by M. J. Trow
‘What in the name of all Heaven is that stench?’ he asked. The words were scarcely out of his mouth before a shrill voice took over the silence of the night. ‘Buy venny dollies mere piss kays,’ it sang, over and over. The tune was a parody of a chant from the psaltery; the choirboy still buried deep in Marlowe recognized it as the setting of the Twenty-Third Psalm. But the words eluded him, though they sounded vaguely familiar. But that smell! He could hardly breathe for it and he opened his mouth to try and minimize the horror. ‘Breathe through your mouth,’ he whispered to Cawdray. ‘You can’t risk being sick.’
The moon came out as though on a cue and into the circle danced a young girl, naked as the day she was born. It was her voice they had heard and in her upraised hands she carried a wooden platter. As she whirled round in a mad galliard the platter spun in the moon’s beams. It was heaped with fish and Marlowe realized that it was the source of the smell. He could see them, piled up and slithering across one another. He wondered why they didn’t fall off as she spun and sang her way around the circle. Then he saw that what he had taken for movement was in fact the seethe of maggots over their rotting scales. These fish had not swum for many a long day and were stinking with putrefaction. The words suddenly made sense too. ‘Buy veni dulcis me pisces,’ the girl was singing. ‘Come buy my fresh fish.’
Marlowe and Cawdray looked like fish themselves, lying caught in the toils of the hedge, mouths gaping. They rolled their eyes at one another, unable to do more. The girl’s song and dance came to an end and she took up a place nearest the biggest stone, with her back to Hayward and Scot. Marlowe could almost imagine he could hear Scot’s pencil skittering like a mouse across his parchment. Either they were getting used to the smell or the wind had shifted, because it seemed less overpowering. The girl was standing unabashed in her nakedness, her face turned up to the moon, her hands caressing her breasts and thighs but almost absent-mindedly, as though the body she stroked belonged to someone else. Marlowe heard Cawdray catch his breath and when he looked he had turned his face away and had let go of the sapling for long enough to cross himself.
The silence after the piercing notes of her song sang with echoes. Then, shuffling into the circle came the fat keeper of the stones. She was carrying a plate of cooked chicken, also teeming with maggots and smeared with something it was best not to think of; Marlowe thought he heard a sound from the bushes concealing Scot and Hayward which may have been a stifled retch, but if it was, the women didn’t hear it. The fat woman was also naked, with folds of flesh hanging down, one over the other, like a frozen fountain in winter. Her thighs rubbed together and her knees turned in with the weight and her breasts almost covered her stomach, so pendulous were they. As she passed close to their hiding place, they smelt the vinegary tang of unwashed flesh long hidden in filthy clothes and basted in the sweat of years. The chicken was almost appetizing by comparison. Marlowe felt that the widower would not need to cross himself as she went past and a glance told him he was right. Her song was a mumbled groan, with no words discernible, but the tune, such as it was, was a parody of a psalm. She took up her place opposite the fish carrier and her buttocks filled Marlowe’s field of vision so that when the next woman came into the circle he had to turn his head as best he could to see past her.
The next woman was not alone, nor was she carrying anything, although her companion carried a jug, brimming with something glutinous which ran down her leg as she stumbled occasionally on the rough grass. Here was the blind woman, the one with no eyes who had so frightened Lord Strange on the road. She was led by a statuesque blonde who even in her stumbles had a natural grace. She held her head high and keened in a voice which Marlowe admired for its range and velvety tone. She could charm the birds from the trees even in this strange and eerie setting and, as if to prove it, an owl fluttered like a white ghost ahead of her. The two took up position along the perimeter of the circle, at a point halfway between the others. The blonde woman put down her pitcher and ran a lazy finger through the liquid on her thigh. She offered it to the blind woman, who licked at it avidly. Marlowe didn’t have to look to know that Cawdray was crossing himself again.
The songs were mingling now, no words to speak of but some kind of strange, atonal harmony was developing and Marlowe felt an almost irresistible urge to join in. Although the women were all looking at the sky, he could tell that they were very much aware of each other. Each one was beginning to sway, each in her own style. The first dancer who had entered the circle was shifting from one leg to the other, thrusting her hips to an invisible lover. The keeper of the stones was swaying her shoulders only, one hand in the small of her back, the classic stance of the old lady with a painful spine. Marlowe felt a twinge of pity for the grotesque thing, driven to this unnatural way of life when she should have been at home in a cottage dandling her grandchildren on her knee. For all it was summer the wind was beginning to blow a little chill and he could see the gooseflesh start to ripple in waves across her thighs and back. The blind woman had taken one step to the side away from her guide and was swaying like a willow in a gale. The blonde goddess was scarcely moving, squeezing her thighs together and smiling a secret smile as she reached out with her fingers daubed with the unspeakable liquid to feed her companion, who seemed to sense the fingers as they approached and sucked them greedily.
Then, the circle seemed full of processing women, some carrying plates of rotting or desecrated food and every one of them naked. They walked round the circle of stones, picking up the waiting witches as they went, until there was an unbroken ring of them, chanting, singing, shuffling, leaping or dancing according to their abilities. They were easy to count, unlike the stones, because no two were even a little alike. There were old and young, beautiful and almost unspeakably ugly, fat, thin, lissom and stiff and creaking.
Round and round they went, until Marlowe thought his head would never stop spinning. He and Cawdray gripped each other’s shoulders for comfort and squeezed every now and again, to keep reality where it should be, inside their heads and looking out of their eyes. Marlowe believed in nothing but himself; he had no God and therefore no Devil, but even he could sense a presence in the circle, riding on the shoulders of every one of the deluded women as they circled and sang. There was a dark shape above each one, flying through the air and spiralling up to the bright face of the moon, shrieking its defiance to the sky. If he closed his eyes the image faded and the sounds from the circle became just the mumbles of old women, overlaid by the bell-like song of the bird charmer. He shook his head and bit down hard on the inside of his lip. The salt taste of blood and the pain brought him back to himself again and he watched the developing scene with human eyes, with no deluding curtain in front of them.
Twisting his head, he could see that Cawdray’s eyes were a little glazed, but every now and then he would squeeze them shut and duck his head. Then, for a while, he would focus. Marlowe knew that he was thinking of his wife, his fixed point in all he did. He just hoped that Cawdray’s adoration of the dead woman would give him strength to resist the powers of the live ones who were now racing round and round in a tightening circle before their eyes. Something was happening, a climax was coming and they must keep their heads clear. The ground in the circle was a mess of trampled, rotting food, spilled wine, and what he thought must be urine from the smell. Some of the women had seemed to be peeing as they ran. Others had squatted briefly out of the dance and had smeared themselves with the results of their labours. He wondered what mind had imagined that the Devil would want his disciples to behave this way. In his experience, the most evil men he had ever met had been very fond of their comfort and the thought of a fat old woman smeared with piss and shit would not have been their idea of a companion for any purpose. He wondered as the women came together in a disordered rabble in the middle of the circle how Scot and Hayward were managing, over across the circle in their clump of trees.
SIXTEEN
Scot and Hayward had started off
the evening’s events in a much more comfortable hiding place than Marlowe and Cawdray. Hayward the hunter had a talent for constructing hides and, with a few deft movements, he had woven branches together to give them better cover and two clear areas to look through. Scot was pleased with his companion; although a little surly he clearly knew how to move through the dark and apart from the slightly acrid smell of the bushes, which Scot could not quite place, they were very comfortable. They didn’t speak much and Scot had made a few notes, holding up his folded parchment to the filtered light of the moon.
‘Do you know what these trees are?’ he asked Hayward. ‘You seem to be a bit of a countryman, from what I have seen so far.’
‘I’ve always lived in the country,’ Hayward replied. ‘I don’t like the town. These are elders. Don’t you recognize that smell?’
Scot stiffened. Elder, the witches’ tree. This was so exciting. He made a note. ‘This is wonderful, Master Hayward. We are in the middle of a clump of witches’ trees. This clump may even become part of the ritual. That is so exciting.’
Hayward didn’t answer and Scot turned to him, a repeat of his remark on his lips. To his horror, he saw that Hayward was looking out of the hide with eyes wide with panic. Scot realized in that moment, as the first naked dancer appeared, that he had immured himself in a clump of elder waiting to watch a Lammas Sabbat in the company not only of witches, but a man who believed in them as he believed in his immortal soul. He muttered a curse and prepared for a rather difficult night.
By the time the women were circling in their lurching dance, Scot knew that Hayward was in another place. His mouth hung slack and his head nodded in time to their chant. He was even chanting it with them, in an undertone and Scot abandoned his notebook, alert for any move from Hayward which might look like an attempt to break cover and join them. Deluded women or not, unarmed as they clearly were, he would give Hayward no chance of survival if he burst in on them while they were in this heightened state. He had heard of men ripped limb from limb in these circumstances and whilst the researcher in him would appreciate some empirical knowledge of how that would work in practice, he was not an unkind man and would stop it happening if he could.
Hayward seemed to be in a fairly safe trance state, muttering, ‘Magister, adjuva nos, magister, adjuva nos,’ over and over. The pronunciation was not quite classic, but Scot had been expecting the phrase so could understand it. This was another thing which he had been uncertain about. Would the witches say ‘Master, help us,’ in English or Latin? Now, he had his answer.
The chant was speeding up, and the drumming of the women’s bare feet in the fetid mud churned up from the dust of the Rollright circle almost drowned out their voices. Like Marlowe, Scot sometimes saw ghostly forms riding on the witches’ backs, but a quick pinch of flesh inside his arm brought him back to reality. He could quite understand how Hayward had been sucked in, although the speed had been a surprise. He only hoped that he and at least Marlowe would be able to resist, if things turned ugly later on.
Then, as suddenly as if he had gone totally deaf, the muttered chant and the drumming feet stopped. Hayward’s mad paternoster stopped with the women’s as though they shared but one throat. The silence was thick with menace and Scot could feel the goose flesh rise on his back and down the sides of his head as the hairs stood up in trepidation. The whole valley and hills seemed to have drawn in their breath. Not a creature moved, not a leaf so much as fluttered for what seemed to be a lifetime. Then, so near and so loud as to make bowels turn to water, there was a roar. It was pure sound, not from any human throat and was on such a note that every nerve stood on end and the desire for flight was almost unstoppable. Across the circle from Scot, Marlowe and Cawdray almost rolled from their precarious perches. Hayward lurched forward to be stopped by his woven branches. Scot half rose but managed to force himself back into his crouch behind his witches’ trees.
The roar went on and on, with no breathing or humanity in it, until the watchers felt their ears begin to dull with it, as the nerves to the brain gave up the unequal struggle. When it suddenly stopped, everything felt muffled and distant, as though they were drowning in thick, evil-smelling water. They found themselves holding their breath, then struggling to breathe as a drowning man might as he breaks the surface for the third and last time. Hayward lowered his head and looked through his spy hole from below furrowed brows. His breathing came hard and slow and Scot wound a hand in the man’s belt, ready to hold him back.
The witches fell back and all went down on their hands and knees, heads down, hair hanging matted over their faces. The moon seemed to put in an extra effort and the light in the circle was almost as clear as day. Into the spotlight strode a hideous creature, seven feet tall, clothed in dazzling white with a black cope over his shoulders. His head rose massive to the stars, a long face with golden cat’s eyes gleaming in the moonlight, with long hair running down like a dull river of jet down his back. The horns which sprang from just behind the ears were outswept like supplicating arms and banded with spirals of gold and gems. Although each part of him, the spotless robe, the golden eyes, the splendid horns, were all separately beautiful, somehow their proximity to the whole creature made them vile. He stepped into the filth in the middle of the circle and began to chant in a low, deep voice. Marlowe, a child of the church by accident though not design and a lover of words for their own sake, recognized the paternoster backwards.
‘Amen. Malo a nos libera sed, tentationem in inducas nos ne et.’ As he came to the end of each phrase, he placed a naked foot on the head of a witch and sent her sprawling on her back in the mud. Soon, all of the women were lying spreadeagled in a parody of crucifixion on the ground and the gross animal stood in the middle of the circle. Again, the silence enveloped the stones and Hayward pulled at Scot’s restraining hand.
‘Maiden!’ The voice rang and echoed round the stones. Marlowe thought of Ned Sledd and how he would have loved the theatre of all this. He tightened his grip on Cawdray’s shoulder and was rewarded by an answering squeeze. ‘Maiden! Arise!’
The first dancer rose to her feet as though on strings and walked towards the creature, their Master, with her head down. When she reached him, he put out a hand, encased in a clawed glove, and raised her face to look at him, the wicked talon drawing blood under her chin.
‘Maiden! Your time has come!’ he boomed. ‘Release me from these earthly trappings.’ She reached up to his shoulders and unlaced the gown and cope which rippled to the ground like snow. He was revealed as a large man, muscular and well made, with strong legs and back. His manhood sprang out and seemed larger than any on a mortal man. The girl addressed as the Maiden was rooted to the spot. He lifted her around the waist and seemed to impale her where he stood. With his first thrust, he turned his evil face to the sky and she seemed to shudder with the pain. Then, he pushed her off on to the dirt and pressed his foot into her stomach, pinning her down. ‘Liar!’ he boomed. ‘Liar! You do not come to me as a Maiden. You have known men. Many, I’ll warrant.’
She wriggled under his foot, trying to get away from the deadly weight on her. Marlowe and Cawdray leaned forward, hands reaching for their daggers. She might think she was a witch, but they saw her for what she was: a young girl scarcely more than a child. Her mouth was moving, but no sound came.
The creature raised his head and bellowed to the moon. He kicked the girl away and she crawled from the circle, whimpering. None of the others dared to turn their heads as she left them, although a few closed their eyes and muttered what may have been a silent prayer, although none could say which way the words left their mouths.
The Master leaned forward now and hissed at his minions. ‘Bring me a Maiden. Nothing is complete without I spill my seed into a Maiden’s womb.’ The women all looked at the ground. ‘Is none of you a Maiden?’ he screamed. ‘I will increase my flock! One of you will bear the Devil’s child inside her before tonight is out or all will die.’ Suddenly, the blonde witch a
pproached him, her glorious hair now matted with filth. He reached towards her, eyes glittering. ‘You?’ he purred. ‘You, a Maiden? I had hardly thought . . .’
She took a deep and shuddering breath. ‘No, Master,’ she said. ‘I am no Maiden and have not been since I was scarcely more than a child, but there is one on this hill tonight who is.’
‘Who?’ the voice sounded like the deepest bell and rang around the hills.
‘Listen, Master,’ the woman said. ‘In the silence you will hear her voice. She is calling to you. She wants you, though she would deny it.’
Everyone strained their ears and there was, at the very edge of hearing, the sound of a woman sobbing. The beast raised its head and the eyes flashed with new fire. He nodded at the woman and dismissed her with a wave of a taloned glove. ‘Fetch her,’ he hissed. ‘Fetch the Maiden to me.’
Four witches scrambled to their feet and hurried off out of the circle towards the Whispering Knights. They came out of the three-sided hut made by the leaning stones with a struggling figure between them. As they got inside the circle, they tore the cloak from her and she stood there naked, with her head raised defiantly. Shaking off the women, she stepped into the circle and walked towards the beast.
Marlowe drew in a sharp breath. Alone of the watchers he had seen the woman’s proud nakedness before. ‘Joyce,’ he breathed. ‘Joyce Clopton. I think now is the time to act, Master Cawdray, don’t you?’
Cawdray nodded, but whispered. ‘My legs are in a cramp, Master Marlowe. I shall fall if I try to run now. Can we wait just a minute, while I massage some life into them?’
‘A minute?’ Marlowe was aghast. ‘You have seen what he can do! Joyce doesn’t have a minute. With or without you, Master Cawdray, I am going to kill that evil thing.’