by Jason Beech
“Liz comes with me.”
“She tried to implicate you. She's guilty.”
“She's my sister. She's guilty of many things, but not of being a witch. She comes with me.”
The General pulled his sword, as did the other dignitaries. Elisabeth hurried to dress. Mary backed away to the door. Slashed and stabbed the air to keep the wolves at bay. She allowed Jacob to come with them, though she could see him torn between the hold she had on his loins and the urge to please his superiors.
“Come with me. To the New World. Where you can be free.” The Witchfinder faked sincerity with ease – she couldn’t’ imagine his offer stood as a serious statement. Why would I go anywhere with this man? She slipped out the door with her sister a rag doll in her grip, Jacob pulled along in her slipstream.
17.
Billingham pushed the Witchfinder ahead of him until they reached the gallows. The General and the other lords marched behind, calm at the crowd’s more regular whistles which tore through the air. Samuel craned his neck across the town’s open spaces to see if Mary had made her way out. He hadn't yet reflected how serious the General had been about his arrest until Billingham’s spite bit at his pride.
“New money. You're disgusting.”
That shove pinched at his nerves and he found himself staring at the crowd. They ran like a fox prowled the edge of their cage. The few soldiers who guarded them had retreated. The General stood tall and invincible to address anyone who might hear him. “The town has found its witch – in actual fact a wizard. A practitioner of witchcraft, a betrayer of you good people, he planned to work his magic to open the gates for the King’s men. We have found him out, and he stands here ready to say his last words.”
Samuel swung a shoulder at Billingham and toppled him. He fell from the gallows edge and into the mud beneath. The small man sprang to his feet, brown from boots to hairline, and ran back to the platform two steps at a time. Samuel worked at the rope which tied his wrists behind his back. It burned and cut into his skin, but that didn't stop him. The General nodded at Billingham as he reached the top. Samuel struggled and aimed another shoulder-punch. Billingham had readied himself and dodged with ease. The guard made sure he couldn’t bolt.
Two of the General’s companions – old men, both – contained him through a struggle. He aimed a kick, a headbutt, a shoulder. He repeated until they had his neck in a noose.
“No. No.”
How had it come to this? His heart pounded for Rebekah. His weakness for Mary had wreaked havoc. Made him soft. Mud hit his cheek. Another clump stained his coat, and another, wrapped round a stone, made his eyes sting as it shifted his nose to the right. All those women he'd hanged or burned. Some had screamed on their way to death. Some cried bitter tears; others approached the noose or fire composed in their faith for God. Some begged for mercy.
Billingham tightened the noose and faced him. “I have a bag for you, Harrison. I'd say I hope it chokes you, but the rope will do that first.”
Samuel’s lip curled into a snarl, which made the mudman take a step back, until he almost slipped over the platform’s edge again. The Witchfinder shut his eyes tight and hoped he'd die quick and easy.
An almighty whistle made them all duck, apart from Samuel, whose neck strained at the rope’s bite.
18.
The air stank of smoke and earth. Mary's scent sometimes attacked Jacob’s senses. Forced him ahead of her to avoid the blade in her hand and the sullen sister on her arm. Elisabeth asked why Mary had saved her.
“We all do stupid things. This is your last, though, right?”
She bent her head. “Right.”
“Stupid girl. Ever since mum and dad died, you've been stupid. What made you jump into bed with that soldier? He was an idiot. You risked us all for an idiot.”
“I loved him.”
“You thought you did, Liz, but you have no idea what love is.”
“And you do? Lying naked with the General – was that all about love?”
“No, that was about practicality. And I never said it involved love.”
Jacob held himself tight, fascinated by the women. He recognised Sarah’s spirit in both. How human they now seemed. He couldn't picture either one over a cauldron. His innards lurched when the General condemned them. He relived his sister’s walk to the rope – how she called to him and their crippled mother as they tightened the rope round her neck. Sarah had been accused of similar crimes to Elisabeth and suffered the consequences.
They ran on, down alleys, over broken carts, pushed ever forward by the roar behind. Shots fired and swords clashed. The Royalists must have breached the walls. Stupidity made him fidget as they arrived at Mary’s tavern. He had not protected the women. They didn't need protection, least of all his. He accompanied them because of the Witchfinder’s instructions. The man had plans for them, clearly. He patted at the coin in his pocket. Neither woman had acknowledged him throughout the dash from danger. When Mary and Elisabeth swivelled their heads at the screams which rose above the clash of metal, they stared through him as they would water to see fish. He wished to show his use.
“We should go inside.” His words came out hollow and the wind carried them away to exile.
Mary charged into the tavern, followed by Elisabeth. He checked his shoulder and ducked his head below the doorframe, though his scalp didn't reach its top. If they could spark a fire, this place would invite him into that chair for a nap. Let sleep take away his fears. Mary pulled at a panel on the wall in the back room until it gave way to reveal a dark passage. She sparked a torch and entered first.
“Let's go. Before we’re all butchered like sheep.”
The thought of a blade’s nip nudged Jacob into the tunnel where the flame flickered shadows into all kinds of monstrous shapes. Elisabeth stood ready for her sister, who grunted in the effort to shut the panel again. Jacob stared to engage Elisabeth’s eyes. He would never tell from those ovals, if he hadn't seen it himself, that she could have thrown an accusation of witchery at her sister. Elisabeth eyed the wall behind him, though he knew it couldn't have anything of interest. He sighed and mumbled an apology.
“Why are you even here?” Now she pierced his eyes. “Was all this your revenge for Sarah?”
“I … No. I don't know.” He had held the Witchfinder’s steady gaze easier than Elisabeth’s.
“You're the one who clambered down the town walls, not an easy feat, to find him. Your sister spouted a whole bunch of nonsense, and threatened to name me to Billingham, just because he caught her lips locked with one of his men.”
“She did not. Sarah was pure –”
Elisabeth’s laugh cackled off the tight walls and down the passage, all the way to hell. The light conjured shakes and he feared she had called for the devil’s help.
“She is flesh and blood –”
“Just like the rest of us.” Mary thrust at him and he gasped as the point slid beneath his rib cage. His voice exploded a croak, his eyes wide on his murderer. Her eyes as black as the forest at night. She thrust deeper until his heart burst and the flame died.
19.
“Mary, you're covered in blood.”
“Come, we'll worry about it later.”
Elisabeth stumbled over hard earth which numerous feet hadn't smoothed across the years, and kept her mouth shut to prevent the taste of cobwebs. They reached the exit sore and out of breath. They rested against each other and searched for danger across the open fields towards the town they had escaped.
Elisabeth wiped at the blood streaks on Mary's clothes. “Why did you kill him?”
“He's unpredictable, Liz. Makes him a danger.”
Elisabeth rubbed at her hands to rid the stain. “So am I. Will you kill me?”
“You're my sister. How could I hurt you? I've looked after you the best I can all these years. Mum and dad would be proud of me, I think.” She rested a finger on Elisabeth’s cheek to gather her tear. Elisabeth clasped her sister’s
digit and brought it to her mouth.
“This war … it has everybody eyeing each other with suspicion.” Mary wrapped an arm around Elisabeth and rubbed warmth into her cold flesh.
“Should we let the other army know about the passage?”
“No. There'll be bloodlust. Slaughter and rape. Hangings. Men breaking out of their skin to show the animals beneath.”
Elisabeth leaned into Mary’s embrace as if she would find it scarce from this moment on. The rain slashed diagonally across them and plastered hair against their foreheads. A lone tree sat solemn above a ruined stone wall. Its leaves had long glided away with the breeze, but they had no other shelter. Elisabeth squeezed at Mary on checking her shoulder. Mary's mouth shaped crooked at the sight. The apparition stumbled out of the passage’s mouth. He regained his footage and limped towards them, his forearm a shield against the rain and the neutral light.
His frame stood shorter and rounder than Jacob’s. He halted and let his arm drop. They could see him now, as he could them through his crooked glare.
“Bitches. Filthy, devil-worshipping witches and traitors. The town falls and you yet live.”
He raised his sword above his head and limped their way as if he dragged a ball and chain behind. Elisabeth shifted behind Mary, her first instinct, as she would when a mere child, but Billingham appeared so pathetic. Even now, with his smashed right leg and bloodied face, he puffed himself up to make himself appear taller. His bald pate pulsed beneath diffuse clouds, like the torch which guided them through the passage.
Elisabeth prized the sword from her sister’s unwilling hand and met the man. She angled her free hand to comfort Mary’s plaintive objection. “Be calm, Mary.”
Billingham swayed before her, his sword still in the air. Uncertainty clouded his eyes. Blood smeared down his cheek and dipped into his neck. He flitted about her face, desperate to fasten to her eyes. She felt sorry for the man as she rested the sword’s point on his belly. A little needle startled him.
“I don't know, Elisabeth, how we got to this point.”
“You saw me in Jack’s presence. You saw his disease and pointed your finger without thought.” She bit at her lip for the accusations she threw under her interrogation. “You alright, Mary?”
“Perfect.”
Elisabeth stared down on this man, the top of his head about level with her nose. “The disease is spreading throughout the town, Captain. And I know I didn't share a bed with them all to cast my spell. But …” She smiled through the chatter of her teeth. “I did sleep with Jack. He thrust himself inside me, and I enjoyed every moment. Very pleasurable, I assure you. I screamed at every sensation, and if he was still with us, I would do it again and again.”
“What talk … Disgusting, filthy, the ramblings of a whore –”
“I'm a witch, Captain, because it wasn't you inside me. Let us talk plainly, sir, your eyes undressed me every moment you set your eyes over me. I thought you might burst at my nakedness in the courtroom. It is you, sir, who are the devil. You are the one who wanted to thrust.” She jabbed the sword into his belly. He held himself, stunned at the action. “Thrust.” The blade slid deeper. “Thrust.” His eyes rolled, his sword dropped behind him, he collapsed to his knees, and fell sideways into the black earth.
Elisabeth wrinkled her nose at the blood which sputtered from his mouth. Mary came by her side. They held hands and watched distant soldiers climb the town walls. Some made it over. Others made it to the top before swords slashed their necks. They followed, numb, their descent to crumpled heaps of dashed bones, as if their turn would come soon. Mary smoothed her dress. Elisabeth followed suit. The rain wouldn't wash away these crimson stains. They understood each other, that the first person they would come across on these hills and fields would cast fresh aspersions on them.
They clung to each other, held themselves tall, and headed back to the secret passageway. They would help their fellow townsfolk the best they could. Make it as hard as possible for them to cry “Die, witch, die” ever again.
A Damned Agreement
“No. I’ll not do it.” The man upstairs almost slammed the door off its hinges.
Peter made more marks on the pen he chewed than on the income column in his accounts. He stared at the roaring fire he’d set to welcome his guests. He imagined it roared for his business plan. The man upstairs no longer played ball, and now the ghost party tip-toed into Peter’s isolated joint. They chattered about the moonlit frost which surrounded his historic inn, and eyed dark corners for apparitions. The inn stood desolate on the Yorkshire Moors. The camera-ready guests ooohed and aaahed at the silvery romance and the prospect of a good haunt.
Peter greeted all ten and gave them a taste of the building’s history.
“Welcome. Welcome all, to my little inn.” He rubbed his nose and ran his tongue across the back of his teeth. He wished he’d prepared. He didn’t give speeches. “The gentleman highwayman, Dick Turpin, drank here.” He couldn’t help rub his hands as he hoped he’d soon rub notes. He waved a hand to the sword above the fireplace. “This was found in the cellar only last year – it could have been his.”
Lips pressed, heads nodded. A woman, maybe in her sixties, introduced herself as “Margery.” Her attention flitted around the dining room. She brushed a little side-table with the back of her fingers as if she read its history from touch.
“How is it living alone out here?” she said. “Financially viable?”
Peter’s head wrinkled as he forced a smile from his stone-set face, surprised at how her eyes turned and pinned him. “Rather scary, actually. When the ghosts start moaning … well … it still gets to me.” He grinned at his success in how he grabbed that stutter.
He rushed back behind the bar, ready to pull beers and serve food.
Margery harrumphed. “Have you had this place renovated?”
“Yes.” He attempted to project confidence through each letter, but the ‘s’ elongated into a non-committal drawl. He stroked his arm, calmed himself by calculating how much of her cash would transfer to his pocket.
She screwed up her nose. If she hadn’t asked the question, he would have feared she had sniffed the night’s banquet.
She turned to the crowd. “I’m a bit of an amateur historian.”
They shuffled their feet, nodded out of politeness, and pretended they had an interest in the horsey paintings which overawed the room.
She whispered loud enough for him to hear, “I don’t believe ghosts have been anywhere near this place. The man is clearly desperate. I think I’ll stick to water, I don’t want his tipples inducing visions that aren’t there.”
***
He’d turned to ghost tours as standards had slipped. Nobody came for the food anymore. Tonight’s coordinator had stayed one evening to shelter from the moor’s bitter cold. The man had played with his food, but he recognised the location’s potential and left his Ghost Tour company business card. Peter had just the thing for them.
Tonight they toured, they waited, they ate, and they drank. And that’s all they did. The coordinator’s bead of sweat must have had contagious qualities, because it made Peter dab at his own brow. Peter gave him a few smug nods at his first anxious glances.
Don’t you worry, Peter’s grin said, it’ll happen.
His second grin said patience.
His eyes couldn’t join in the third grin.
The clock told him midnight had scurried by without a single squeak from the floorboards. Peter mopped his forehead with a napkin. Every word on his tongue had primed for him upstairs. These customers would never return if he let a sentence escape now.
“Excuse me,” he said to his guests. “I’ll be right back.”
He crept up the stairs wanting to see the strange shadows which had once made his heart punch his rib cage. The white walls up to the landing shimmered from the moon’s shine through the square above, more a cat-flap than a window.
“Are you there? Are you there?”
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He reached the top and rubbed his chest like he’d climbed The Calf in Howgill Fells. He sucked air and regulated his breathing.
“You’ve got to help me out here. Please. Come out … Please …”
He hoped the long silence signified a dramatic effect, but nothing stirred. His head dropped into his shoulders – each step back downstairs a walk to the financial gallows.
He shook as the guests trooped out at one in the morning. Their eyes threw all kinds of cutlery at him, looks which would haunt him for his failure to haunt them. He croaked a “Good night” as the last one left, the customer’s shaking head and wobbly cheeks a damning review. He should have had a plan B, at least had somebody bang a spanner on the pipes.
He thanked his cook and waved her goodbye. He stood alone and sought comfort against the cold glass in the front door as he watched the party make slow progress into their mini-van.
A scrape on the floorboards in his bedroom triggered his bolt up the stairs. “Too late, you bastard.” He kicked his bedroom door open, a little bravado to suppress his nerves. His tiny antique bedside lamp threw out less light than the man who stared at him.
“What happened?”
“I’m not your monkey.”
Peter, even after all these months, had not got used to Isaiah’s low growl. Or the way his chin rested and swayed on his chest – his ghost a mirror of his death from the rope. The noose still dangled from his neck – swung each time his head shifted.
“We had a deal. And you cocked it up. I’m on the verge of financial ruin … we had a damned agreement.”
Isaiah turned from the wardrobe he always studied, like it showed the way to freedom. He strained his eyeballs upward, unable to lift his broken neck. Peter held the door handle tight and put all weight on his back heel.