The Witch and the Priest (epub)

by Hilda Lewis

  And, in the silence the Master spoke. It was not the roaring of the thunder, not the bellowing of a great beast; but a little voice, a still small voice . . .”

  “That is an old trick,” Samuel Fleming said. “The God of the Jews used it in the dawn of time; but the Son of Man spoke always man-to-man. Can your Master do nothing better than copy so stale a trick?”

  “It is his own trick, older by far than the God of the Jews. And it works; it works yet. Priest, my heart stood still.

  ‘Stand up,’ the small voice said, ‘stand up, my servant, and speak.’

  And when she did not move the Captain went to her and took her roughly by the shoulder and dragged her to her feet. She stood there and every limb shook so that it was a marvel she did not fall. I could not look at her. I was her mother; and I had brought her to this.

  She stood staring out of blind, blue eyes.

  ‘What deeds have you performed for love of Me?’ the Master asked.

  I saw her swallow in her throat; I saw her tongue move across her lips. Her mouth began to move but it was hard to catch the words. ‘Lord . . . Lord . . .’ she said. And then, ‘We worked the spell . . . but it failed . . . it failed . . .’

  Her voice died away; and, all about her, the silence waited.

  ‘It failed,’ she said again. ‘The familiar refused.’

  ‘The familiar . . . refused?’ And the small, quiet voice, the little gentle voice stiffened the blood in my veins. ‘We shall deal with the familiar.’

  Her lips just moved but no sound came. Oh, priest, then was the time for your god to speak; but he did not speak, and she stood there with her empty eyes and her dropped jaw and her mouth fallen like the mouth of the dead.

  Philip sprang up in the moonlight; she was tight as a bowstring when the arrow is fitted. And I knew that thing I had feared was upon us.

  But I was no longer afraid. I looked at her all wild and cruel; and I felt my soul move towards her, as yours, priest, might move towards a saint. There was no pity in me now, but only a hateful joy because of the pain to fall upon the daughter that had brought shame upon me. I looked upon the daughter who covered my shame with her own glory.

  ‘Lord,’ she said and came forward and knelt. ‘Let your servant speak.’ And when He nodded, she said, ‘It is right that there be punishment for failure; but punishment should fall where it belongs. It belongs not to the poor familiar but to the one that blighted the spell in the binding.’

  He said nothing; nor did He move.

  ‘Lord,’ she said and there was no fear in her, ‘we had agreed, the three of us, to cast the spells to bring all the children to their death; and afterwards to blast the seed of the father and the womb of the mother. And we bound ourselves in full meeting in your name. So it was, Lord.’

  He stood up in his place. ‘Was it not so?’ He asked of us.

  ‘Lord, it was so,’ we answered Him and nodded our heads.

  Philip turned her wild head upon her shoulder and stretched a finger towards Margaret. ‘It was she blasted the spell in the making. For we cast it watchful that nothing go wrong; but she sat there and set her will against us. But we did not know it, my mother and I, until we rubbed the kerchief upon the belly of the familiar. For, when we commanded him, Go upward, he crouched with eyes of fire and could not stir against her will. Then my mother said, The spell is spoilt. But my sister said nothing. She stood up and went away. And after that we dared not cast the spell again until we had consulted with our Lord and confessed and bowed ourselves to his command. Lord, what must we do?’

  ‘We must strengthen the will of our servant towards Ourselves,’ he said, still in that small, quiet voice. And then He spoke not at all, but sat, masked face upon his hand. And we crouched still as any stone and watched lest our breathing sound too loud.

  And so sitting, the excitement died out of me; and I wondered what punishment He would inflict upon my girl. His lightest punishment—whipping—I had suffered myself, over Patchett’s child; and I had not found it so light.” She moved her shoulders, as though, even now, out of the body, she felt the pain of the blows. “As for the hardest punishment—it might be stoning. And, though Margaret was worthy of death, I did not want to see her die cruelly before my eyes.

  He raised his head at last; his voice was cold as well water. ‘This backsliding servant of mine does not know Me. She has forgotten the night she offered herself to my service. When my servant forgets the embraces of the God, then it is time for her to die the death. But because she sacri­ficed her new-born child I will show mercy. That she may hereafter remember the God, my choice tonight falls upon her. Witches, to the feast.’

  The sweet savours of roast and broiled came up to our nostrils, but Margaret going to her place, the least place of all, cried out that it was the flesh of infants. I rallied her that she was fanciful as a breeding woman; it was nothing but pork and mutton.

  Margaret had been chosen of the Master; but tonight there was not one that would willingly lie in her place. There she sat, lower than the youngest child in a lost and lonely world.

  The Master did not look at her. He played with Philip; and they ate and laughed and kissed together, she lying upon his breast. But Margaret sat upright and looked before her and no crumb passed her lips.

  At last, when we had eaten, the Captain stood up and cried out, Witches, to the dance! So we ran to make our ring about the God and the Dance of the Adoration began. I looked about for Margaret; she had not taken her place but sat upon the ground. No-one called to her; and if he had I doubt she would have heard. There was nothing to do but throw my head back with the others and move in the measure of the dance, singing the hymn that never before failed to waken desire in me. It is a desire, priest, more than the common delight of women; for singing, I would feel within myself the quickening of the fertile earth and be at one with it.

  But tonight I felt nothing only fear and sorrow; and the anger of the God. The whole company felt it too; in spite of the flute, forever quickening, our feet slowed and we came to a halt.

  Nor was it better when we came to the dances of our delight, which are not to praise the God but to warm us for our sport. At a nod from the Master, the Captain flung his flute upon the ground and cried out, Witches, to the sport!

  So we stood still while our partners came to fetch us—to every woman her incubus, to every man his succubus; but still Margaret sat unmoving on the ground. Philip left her place by the Captain and stood over against Margaret. ‘Stand up, fool!’ she said and the noise of her hissing came clear. ‘If you show yourself a coward the Master will tear you in pieces. Show some pleasure, if you cannot show ardour. It is the only way to save yourself.’

  But still Margaret sat in her place. And still the Master waited. He was black as coal and his horns jigged this way and that as the wind blew the flame of the candle that was set between them. And, as He stood, the muscles beneath the shining skin rippled sleek with the power and the cruelty that was in Him.

  And so we stood waiting until it pleased Him to move.

  Margaret stood up on her place. And all the time He stood there and gave no sign. So, inch by inch, moving against her will she came towards Him.

  And then it began—the thin sweet sound of pipes that stir the blood; and the pounding of tabors that beat their rhythm within the womb. But, still as I lay with my incubus, my mind was less upon my delight than upon my girl. And once I heard a wild scream and I raised myself to listen. ‘Lie still, sweetheart, till our business is done,’ he said and pulled me down again.

  Dawn was coming up faint in the east. The pipes and tabors slackened and stopped and we came yawning from our embraces.

  I saw Philip, sleepy as a cat, mount her tormented steed; she cut at him with a sharp switch and turned his head towards home. But weary as I was, and all longing for my bed, I could not leave the place until I had seen Marga
ret—that scream rang still in my ears. So there in the empty place, all churned with our feet, its bushes broken by our bodies, and the stink of spent candles in the air, I waited.

  And then I saw her.

  She was covered with blood—mouth and arms and white body abloom with scarlet. And her face was stiff as stone and her eyes were no longer blank. They were quick with horror; quick and sick. If she could have wept then—though her heart dissolved in its flood and her spirit took flight to the nethermost pit—then she would have wept. For the thing we miss sorest and agonize to win again, but cannot win again, is the power to weep.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I wanted to comfort my poor girl, to wipe away the blood; but I dared not. This terrible mating was her punish­ment. The Master had judged; who was I to deny his justice? Neither then nor afterwards did I throw her a word of com­fort for fear of Philip. Philip would not hesitate to denounce me, any more than she had hesitated to denounce her sister.

  It was sad these days in the cottage; yes, and bitter too. Meg went about with a vacant look. I wondered, sometimes, whether she was losing what wits she had. Philip would stand over her, flinging her taunts; asking whether she had conceived yet of the Master. And she would pat her own full belly. Meg would flush or she would pale; sometimes she would lift a hand to her face as though there were tears she must wipe away; and she would stare, surprised, when the hand came away dry. Grief and horror festered in her heart—grief for the slain child; horror of the Master.

  Yes, I was sorry for Margaret; but I feared Philip.

  Once I came upon Meg when I was gathering faggots in the wood; it was in a dark place and she was kneeling; and she was trying to pray. It was your lord’s prayer. But she could not say it. Lead us into temptation, she kept saying. Lead us, lead us into temptation. She knew it was wrong, you could tell it by the way she shook her puzzled head. She did not know how to set it right. For it is not permitted to us to take your lord’s prayer upon our tongue; and, if we should try to pray, the Master confuses the mind and we cannot find the words. We may use them only in the casting of spells . . . and in the order which He permits.

  So there she went on kneeling and her empty eyes lifted to the sky. If your god is as merciful as you say, priest, why did he not help her that day?”

  “The further we run from God, the longer it takes to run to Him again,” Samuel Fleming said.

  “That is only commonsense.” Joan Flower sighed. “Ah well! My home had grown strange and sad; I was frightened lest my fool had not yet learnt her lesson. There were days I could bear it no longer. I would leave home in the early morning and wander the countryside asking myself why everything that had started so fair had turned to ashes in my mouth. Sometimes when I had forgotten to put a piece of bread in my pocket I would stop at a house where no-one knew me; but they would not give me so much as a crust; and sometimes they would threaten to set the dogs on me.”

  “The Devil’s Mark was plain in your face.”

  “But it was the mark on my body brought me to my death.”

  “It was yourself that set them searching for it. You had justice.”

  “Your god offers more than justice—if we are to believe you, priest. What mercy did I ever get?”

  “More than you could ever dare to hope. That is why you are here.”

  “You are quick enough with your answers, priest; but while I was on earth I had mercy neither from your god, nor from my God; nor yet from men and women.”

  “When heaven and hell and earth all fail, it is time to look into one’s heart. How many curses did you cast, how much evil did you do?”

  “Not enough, priest. Sometimes I failed in my duty; did you never fail in yours? When you are struck upon one cheek, you should turn the other—so you are commanded. When I am offended, the curse must follow—so I am com­manded. Yet, sometimes you were content to forget the other cheek; and I to forego the curse. I knew it was a weakness; and a danger, too. For at home and abroad Philip’s eye was on me. She would send one of her familiars so that, as I wandered, a hare would leap from beneath my feet, or a spotted rat or a great toad. Wherever I went, eyes went with me.

  As for Rutterkin, there was another trouble. So long instant to my bidding, he was no more eager. From that day he had refused his part in bewitching the little lady, my power over him had waned. Now to buy his obedience, before he would do my slightest errand, I must give him blood; more and more blood. I knew that I was getting old and yellow and wasted. I put away my fine mirror. I did not need it to know that my eyes were hollow in their sockets, that every day saw new lines upon my face; as for my hands, they were beginning to look like the claws of an ancient hen. I was tired in my body; I was tired in my heart.”

  “Forever young, forever fair! So much for the Devil’s promises.”

  “He kept his promise. At the Sabbath the blood ran hot and I was young. But earth’s clocks strike a different rhythm; and I was old . . . old. There were times when the Sabbaths seemed far away, a dream; and our daily life hard and full of fear. And I would ask myself, sometimes, whether the Master had not forsaken me. But though it was not always easy, I would manage to thrust the doubt aside. If I had done nothing else I had, at least, brought Philip to Him, Philip in whom He delighted . . . or so I thought. And I had served Him well, doing many small evils as well as some great ones. Surely the two dead boys must count to my credit and count greatly; and if we had failed with the sister, that was not my doing. The fault was Meg’s and she had been punished.

  But it was all poor comfort; there were times I knew not which way to turn.

  Philip came upon me one day when I walked in the woods. ‘The God give me patience,’ she cried out all sharp with her anger. ‘He has set us work to do and we have not done it. My sister moons within, groaning and moaning; and you wander here in little better state. Soon the Sabbath will be upon us and we have not done his bidding.’

  ‘There is time and time enough,’ I said, trying to make light of the matter, but she would not be pacified.

  ‘There are no more merry meetings in our house; and you come to the esbats no more. You know not what they say of us, those we call our friends. But I know—though they are silent when they see me; for they fear me still. I need no words. A glance of the eye, the back a little turned—it is enough. I tell you there’s little love amongst them for any of us. They are afraid because of my sister’s disgrace; afraid to be too friendly lest they share it. And there’s jealousy in plenty because of me. And any one of them—even Willimott and Greene, your loving friends—would betray you to the Master if they got the chance.’

  ‘There is no chance. They know nothing.’

  ‘Do they not? What of Meg forever kneeling and trying and trying to catch the ear of the Christian god? And what of you? How long since you have set your hand to work for the sake of the Master? A true Christian example!’ And she spat. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘I could work the spell myself. And then? What then? At the Sabbath I must say I worked alone. And the Master will know, and all the covens will know, that you are faithless; not only my sister, which is shame enough; but you that sponsored me.’

  ‘And should you mind our disgrace, except that you might share it?’ I asked, unwise—it is not clever to stir the adder with one’s foot.

  ‘I am not afraid of pain,’ she said quickly; and that was true. I saw her once when a spark flew from the fire and singed her flesh in the thick of the arm. I could smell the burning; but she shook it off and, without a word, set about her work. And once a splinter ran into her thumb under the nail. She bent her head and bit it free—and no wincing. She was one to thrust her right hand in the fire, if need be, without a whimper.

  ‘There is worse than pain,’ she said. ‘There is shame; and that is a thing to fear; and it is a thing I will not endure.’ And that was true, too. She would not endure our shame to dim her glory; to dr
ag her, perhaps, from her high place.

  ‘Come!’ she said and put out a hand, fragile as a wren’s claw to the eye but strong as an eagle’s when it came to the test. ‘It is time to cast the last spell; to bewitch the lord and lady. I will wait no longer.’

  I went along with her but I could not hide my unwilling­ness. I was afraid to meddle in so strong a thing, so long a thing we could not see to its end. To kill this one or that—I would do it; to bespell the source of life itself was another matter. It frightened me.

  ‘And your sister?’ I asked, making Meg as an excuse for delay.

  ‘That fool!’ Philip said. ‘The Master is too patient. He should have made an end of her long ago.’ She felt my feet drag as we walked and she said, ‘Once you were foremost among witches. You might have been the right-hand of the Master and his love. But now . . .’

  ‘I am old and the blood runs thin. Honours and love drop away—especially love. So it is; and so it will always be. Yes, you will come to it, even you!’

  ‘No!’ and her voice came out in a whisper. She raised her clasped hands above her head; her voice went ringing through the wood. ‘Master, listen, I beseech You!’

  I touched her arm; someone might hear us—and I had no desire to come to the rope. She was in an ecstasy—we call it the witch’s ecstasy—for she cried out still in that high clear voice. ‘Master, let the time not come when my blood runs thin. Keep my fire alight for ever.’

  ‘Not even the Master can do that,’ I warned her. ‘Not while we walk the earth. At the Sabbath, yes; but only if you are strong enough to fight old age. I am not strong enough; nor will you be, perhaps, when the time comes.’

  ‘Then put out the flame of life before it begins to die!’ she cried out. ‘Master, put it out for ever and let me dwell with You in the joys of Hell as You have promised.’