her mouth. Using her will power, she forced it back. She could still hear the labourers chasing behind. A final stumble through the brambles on the outskirts of the woods before panting on to the Main Street.

  She found it easier running now; left past the Cat Butcher’s, right past the Village Hall, then turning left again she saw St. Peter’s Church, sharp in the morning sun. She was nearly home.

  Thorn was very like any other Cornish village. And to Gilly, the Elizabethan cottages and the pub, ‘Green Fingers In My Hair’ passed unnoticed as she ran with her news that hot Sunday morning. It was only seconds before she reached the churchyard, and she was just leap-frogging a new grave when she saw her parents coming towards her on their monthly visit to church. But she did not stop. She knew she must tell Dian’s parents first. She knew her father would never understand so she scampered through his legs and out of the churchyard. As she disappeared, her father’s ill-tempered shout proved her right.

  ‘Hey, where the bloody hell do you think you’re going, Gilly, my girl? Come back here this instant! I said come back!’

  Mr. Rowbottom had barely finished yelling at his daughter when the three labourers barged past him. But other than slightly irritating him, he hardly noticed them.

  He screwed his face into his neck, callously dismissed his daughter from his mind and stepped into God’s tomb. Equally unperturbed, Mrs. Rowbottom followed suit. They both disliked church with a progressive intensity. As she entered, she flicked perspiration from under her fringe on her forehead, and then blinked rapidly as the ice light from the stained glass dazzled her eyes.

  After collecting their prayer books, they sat in their usual pews and stared coldly at their neighbours. With a slight nod of the head, Mrs. Rowbottom acknowledged a smile from Squire Fenn. Then she grinned knowingly at Lawrence Cready, actor retired, as the organ music ground down the chancel steps. The cross on the altar burnt white on her eyes so she closed them. And almost in unison, Rowbottom closed his.

  Lawrence Cready watched the couple with amusement and encouraged his lacquered moustaches into a pair of bull’s horns. Squire Fenn wat
ched the actor and whistled an Elizabethan air. And they were all glad that Midsummer was only three days away.

  The service had barely started when Gilly turned the final corner, cutting her calf on a lamp post. She ran straight across the street and was nearly knocked down by a lorry carrying Liquid Chemicals. She panted up to the Spark’s confectionary shop. Through the window, she could see Dian’s father opening a large cardboard box, marked ‘Dolls. Handle With Care’. He removed the tissue paper before lifting a pink nude doll into the sunlight which glinted through the sweet jars. It was approximately four inches high. Then he tested its arms and legs, making them squeak in arcs like pink propellers.

  I’ll sell them at six bob apiece, he thought.

  Suddenly a jar of aniseed balls clunked on to the lino. Mr. Spark whirled round.

  ‘Gilly, for God’s sake, watch the bottles! Hey, why are you crying? What’s the matter?’

  He took her gently by the shoulders, but she flailed out his of grip and stumbled through the curtain into the living quarters at the back of the shop. She sobbed her way into the kitchen where Mrs. Spark was making strawberry jam. And she was being assisted by her eldest daughter, Anna, who was twenty-three, sexual, and loving it. As the girl burst into the room, they both turned to face her.

  ‘Dian’s dead!’ the girl blurted out. ‘Dead! She’s broken her neck! She fell out of the giant oak tree and broke her neck!’

  On the other side of the street, the three labourers watched Gilly go into the confectionary shop, but were undecided whether to follow her or not. They debated the pros and cons.

  ‘Well, why did she run as though Hell were aback of her, James? I never seen a girl run like that! I never!’

  ‘Taint our business—it aint! We’d better get back to the fields!’

  Having agreed on their course of action, James led the other two back past the church. Victorian hymns droned on to the summer street. Then without warning, James spat at nothing in particular. The saliva dribbled down the tomb-stone. He was a long distance spitter and very accurate.