Wrapped in Black: Thirteen Tales of Witches and the Occult

by Jennifer L. Greene

  Four witches in all, arrested over the past month and a half.

  Helga and I take Abalard with us to the square. We are holding hands. It is the first we’ve done so in a month and a half. The road is crowded with people leaving work early, all walking in the same direction. The butcher still has his bloody apron on, and lifts his hat when he sees me looking. The baker does the same. And the laundress. The sight of us makes them happy, cheerful. Justice, after all.

  The entire town is packed shoulder to shoulder when we arrive, all pressed around a large wooden platform with four stakes spread across it. At each of the stakes’ bases is a mound of kindling. The crowd notices us and we move to the front.

  On the other side of the platform I can see the sexton, the one who explained the Häxenhaus’s methods to me, staring. His face is grim. I make a meager attempt to smile and he looks away, turns toward the horse-drawn cart which has just entered the square.

  There is a moment of quiet while the crowd notices, then cheering. A few eager young folks fling vegetables which bounce off of its sides and fall limp into the dirt. The cart trundles to a stop beside the platform, and after tying up the reins the driver climbs down and unlocks the back door, helping the first of the women down, then the next. They are chained to one another, and at first I am unable to recognize them. The women’s backs are bent and their skin is all grimy and mangled; their faces have each been smashed repeatedly and resemble stones now more than people. It’s strange to think that these are women we once knew. Women we lived with. I can’t even tell, at first, which is the one who took my Klaus.

  Once they are all out, the shouting resumes. The majority of the tomatoes and vegetables (and also a few stones) sail through the air, pelting them with surprising accuracy while they ascend the platform. Three clerics have assembled opposite, dressed in full regalia. Father Schulz is among them, donned in a white satin robe to symbolize purity. He notices me and smiles, as if to say, "you’re welcome."

  Once the women have been unshackled and tied to each of the stakes, Father Werner motions for the crowd to be quiet and reads off each woman’s offences, first against man, then against God. This is how I learn that ours, the one we used to call Bianka, is the second from the left. When I look closely I can see the resemblance, although she seems to have aged thirty years. No longer beautiful and stately, her shoulders hunch forward, and her feet bow out. Her jaw, once soft and delicate, now juts forward and to one side. Several of her front teeth are missing.

  While Father Werner is reading through the list of crimes and announcing the details of her confession, she notices me and, I think, smiles. I feel a pang of sadness remembering what it once felt like to have her smile at me. Her lips begin to move. She is saying something, although it is drowned out by Father Werner and the shouts of those around me.

  Helga closes her eyes, believing it to be a curse of some kind, although I watch, trying to read her shredded lips. The noise builds and I can see her attempting to speak louder, straining to be heard, closing her eyes and lifting her face heavenward. Is she praying? Asking forgiveness? Hers or mine?

  Even as the hooded assistant steps forward and lowers the torch, one by one, to each of their feet and the flames begin to rise, still she speaks, her eyes arched and pleading. By the time the flames reach her knees though she is screaming. The flames reach her waist, her stomach and chest, and when they swallow her face her lower half is already blackened. I watch the life fade out of her and her body go limp, and it occurs to me that accusers have been wrong before. And who knows what one might confess to under the pressures of the Häxenhaus. They say that if you are innocent, God will protect you and give you strength, but no one protected my Klaus and there never was one more innocent than he.

  Innocence has nothing to do with it, I’ve decided. And I have trouble thinking that God does much either.

  03 April

  The sexton has become a problem. He’s been telling people for weeks now that Helga and I have been acting strange. Ever since the sentence was carried out. That we haven’t been talking to anyone, that when we respond to others’ comments it is with strange cryptic phrases. “They’re not themselves,” he says, and trails off, leaving people to wonder who we might be.

  I cannot argue, I suppose. We are not ourselves: we are close again. We remain behind closed doors when we can, just ourselves and Abalard of Bern. It took some getting used to, having Abalard around. We’ve had to accustom ourselves to his presence at the foot of the bed. Even while we consummate. He watches and, every now and then, licks our feet. God also has rewarded our persistence: Helga has conceived a child! We are overjoyed, although the memory of Klaus makes us fearful also. We know how quickly joy can turn.

  Which is another reason the sexton’s comments trouble me.

  I’ve been told he’s taken an interest in Abalard; the way he clings to Helga’s heels whenever they are out. Perhaps if his fur weren’t black it wouldn’t be such a problem. It is said that a black dog followed Johannes Magus, Duke of Brandenberg, wherever he went. At his trial they determined the dog was none other than Lucifer himself, keeping a watchful eye over the Duke’s soul.

  This, of course, was following the Duke’s tenure at the Häxenhaus.

  My mind returns to that day in the square, to Bianka’s deformed face, the flames. It was little more than my claims and some other rumors that got her there, and this thought makes me wild.

  The sexton must be dealt with. I’ve tried praying, asking God to protect us and to resolve the situation in his own way. But he doesn’t answer, and every time I wander into the bedroom I see Helga sitting on the bed with Abalard in front of her, staring into its eyes and frowning. “Helga, dear,” I say. “Please don’t look at the dog that way.”

  She smiles. “I can’t help it,” she says. “Have you looked into his eyes? They’re so deep and pretty.”

  “At least not in public, anyway. Alright?”

  She huffs.

  Perhaps she can’t help it, but I can. Yes, the sexton must be dealt with.

  07 April

  There is a tree in the Black Forest that only I know. You have to be lost in order to find it, but when you do it is as if the entire forest has gathered around this one place. The trunk is massive and its limbs twist skyward like serpents, knotted with infants it’s swallowed. I have long believed that nature follows after God’s perfection, but not this place. It is dark, and I can sense dark purposes lingering about. Its roots are engorged with suffering, which is why, I believe, the tree looks the way it does. Whatever happened to be buried beneath it would not go long before being absorbed.

  I can only hope, anyway.

  I picture Bianka and her sistren, dancing and fornicating and trampling bits of the host, and the image does not invite composure. Although the thought of her doing evil, I’ll admit, is some comfort. Nevertheless, I do not plan on staying long.

  09 April

  X

  23 June

  “Kramer,” Father Schulz says, blinking up at the gray-lit sky. He looks surprised to see me, perhaps because it’s the middle of the day. “So good to see you. What brings you here at this hour?”

  “I needed to ask you a question, Father.”

  “Oh? Are you sure it would not be best to consult with Father Astor at the church? He is the head of your parish, and we do organize things this way for a reason.”

  “No, Father. I don’t think Father Astor would understand what I need to ask about.”

  He sighs. “Very well, go ahead.”

  “Is it possible, Father, to sin in the name of the Lord?”

  “Nothing that is truly done in the Lord’s name is sin. Take the Häxenhaus, for example.”

  “Yes, Father. But what would happen, say, if you were to find out one of the accused wasn’t a witch after all?”

  “She would be set free, of course.”

  “But what if it was too late for that? What if she had already faced judgment, as it we
re?”

  Father Schulz cocks his head to one side and stares at me sideways for a moment. “Are you seeking to make testimony?” he asks.

  “No, Father,” I say. “I’m just worried, is all. I’ve done some things in the past that I thought were for the Lord, but what if I was wrong? I am afraid to face the cost of my sins if it is so.”

  He exhales. “You’re speaking of Bianka.”

  “Among others.”

  “You know, of course, we do not rely on personal testimony alone,” he says.

  “Yes, Father. I’m not questioning her sentence, or your judgment. I think I am just afraid because right now things are going so well for me. Helga is doing much better—she’s with child, I’m not sure you heard. And of course Abalard of Bern is a large comfort.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard that,” he exclaims. “That’s wonderful news, Kramer! You must be so proud. Who, though, is Abalard of Bern?”

  “Oh, right,” I say, cursing my carelessness. “He’s just our dog.”

  “The one you’ve taken into your home, yes? Whom Helga is often seen with?”

  “Yes, that’s Abalard. I discovered him on one of my many trips to and from the Haus, in the Black Forest. Quite some distance from here, in fact. He’s been a great comfort to us.”

  Father Schulz eyes me, stroking his chin. I’m worried, at first, that he’s going to say something about Abalard, but instead he returns to the previous topic: “I understand your concern, Kramer. And there is no easy answer. You must not let uncertainty corrupt your thoughts of God. Have faith. Ultimately we must rely on Him to judge the living and the dead, and to also protect them.”

  “There was something else,” I say, unsure of whether I should press the issue. “At the stake I noticed her speaking. I thought she was talking to me at first, invoking a curse or something. But then I saw her face turn upward, her eyes close, almost as though she was praying. Is this possible, Father? Can a witch who has pledged herself to the Devil still pray to God above?”

  “You’re speaking of the day she was executed?”

  I nod.

  “No, I’m afraid there was no contrition on that day. With even her last breaths she was calling upon Satan himself to aid her. Believe me, her confession was well won.”

  I look at him. “Satan?”

  “Yes, an infernal prayer of some kind. I listened to the whole thing. Fortunately, the God of Light is more powerful than the Prince of Darkness, and she joins him now below.”

  “She was looking right at me,” I murmur, not really to Father Schulz or to anyone, for that matter. “She wouldn’t break eye contact.”

  I recall the day, the shattered grin on her face, the fire glinting in her eyes, melting the clothes on her body. Helga clinging to my arm, and beside her—

  No.

  “Is something the matter?” Father Schulz asks.

  “Abalard,” I say. I’m only dimly aware of his puzzled expression as I turn and begin sprinting across the clearing, back through the woods. It’s a long distance to town, although I’m running the entire way, replaying again and again the awful look on her face, her smile, flames.

  When at last I make it back, I am exhausted. People in the street watch me shamble toward my house. It has a forlorn, doomed look about it. I crash though the door and see Abalard of Bern curled up in his normal spot facing the entrance, a dark red crust circling his maw. He lifts his head when he sees me and grins—his teeth stained pink with viscera still clinging to them—and a trail of blood leads back to the bedroom. I can hear Helga moaning softly.

  I stop and collapse to my knees in the entryway, screaming why why why. Even though I know why, of course. And it’s a funny thing: even in the midst of my suffering I can feel the weight of my sins release. Suddenly I feel much, much lighter.

  Abalard grins, his tail wagging. I swear he looks happy to see me.

  ***

  STORIES I TELL TO GIRLS

  by Michael G. Williams

  “I’m not trying to pry, Auntie Ann,” Maria said to the crone of the Book People, lying badly and showing the disregard for it of young people everywhere. “But why don’t you ever tell us stories about your life?” She asked it with that infuriating innocence of youth, the way a child can go straight to the heart of the hidden.

  Lorraine, high priestess of the Book People, froze at the half-open library door.

  Auntie Ann as usual said nothing. Lorraine had heard Auntie Ann speak many times but for a specific reason: the older woman was trying to pass on what she had learned in her many years of crafting magic, preparing Lorraine for when she would become the coven’s crone.

  That was what the Book People were: a coven working magic through the written word. As the wheel of the year turned they gathered together, trespassing at some library or another to reach into the vast expanse of condensed intention; to make meaning out of the cast dice of a billion words. They broke the law to do their work because magic often requires a sacrifice. The Book People set their own respectability before the gods as an offering they were prepared to burn.

  This night, however – Halloween, or Samhain, or any number of other names –the Book People were on their own turf: a little branch library near the tiny town of Pittsboro. Technically they were trespassing there, too, but they had found a key, left out as though just for them, and they took it as a special kind of blessing.

  “Is something wrong with the door?” Warren was the scribe, recording their rituals in a great tome he carried.

  “No,” Lorraine said. “Just… thought I heard something.” Maria asking Auntie Ann about her past, tonight – this night, when the dead were close enough to touch with the lightest of effort... A chill ran up Lorraine’s spine. Dressed in her usual array of spandex-cotton blends, Lorraine looked the part of the mother of the group, ready to cheer on a soccer league or pilot a mini-van straight into outer space. She felt ice in her heart, though. Maria, the energetic young maiden, had a way of being the first one to stumble onto something and last to understand its significance.

  “I just feel like we could learn a lot from you,” Maria said. She smiled, but it was coy.

  Auntie Ann’s voice cracked when she spoke, like a piano that hasn’t been played in too long. “I try not to dwell on what’s dead and gone. It has a way of showing back up if it thinks it’s been invited.”

  Maria’s eyes lit up with the flame of curiosity almost rewarded. “Oh, but please? Please tell us one story? Just one?” Maria’s pleading eyes turned to Lorraine for just a second. “I bet you’ve told Lorraine all kinds of stories.”

  “Oh, girl.” Auntie Ann let out a great big breath with a lot of years behind it. “There are stories I tell to women,” she said, “And stories I tell to girls.” She smiled, though. “And you are still a girl.”

  Lorraine cleared her throat. Enough was enough. “Let’s focus. Tonight we make ourselves available to those who need us. Let us fix that as our intention as we Wander. Let yourself roam these tidy rows of words in search of the ones you need and that need you.” Lorraine held out her hands. Maria and Auntie Ann each reached for one, then for one another’s. The three of them clasped fingers for a moment while Warren scribbled. The second passed, and just like that they were over the threshold into the world they knew as their own: the dark place where magic happens.

  “Life can only be understood backwards, but it must be lived forwards.” Warren had emerged from the philosophy section carrying a textbook. As was the way of the Book People, he flipped it open to a random page, looked down and read the first sentence his eye found. “Kierkegaard.”

  Auntie Ann let a library-bound novel with a plain green cover and a block-letter title fall open in her hands. “The past is never where you think you left it,” she read, then gave one crackling chuckle. “Ship of Fools.”

  Lorraine paused a moment, considering the book in Auntie Ann’s hands as though it were a person she thought she ought to know from somewhere, but it was her tur
n to read. “The past is never dead. It’s not even past.” She knit her brow as she spoke. “Requiem for a Nun. I certainly seem to be detecting a theme. Maria?” Maria opened a thick book. “What’s past is prologue,” she said. “The Tempest.”

  Gooseflesh ran up and down Lorraine’s arms. It happened sometimes that their readings were clearly a summoning: when something would speak to them through these words. It served to remind them this wasn’t some hobby. This was the real deal.

  “I want second readings,” Lorraine said. “Whatever stands at the edge of our circle, knocking at the door of the words we’ve read, needs definition. Let us focus anew: whatever it is out there beyond the candlelight must show itself.”

  Five minutes later they returned. Lorraine nodded to Warren and he read aloud. “On the whole, we’re a murderous race. According to the book of Genesis it took as few as four people to make the planet too crowded to stand.” Warren arched an eyebrow. “Dead Beat.”

  Auntie Ann’s voice was flat. “A parent gives life, but as parent, gives no more.” She looked up and her eyes met Lorraine’s. “The Education of Henry Adams.”

  Lorraine cleared her throat. “It’s wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can’t have the one you want,” she said. “Little Women.” They were getting closer; love, the past, a parent.

  Maria opened a book titled Ten Thousand Baby Names. It fell open to somewhere in the last half and as Maria spoke a name, so did Lorraine and Auntie Ann, the three witches calling the same word like an invocation:

  “Percival.”

  A figure emerged -- previously hidden amongst the library’s shadows. Rail thin with the narrow shoulders of youth and a shock of bright red hair atop a black trench coat two sizes too large; his skin was like bone china. “Hello, my love.” Slim white fangs were barely visible when he spoke.

  Lorraine took a long moment to look him up and down. On this, of all nights, she thought to herself, when the worlds of living and dead touch, we just had to summon one of the things walking the line between.