by Hilda Lewis
So we stood up, one after another; and I sat there marvelling at his patience—so small the evils and so mean. Here a cow with dugs bewitched to give no milk; there an ox or a sheep, sick; or a patch of corn blighted or an apple-tree cankered. But I was wrong, priest. I should have remembered; I should have remembered Margaret and the way small evils grow to big.
And so at last I stood up in my place. ‘Lord,’ I cried out, ‘I have brought another soul to your service.’
‘Let it stand forth,’ He commanded.
So Philip stood up and went forward. She knelt before Him, her head a little bent. ‘Raise your head,’ He said and she lifted her face. He stared at her with narrow eyes and from narrow eyes she stared back; and there was no fear in her.
‘Is this the shape of the God you desired?’ he asked. ‘And are you satisfied?’
‘Yes, Lord.’ Her voice rose clear and we all heard it.
‘Now we baptize you in my name,’ He said. ‘Cast away the name of Christian baptism and take the new; be known by it wherever my servants foregather but in no place else.’
So the Captain brought the goblet and baptized her. ‘Two souls you have brought to Me,’ He said.
‘Yes, Lord,’ I answered. ‘Two daughters. All I have.’
‘It shall be remembered to you,’ He said. But, priest, it was forgotten; it was forgotten.
Then He cried out, ‘Let the two stand together that I may see them.’
So Margaret came forward all trembling and dared not raise her head; but Philip stood upright. And when they stood together I had my pride in them; for Meg, though but a poor creature, was milk and honey in the moonlight; and Philip in her scarlet crown wore wickedness as saints their halo.
He looked at my white girl. ‘You have been my servant for full three months,’ He said. ‘What have you done for my service?’
And while Margaret shook and could not find her tongue, Philip cried out in a clear voice, ‘We have bewitched the little lord up at the Castle. He suffers strange agonies and soon—but not too soon—he shall die.’
‘It is good,’ He said; ‘but not so good. The child’s body you will destroy. But what of his soul? Can you win Me his soul?’ And He turned to Margaret, pressing for his answer.
‘Lord,’ she said at last, very low, ‘that is a hard thing. For he is most truly a Christian child.’
His lips turned backward over the strong white teeth; he looked as though He might tear her to pieces. But Philip spoke still in that clear voice. ‘Lord, we will try!’
‘See to it then.’ He smiled upon her. ‘But—’ and his smile was spiteful upon Margaret, ‘there is more to do. Is there not more to do?’
‘Yes, Lord,’ she faltered and it was hard to catch her words. ‘There is the other boy . . . the little lord Francis. Yes,’ and she brightened and her voice came more strong, ‘there is the girl, the lady Catharine. We could kill them, all three.’
‘See to it then!’ He said once more; but He was not well-pleased. And, indeed, it needed no god to know her poor quality.
Philip raised herself upon her toes—she was not tall—and whispered in his ear. And now He was pleased and pleased indeed! He tweaked her ear so that the blood ran down her neck among the red poison berries but she gave no sign of pain, standing there proud yet humble before Him.
‘This new witch of mine strikes to the womb of the matter. Speak and tell your purpose.’
Philip said softly, but every sound came clear, ‘To kill the children is not enough. For revenge we must go deeper; deep as the insult; and deeper still. They shall have no more children—the lord and the lady. The seed must die and the womb be blasted; she shall conceive no more.’ ”
Samuel Fleming’s frail body shook. “I can endure no further.”
“Yet the lady endured it,” Joan Flower reminded him. “And the lord endured it; and above all the little ones endured it.”
“It is harder, sometimes, to endure for those we love, than to endure for ourselves.”
“That is a great nonsense, priest. When another hangs, it is his neck that is broken; not our own. So, also, when we ourselves come to the gallows, it is our soul takes the fear, our bodies the agony.
But that was not the end of Philip’s planning. She meant the lord and the lady to go childless not only on earth but in heaven, also. She was bent upon winning the souls of these little ones; with fear and with torment to make them cry out against God, to turn them towards the Master, accepting ease from torment at his hands. Two fine and precious souls lost to your god. And the lord and lady childless on earth and in heaven, alike.”
His face crumpled into lines of pain, remembering the torment the children had suffered; and no word of complaint from them, tender as they were, nor from their parents.
“Yes, we failed. But that night—the night of the All Hallows’ Feast, we did not dream of failure,” Joan Flower said and sighed. “And so our business being done, the Master nodded for us to begin the dances; and, as He nodded, the great light upon his head bobbed up and down; the shadow of his horns jigged like curved swords upon the ground.
I remember well the order of the dances. First we did the Leaping Dance; we leaped so high in the air it seemed we must touch the moon with our finger-tips . . . and that year the corn grew higher than ever was known. Next we did the Dance of Fertility of Beasts; we danced it with so good a will that the cattle brought forth in abundance. Then the Master commanded the Captain to sing. It was a hymn to the Master and it has many verses—but not one fit for your ears. It praises his virility and the chorus we sing together.”
She began to hum and in the sunlight her body swayed voluptuously; and now he could hear her low sweet voice and the curious senseless words,
“Har, har, Devil, Devil.
Come Sathan, Lord of Evil,
Dance here, dance there,
Play here, play there,
Prance and dance
Sway and play, Sway and play.
Sabbath sweet Sabbath of our delight,
Sabbath great Sabbath and holy the night,
We wait for the nod of our Master the God.
Har, har, Devil, Devil.
Come Sathan, Lord of Evil.
And then, priest, we dance and we stamp our feet and we clap our hands until the ground rings and sends the sound of our joy to the sky; and the sky sends it back again. And so between the ringing of heaven and earth we dance; and the ring moves faster, faster; and the song comes louder, and it is all a madness and a delight and sweet poison in the blood.
And so we came to the last dance of all, the Dance of Follow the Master. Philip stood behind Him and no-one between them. And I stood near, for I, too, was honoured that I had brought her soul to Him. Always, priest, in this dance a witch stands by a spirit—male with female, female with male, that we may know delight. But Meg stood at the end among the children; she went to her place sullen enough; but when she saw how she stood between two pretty boys she brightened and soon she was dancing with the same madness as the rest of us.
Suddenly, with no warning—as is the way in this dance—the pipe stopped and the music broke. It was the moment.
Oh priest, there is no human coupling like coupling with a spirit. No, never close your eyes—it is a thing you must know. And it is a right coupling; for it brings fertility to all who desire it and to those alone. And it is a strange thing; when one couples with a spirit, then he is warm as any man. But when one couples with the Devil He is colder than stone; and when He is cold He begets no child.”
He lifted a puzzled head. “But the Devil cannot breed; learned men have told us so.”
“Then they lie, priest; in this, as in other things. Have you not heard of Devil’s spawn? If the Master considers a witch worthy, He asks her if she will bear his child. If she says No, then when he takes her He is cold
as well water. But if she says Yes, then he is warm as a man.”
“Shameless, shameless,” Samuel Fleming said and groaned.
“Leave your groaning, priest,” Joan Flower said, “or I shall think you envy us our pleasures. Nor would you be the first priest to do so; no, nor to join us, too, forswearing your own god and bending the knee to mine. I have seen them, and—” she thrust an impudent face close to his so that he was faint with the coldness that came from her, “they become great men with us; they stand next to the God himself.”
“Go,” he said. “Torment me no longer with your shameless shames.”
“Your spirit is weak,” she said, mocking. “But mine is strong. You cannot endure the wild, free smell of evil; but I can endure the stifling stench of good.”
“So God shall catch you in the end,” he said.
Chapter Ten
He was half-lying in his chair beneath the great cedar-tree; his thin fingers touched the warm earth; in the apple-tree a blackbird sang. He could see it—orange beak and fan-spread of plum-black tail. Its whole body quivered as the song lifted, arched and dropped to the last clear note.
At his back a cold wind struck sudden, unexpected. He turned sharply. In the layered depth of the cedar-tree he caught a glimpse of her pale shadow; and, peering again, heard her light laugh.
“Do you come again,” he asked, “to spoil so fair a day with so dark a tale?”
“It is a tale that must be told—to the end,” Joan Flower said. She came from the darkness of the tree and dropped at his feet, skirts spread.
“Then since it is so—” he sighed and folded his hands beneath the warm rug, “let us lose no time.”
She nodded, brisk. “The sooner the better; so we shall both find our rest.
There was ill-will between my daughters now. There had always been jealousy. Philip envied Meg’s fairness; Meg envied Philip’s quick tongue and her iron will and the power one felt within her. But until that last Sabbath they had behaved like sisters, standing together against all accusers. Now they were enemies—each for herself and herself for the Devil.
We had cast the spell to bewitch the little lord—you will remember that!” And she smiled wickedly. “Now we waited for news. We waited long and long enough. Philip was still at the Castle and could not come down to us—the house was full, the King avisiting; and no-one in the village would speak with us. It was Joan Willimott sent us her spirit to give us the news—she that in the end betrayed us. Little Lord Roos lay sick . . .”
“So fair a child . . . so bright. . . .” It was as though the old man spoke within himself. He turned suddenly, piercing her with the anger of his eyes. “So little a child, so good. You were woman as well as witch, Joan Flower; how could you do it?”
“I had seen sick children before; I had sacrificed my child’s child. I was not likely to grieve for the child of my enemy.”
“No-one was your enemy—except yourself. No-one had done you any ill.”
“All good folk were my enemy. And especially I hated Madam the Countess with her righteousness, her cold, chaste goodness. I was glad of the wickedness we did. And the more my lady prayed for the child and the more my lady wept for the child, the more glad was I. We played with her as a cat with a mouse. We would call a halt; and then, even while she was on her knees thanking her god, we would call down the sickness heavier than before.”
“And all the time,” he said and his voice came out in a whisper, “we did not know; we did not know.”
“You did not know and you did not guess. You were too highminded, too virtuous—you and the lord and the lady. But in the village they were beginning to guess; they whispered in knots by the pump or by the stocks; yes, and in church, too. They would stop their whispering if they saw me or my daughters. And up at the Castle there was whispering, too. Philip, when she could be spared, would come down, now raging, now laughing, to tell us how the servants dropped into silence as she went by; and how, more than once, turning quickly, she had caught them crossing themselves. But no-one told my lord; and no-one told my lady. Useless. Neither he nor she would have listened then, such was their faith in those that served them. And even when the tales came to your ears, priest . . .”
“I did not believe them, either. You were women of my own flock; I had christened your daughters. Three women I knew—or, God forgive me, thought I knew—and two of them so young. How could I believe they had the power, or the will even, to torment a child, a sweet and innocent child?”
“Yet the thing had been done by others before us; and will be done by others after us; done again and again.”
“God forbid! That such things happen, one knows; knows but does not quite believe. Not to this child, one says; not by these women. Why, I had seen you, all three, kneel in my church, pray in my church.”
“You were too simple, priest. To Whom did we pray? And what words did we use?”
He knocked his hand against his breast. “That such things can happen!”
“Do happen!” she corrected him. “Happen again and again.”
“Not to the people one knows; not by the people one knows.” And in his weakness and his grief, it was as though a child repeated the thing he wants to believe.
“They say, priest, that you are a wise man, subtle in argument; but you are no match for an ignorant woman.”
“The Devil lends you his wit,” he said. “But take care, the Devil is a deceiver.”
“You are right there, at least.” She sighed. “Else I should not be wandering now between heaven and hell. But I never thought then of being lost between the cold stars, I thought only of the greatness of the reward, seeing I had brought two souls to the Master; one, it is true, of no great worth . . .”
“To my Master,” he interrupted, “all souls are equal.”
“My Master is not such a fool. To Him souls are equal only in the counting of heads. But there are some He covets; and Philip was one. And, over and above that, I had brought sickness upon the little lord and the next step would be death. So I was filled with joy, priest; such joy, priest, you might know, saving a soul; or bringing one you love back from the gates of death.”
She was silent a little, then she said, “Tell me, priest! If your heaven is so sweet a place, why do you grieve when one you love is called thence? And . . . why did you grieve for the little lord?”
“Because the flesh is weak; and the child’s death untimely and the manner cruel.”
“Untimely? That is for your god to say—you believe that, surely? Yet you held, I remember, a service that the child might recover. Why did you not leave it to your god?”
He made a little helpless movement with his hands.
“Your god did not listen.” She spoke on a small bubble of laughter. “He did not grant your wish as our Master listens, granting us our prayers.”
“Yet he deserts you at the end.”
“It was I deserted Him—never forget that, priest. As for the end—it is not yet. That service you held. I was there. I and my daughters. All three.”
“I saw you and I thought, These are no witches. No witch would dare to set foot in holy Church nor take the blessed Wafer upon her tongue.”
“You were wrong. We came into church when it served our purpose; and the Wafer we took upon our tongue . . . but we did not swallow it. We kept it safe. The Wafer, once desecrated, works the blackest magic. Yes, priest, you do well to groan. But you would do better to look at your congregation, not being deceived because a face is known to you. For here an old man, or there a young woman—yes, or even a child—is turning your prayers to mockery . . . and worse. Yes, we prayed, my daughters and I; but behind our hands we laughed to see how you were fooled.”
“God is not fooled,” he said quite gently. “Maybe you laughed too soon.”
She shook her smiling head.
“You say
you were woman as well as witch; you say the witch’s heart knows tenderness. Yet you sat there knowing the wickedness you had done and were not moved from your purpose, not though you saw men and women weeping and praying.”
“Are you moved from your purpose, priest, when we curse or weep; or when we pray to our Master? Well, you held your service and you wept and you prayed; but your god did not listen; and the child grew yet more sick. And all your prayers were no use. They were no use at all.”
“Why did you not kill him outright? Why did you play with him, now catching him back a little way towards life, now hurrying him to the grave?”
“You grow forgetful, priest. It was because we had still to win his soul for the Master.”
“That was a thing you could not do. It was perhaps God’s purpose that the child should die; but not that he should lose his immortal soul.”
“No,” she agreed, thoughtful. “No. We tried but we could not pry him loose from God. Philip would creep into his chamber while the nurse slept and she would whisper in his ear. Would you be well again? You have but to say the word and my Master will cure you. A word . . . a little word; or no word, even; a nod; a nod only and there will be no more pain. You will run free upon the cool grass and you will play and you will laugh for joy.
But he cried out against her and more than once she was forced to put a hand over his mouth; and each time she was so angered she could have strangled him where he lay. But she desired his soul. The child cried out against her so loud that she dared no longer come into his chamber. So we sent Rutterkin. He would sit upon the pillow . . .”
“I remember,” Samuel Fleming groaned. “The child cried out, The cat! The cat! We looked and there was no cat; and we thought it was the sickness.”
“It was no sickness, priest. And when the child would not listen, the cat lay upon his chest so that he could not breathe; and the cat scratched him, face and hands. You thought it was the frenzy of his sickness.”