The Prioress doubted not that Elnor was Witch and Profaner and, ’though I knew she was more, I readily agreed. Good Queen Mary had decreed that both Witch and Dissenter should be driven from her Realm and from this Mortal World. Rumour had it that two hundred and more Heretics had already been burnt at the stake, and the County of Sussex had played part in many of these burnings. I myself had witnessed two in nearby Lewes. The Summoner was sent for and I denounced Sister Elnor as Heretic and Witch. The Prioress was well pleased with this and seemed satisfied with my Contrition.
(Summoner: someone paid to bring sinners to trial before an ecclesiastical court. D.)
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When the Summoner had left us to make arrangements for Elnor’s confinement, she bade me warn my congregation of the Nun’s evil-doings lest more suffering ensued. There was a gleam to her eyes when she hinted that Elnor might lie too well at her trial, and my own person would be brought to book. I well knew that the truth would indeed bring this about, and I suspect the Prioress, my new found guardian, knew this too. I journied back to Banefeld with much haste, my brow as fevered as when the true fever had been upon me. I was mindful of my own safety and wished to protect the good name of my father. In the village I quickly told certain members of my Congregation of what the Prioress and I had discovered of Elnor, and word spread like flames in a forest fire. These good people were full of wrath, for to have their Faith abused and in such a manner was more than they could bear. Those whose children had been lost screamed for vengeance and their cry was taken up, along with sticks and cudgels, by their fellows. They hastened to the Church of St Joseph’s, a vehement, threatening mob, and I followed, spurring them on, enlivened with their passion, for had I not been unwittingly Seduced into her Wickedness? There were children amongst us, those who had once revered this Holy Nun and who now despised her. So sudden was our descent upon the Church that Elnor was found by the altar, beneath the statue of Our Lord’s blissful Mother, there embraced in the arms of the novice, Rosemund, who had so easily succumbed to her wiles. As had I. Elnor was dragged screaming from the Church, her protesting companion in desire thrown to one side. O how I cowered when Elnor’s eyes met mine; it seemed poison-tipped daggers had plunged into my heart. She knew at once that I was her betrayer and such was the malevolence in her eyes that I fell to the ground. My flock believed me Spellbound and tore at her eyes with fingers and sticks. Even when she wailed piteously, sightlessly, they gave no mercy but flailed her for her witchcraft. She cried out that I, their spiritual leader, was partner to her iniquity, and I denied her charges most absolutely, bidding them pay no heed to the Heretic’s lies, urging them to look for the Devil’s Mark about her person, for secretly I knew that upon her body was a third nipple, an aberration that the ignorant believed to be a suckling breast for a witch’s Familiar. They stripped her of her Nun’s robes and found the Accursed Mark. Their rage all but consumed them. The menfolk beat her relentlessly, their women and children urging them on, until her naked body ran with blood.
(Alice! D.)
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And all the while they beseeched her to Confess to witchcraft. But still she did not; curses were her only words. They pulled hair, greased with her own blood, from her body, until she was an obscene, hairless figure; yet still she would not admit to sorcery. O the torture they inflicted upon her! And yet my pleas for the punishment to end were feeble and went unheard. They broke her limbs, these Christian men, and dragged her through the mire as the children and women stabbed at her with pointed sticks. I could not stop them and I no longer tried.
Elnor implored mercy but still did not Confess to the crime of which she was accused. So angered were they that they dragged her to a nearby ditch, the river too far for their seething passion. The water ran scarlet when they put her to the Test and her tortured body gave way at last to the agony. She Confessed to witchcraft, and such was my own fear and need for vengeance that I almost believed this to be true. May He that Harrowed Hell forgive me, but this I wanted to be true.
They carried Elnor to a young oak nearby and there they tied a rope about her neck and hoisted her aloft. Still she screamed, and those screams filled my head until I felt my skull must needs burst. And when they lit the fire beneath her naked, dangling feet, it seemed her agony consumed my own flesh. Those bloodfilled sockets, once the holders of the softest of eyes, stared at me through the mob each time her twisting body turned in my direction, and her broken lips poured Curses upon my head, and upon all those present, each man, woman and child, and their descendants. And she cursed the name of Mary. I knew not whether she meant Christ’s Holy Mother, or our own Good Queen Mary, and I wonder if by then this demented creature knew herself. Even when the carpenter, a strong man this with no weak stomach, cut into her bowels and drew down her organs so that they sizzled and roasted upon the fire below, her Curses still filled our heads.
At her death I knew that this woman was indeed more than Witch, for the sky darkened and the ground trembled beneath our feet. Those that could, ran, whilst others cowered in the mud. I thought my Church nearby would topple, but its sturdy build held fast, though several stones fell. So afraid was this poor Mortal Soul that I believed I saw spectres rising from the graveyard. I know not what foul force from Hell had been released by Elnor’s death. The very earth appeared to open beneath my feet and I stared into a Black Pit and there I saw the twisted creatures of the lower world, wretched Lost Souls, whose sins so foul were irredeemable, whose anguished moans rose up in torment to pervade the darkened landscape. What manner of creature she to invoke such horrors! Now fallen, crawling on my belly like a worm, I turned my head from this Hellish sight and looked upon the black-charred carcass of she who once had been my sweet, wicked mistress.
The rope from which she hung broke and its gruesome burden dropped into the fire below where it did seethe and hiss until it was as charcoaled wood. I thought that I heard from this blackened thing one last howling screech, but this could only have been my own tortured imaginings for, in surety, there was nothing human left of that once fair body. It became as night, though day was not spent, darkness falling upon darkness, and I ran from that Infernal Place, the vile stench and inhuman cries rising from the Black Pit to assail my senses. I fled, unsteady on my feet, for the ground still shook, and beseeched the Lord Christ to save me from Satan’s Anger. The Church Crypt was my refuge, my Sanctuary, and I covered my eyes against the demons that rose and beckoned me from their disturbed resting places. Three days I hid in that tomb of darkness, curled in the blackest corner, my head covered by coarse sacking, my eyes closed tight against the shadows. Mayhap the time spent in that lonely dungeon loosed my reason completely, for when my father’s servants found me at last, no words of meaning came from my lips. They took me from there and my eyes were blinded by the light of day. It was well, for I had no desire to look upon that ravaged scene again. I was locked in a room in my father’s house and physicians endeavoured to soothe my ramblings with medicines and kind words. When at last my ravings had calmed, my Bishop came and spoke quietly with me, my father at his side, a staunch rock of reality.
They told me that the people of Banefeld, the landsmen, their women folk, their children, would not speak of that Evil day but to say that Elnor had Confessed to witchcraft and the slaughter of three children, and had Cursed them in her dying breath. A thunderstorm had shaken the land and dark clouds had gathered low overhead, though no rain had fallen.
But they did not tell of rising demons, nor black openings to Hell. I implored my father and the Bishop to believe me, but their reply was gentle admonishment: Elnor had poisoned my mind with her drugs and I had seen that which was not, had lived only in the realm of my own thoughts. At this I further ranted and two servants were summoned to strap me to my bed.
Weeks passed, though I know not how many, and in that time it was decided between my father and the Bishop that my health, by which they meant the condition of my mind, might be better served if I stayed away from St Joseph’s and Banefeld. I suspect the hand of the Prioress was in this, for while she would not condemn me before my father, her Conscience would not allow my tainted person within her Province. Thus my days would be spent at the small Church of St Peter’s, on my father’s estate, where my babblings would be ignored by his servants and the tenants. I would serve as Pastor. Here I would stay safe, locked in my own cell of madness. Money was given to St Joseph’s by my father for repairs to fallen stonework – ha! Struck by lightning they said, and a new stained glass window was set into the south wall. He brought to me several items from my old Parish, vestments and such like. The Church chest was also carried to St Peter’s and I believe it was of this he was most mindful. Methinks private words had passed between my father and that wily Sister of the Cloth, the Prioress, for he seemed eager to obtain this chest in which were kept all records of St Joseph’s and the Parish of Banefeld. He need not have been thus concerned, for I had not been foolish enough to set down my carnal acts with Sister Elnor, nor any statement which would speak foul of her. How he must have pored over these letters and scripts, searching for that which would bring down shame on the Woolgar crest, and how he must have sighed when none was found. How then would he view this paper that I now scribe for future reading, which will remain well-hid until God deigns it shall be found?
Not well, I am sure.
Hark now! The door rattles once more, but already she is within. Her stench grows stronger and I will not look at the dark shadow that lingers at the edge of my vision. My body is stiff with cold and the quill with which I write scratches deep into the page. Yet my fear will not let me rest! I must finish this task quickly lest my courage fail and others be not warned! I have served my days here with diligence and with Godliness, knowing my Soul is forever Damned. After a while, many months to be sure, I learned to keep dread contained within me, giving vent only when alone to the anguish and remorse that tortured me. They thought me still mad and their gaze avoided mine. But no longer were they burdened with my rantings, my impassioned pleas against unseen forces. Once more our Holy Pope in Rome is denied now that Elizabeth has come to the throne, but that concerns me little, for I am left alone in peace here. In peace! What insanities I write! Yet would I gladly exchange persecution from our new Queen for the vile pursuance of this soul-less spirit. I have not seen the Prioress since I was ensconced here and she ignores the messages I send through my father’s servants (it may be that he intercepts them). His reeve had told me that Sister Rosemund was cast out of the Priory after Elnor’s death and took to living in the forests near the village. This may well be true; I care not. My pity is for myself alone. None is to spare for that unfortunate. Elnor breathes upon me and it is the fetid breath of Death! She wills me look into those bloodfilled eyes, to fall into her lover’s embrace. A withered hand touches my shoulder and still I will not look! Not yet, dear Elnor. Not ’til this task be done, these words set down that others may learn. Doubt not these words, reader; denounce them not as the ravings of a madman, but pay them heed! Her Evil is not yet done and her maligned Spirit is not yet at rest.
The door is opened and the howling wind enters the church. It shrieks at these papers, seeking to tear them from my hand. But I will resist. She shall not have them. They will be well kept, hidden away, and then shall I turn to my Elnor. And I shall embrace her as I have embraced her in dreams of late, for my desires are still of her. I see only her beauty, not this scarred, blackened creature who stands over me, whose lipless mouth stays close to my cheek, whose
Enough of this! She has me, for there are no lies between us now. I still fornicate with her in my thoughts and it is my Sinful lust that binds us forever. I leave this warning for those who seek it. She touches me and I am hers once more!
Guard your soul. With this script I may find some Redemption. Guard your Soul and Pray for one who is already lost.
(End of document. Beyond doubt Thomas Woolgar, priest of St Joseph’s, Banfield, and latterly of St Peter’s, Barham, son of Sir Henry Woolgar, is author. D).
Questions:
1. Was Thomas Woolgar insane?
2. What did he mean: Elnor more than just a witch?
3. Is curse coming true??
4. Father Hagan/Molly Pagett: catalysts?
5. IS ALICE ELNOR?!!!
D.
Fenn sat back in the chair, his eyes never leaving the papers. He let out a long sighed breath. Jesus Christ! Was it possible? Were these words just the rantings of a madman, or were they the truth? Could this event, this terrible, misguided witch-burning that happened nearly five hundred years ago be the cause of everything that was happening at St Joseph’s today? No, it had to be superstitious mumbo-jumbo! Witches were from fairy tales, folklore, legends that parents loved to tell their kids around a cheery fire on a dark night. But then Woolgar wasn’t claiming that Elnor was a witch. In fact, he disclaimed it. But was the supernatural any more real than fairy tales or folklore? Even though he, Fenn, had witnessed events in Banfield that could only be called paranormal, his logical mind found it difficult to accept such a term as fact. But how could he dismiss what had happened to him that very day? There had been something in that church with him, something that threw out a malignant aura of evil. It had scared Nancy half to death and loosened his own bowels somewhat. So what the hell was it? The ghost of poor Sister Elnor?
‘Aaah,’ he said aloud in disgust. It just couldn’t be. There were no such things. ‘Keep telling yourself that, Fenn,’ he muttered. He studied his hand and there were no weal marks on it, no demon marks on the skin. Yet there had been inside the church, for he had seen them appear. And there were no other marks on his body save where the foliage had lashed him during his tumble down the slope.
He wondered what Delgard’s opinion would be. As a priest, the supernatural was part of his dogma, and the concept of life after death was the basis of his religion. But the manifestation of an evil woman’s curse from another era? How would that grab him? If he believed in all this, maybe he’d gone over to the church to pray for help!
Fenn shook his head. It was all too incredible. And yet it was happening.
He pushed back the chair and stood, suddenly realizing how stiff and cold he was again. The fire had burned low once more. He reached for his topcoat and shrugged it on, pulling the zipper all the way up to the neck. Better find Delgard, talk it out with him. The priest was no fool despite his vocation; if he felt there was some relevance to the document, then there sure-as-hell was. And if that was the case, the problem would be what to do about it.
Fenn left the room, pulling the neck of his coat tight around his cheeks, not sure whether it was the coldness of the night that made him shiver, or the faded script lying on the desk top.
He closed the door and walked the length of the hallway, an icy draught greeting him from the doorway ahead. He stepped out into the night and automatically looked up at the sky: it was clear, as if freshly scrubbed of clouds by the winds of the day, its blueness deep, almost black, the star clusters sharp, vivid. There was a light showing dimly through the windows of the church and Fenn walked briskly along t
he path towards it. His pace quickened until he was almost running. There was something strange about St Joseph’s, something he could not understand. It seemed totally black, darker than the night around it, no starlight reflected from the flint walls, no relief in its shape, no shades of grey. Unnaturally black, just a dim light glowing from its windows. He could feel his heart pounding and suddenly he did not want to reach the church; he wanted to turn away, to run from the grounds, away from this malevolent place. He felt as he had at St Peter’s earlier in the day: afraid and bewildered.
But he knew Delgard would be in there, alone, unguarded, unaware of the transformation that had occurred. Fenn had to warn the priest, to get him away from there, for he suddenly understood that St Joseph’s was no longer the house of God, but the sanctum of something unholy.
When he touched the door, it felt repellent to him, as though the wood, itself, were unclean. He was badly frightened, but he forced himself to push the door open.
35
‘But I want my payment too,’ said the witch, ‘and it’s not a small one either . . .’
Hans Christian Andersen, ‘The Little Mermaid’
Monsignor Delgard’s wrists rested against the low altar rail and his head was bowed into his chest, his back arched into an unpleasant shape. His lips moved silently in litany, yet there was an immobility about his face, as though his features had been carved from grey stone. He had no idea of how long he had prayed at the altar in St Joseph’s; an hour, perhaps less. His fear and confusion had not yet subsided, nor had any solutions to the imminent problem presented themselves. He had no doubts that the ancient words he had translated had been written in truth and he was equally sure that the curse was coming true. He believed that the power of the human mind had no limits on this earth, and neither did the human psyche. Elnor had possessed a power far beyond the knowledge or understanding of her fellow-men; she was of a breed that was rare, unique, a development in genetic terms that most men could barely perceive let alone strive to attain. She had had the ability to draw the wills of others, their energies, their beliefs, into a collective power that could transcend mere human forces. She had not cured the sick; they had cured themselves. Elnor’s role had been one of psychic ‘director’. That power was now acting through Alice and in a more potent way than in the nun’s own lifetime. Had death, that entry into the spiritualistic world where no physical restrictions controlled the mind’s energy, enabled her power to increase to this awesome degree? Something more had occurred to Delgard. He had reasoned that Father Hagan and Molly Pagett might have been the catalysts for unleashing these terrors: now he also wondered if it had taken Elnor’s spirit this long to develop her strange powers in the ‘other’ world (what were a few centuries to infinity itself?). And it was this thought that frightened him most for, if Elnor really had returned, how strong would her psychical forces be, and to what purpose would she put them?
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