Goblin Moon

by Teresa Edgerton

  "Had you indeed? That hardly seems possible. I have never been here before."

  "No, sir," said Tilda respectfully. "It was only a resemblance, like as not. You have a look of a gentleman—a gentleman who lent me a hand up out of the gutter and reformed my way of life, in a manner of speaking."

  Dr. Crow smiled faintly. "Ah . . . a clergyman, like myself, I apprehend."

  "Well, sir," said the girl, with an answering smile. "He appeared to be some kind of a religious, anyways."

  The next morning, Tilda volunteered to carry Dr. Crow's breakfast upstairs. "No reason Charlotte should do it, all them stairs. Let me look after the Reverend, after this."

  Balancing the tray, she climbed two flights to the attic, knocked on the Reverend Doctor's door, and announced herself. A voice on the other side invited her to enter. The chamber under the eaves ran the whole length of the attic. It was a bright, airy room, with two large dormer windows, floors of bleached oak, and an enormous old-fashioned bed with velvet curtains that dwarfed the other, plainer furnishings.

  Dr. Crow had not yet donned his coat, but he was otherwise dressed as he had been the day before, in a dark waistcoat and breeches, and immaculate white linen. He sat in a ladderback chair by an open window, with his feet propped up on a stool and his black-stockinged ankles crossed, buffing his nails with a handkerchief.

  "I trust you slept well, sir."

  "I seldom have difficulty sleeping, my dear." He reached into his waistcoat pocket and extracted a tiny box (it might have been a snuffbox, but Tilda knew that it was not) with an inlay of pearl and ivory. "There is no need for you to pretend that you do not recognize me, or that you do not remember what this box contains," he chided her gently. "We both of us know that you do."

  Tilda carried the tray over to a table by the other window. "I'm sorry about that down below. I should of held my tongue. I hope you don't think, sir, that I would ever betray you?"

  "How could I, indeed?" he said. "But of course you could not know: the constables of Thornburg are still combing the streets for a gigantic one-eyed Spagnard."

  Dr. Crow had both his eyes, and very fine eyes they were, too (as Tilda was not slow to notice), being a sober grey, fringed with extravagant dark lashes. He was not above average height, and his build was slender.

  He waved a hand in the direction of the bed. "Sit down and chat with me awhile, my dear. In truth, I am glad to find a friend here, where I expected none. It seems that the Fates smile on me; or is this more than mere coincidence? I was sent here by certain . . . associates of mine . . . to investigate a report of witchcraft in the district. But who was it that alerted them—do you know?"

  Tilda sat down on the edge of the bed and folded her hands in her lap. "Well, sir, you've guessed it. It happened this way: I did as you told me, sir, and left Thornburg real quick. I was on my way to Pfalz, but I stopped in here. They was looking for a barmaid and this seemed a quiet little village, sir, a safe sort of place. And I wasn't eager to take up my old way of life, after—well, after the risks involved was brought home to me as they were. So when Mr. Chawettys offered me the job, I was glad to take it. And I like it here, sir, and I had met a young man, afore I heard what strangers to these parts don't generally hear, and I discovered the village wasn't near so safe as I thought."

  She shook her head, released a long, heartfelt sigh. "Well, there it was . . . I was scared to stay, but I hated to leave my young man—he's a good man, is 'Zekiel, and he treats me real good in spite of I told him I used to be a whore—and I was in in a rare taking deciding whether to go or stay, until I thought of you. I said to myself, if there's mischief of that sort afoot, perhaps Mr. Carstares as saved me in Thornburg would like to hear of it."

  "Just by the way of information," he said quietly, "my name is not actually Carstares. "

  "No, sir, I didn't suppose that it was," said Tilda, spreading out her skirts. "Nor I don't suppose it's Dr. Crow, neither."

  "It is not," he said, replacing the snuffbox and tucking his handkerchief into a pocket in his breeches. He rose gracefully his feet and began to pace the room. "At least, I am all but certain that it is not. I do experience some difficulty, now and again, remembering exactly who and what I am, but I am generally able to recall my own name."

  She smiled uncertainly. "Your little joke, sir?"

  He paused by the fireplace, rested an elbow on the mantel. "Perhaps." He smiled back at her, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "But I must apologize for interrupting. You were telling me, I believe, that you felt I might be interested . . ."

  "Yes, sir. But I didn't feel right contacting you direct. I thought—I thought if I sent a message with your name on it, mentioning where I met you, you might think the Knights was involved and that I was in danger, and you might be angry, sir, if you come to help me, and found out that it weren't so, having—having more important affairs to occupy you.

  "So what I did, I asked 'Zekiel to write it out for me three times: that the village of Lüftmal weren't a proper place to live no more, everyone walking in fear of witches, and the dead not safe in their graves. And he took it into Thornburg, where he left them letters in the shops of a glazier, a bottlemaker, and a man who sold trinkets of blown glass."

  He nodded approvingly. "You are a young woman of considerable resource—as indeed, I suspected when first we met—and your friend Ezekiel sounds like an excellent young man. My own friends were not slow in passing the information on to me, nor did I consider the matter beneath my attention.'

  He removed his elbow from the mantel, put up a hand to straighten his neckcloth. "And so I am here. But your neighbors do not confide in me. Not an unusual state of affairs, to be sure. It is common practice to hush these things up . . . the innocent not wishing to arouse the wrath of the guilty. Yet it is a definite inconvenience. I could attend to this matter far more expeditiously if I had a friend here. Or someone, not a newcomer like yourself but a trusted and knowledgeable member of the community, who was willing to assist me. You have no clergyman, as I suppose?"

  Tilda shook her head. "No, sir. Dr. Ulfson rides over from Pfalz every Sunday, if the weather ain't bad. "

  "And what of your swain—the resourceful Ezekiel—would he be willing to conspire with me for the good of his neighbors?" Tilda twisted her hands together. "He may be willing. I don't know. He's done so much already—more than anybody else in the village would of done. I'll ask him, anyways. But, if it ain't impertinent for me to ask, I'd like to know something more about—about your friends who sent you here."

  He turned to face the window. "I understand perfectly that you require reassurance, but I am bound in honor not to reveal their secrets. I am, as you seem to have guessed . . . an agent of sorts . . . assigned to sniff out practices of black magic and put an end to them if I may."

  "An agent . . . of the Prince, sir?" said Tilda.

  He turned back to look at her. "Perhaps I have chosen the wrong word. It may be too much to dignify my calling with the name of agent . . . or of spy, either. I represent no government, rather an organization of well-meaning but self-appointed citizens . . . what our cousins in the New World would call a Vigilance Committee. Yes, I suppose I must admit to being a vigilante. It is a lowering reflection, to be sure, but it is always best to face facts."

  He heaved a great sigh. "Yes, I am a witch-hunter and a vigilante. And something of a magician on my own account, as well. I wonder if you find any of this reassuring at all?"

  Tilda unclasped her hands. "You said enough to satisfy me. I hope it will be enough for 'Zekiel. It may be—I don't know. Anyways, I'll speak to him this very day, and if he's agreeable I'll arrange for him to meet you in the churchyard this evening."

  "Thank you," said the self-styled vigilante. "Somehow, I have every confidence that you will be able to persuade him."

  CHAPTER 22

  Wherein the Wickedness of the Lüftmal Witches

  is more fully Revealed.

  Dr. Crow spent the af
ternoon in the ancient Lüftmal cemetery studying the gravestones, until Tilda's young man arrived at sunset. He was a rangy youth with a shock of flaming red hair, and a huge bouquet of meadowflowers clutched in one hand.

  " 'Zekiel Karl, your worship," he said, offering his other hand to the supposed clergyman in a forthright manner. "I come here pretty regular, for to lay flowers on my granny's grave, so I reckon there's none will wonder at our meeting here."

  Dr. Crow sat back on his heels—he had been down on his knees and his elbows in the long green grass, examining the lettering on one of the stones—and placed his own well-kept hand in Ezekiel's big meaty palm. "I am obliged to you for agreeing to meet me."

  "I'm willing to do more than that, sir," said the young farmer. "If it pleases your worship, I can take you to see them witches at their mischief. They always hold a Sabbat in old Matt Woodruff's barn at the full of the moon, and that's coming up real soon."

  Dr. Crow raised a shapely dark eyebrow, for this was plain speaking indeed. He rose gracefully to his feet, adjusted the narrow ruffles at his wrists, took out a handkerchief, and dusted the knees of his breeches. "Their habits and their meeting place are known, then? And yet nothing has been done to bring any of them to justice? This dwarf (as I must suppose by the name), Matt Woodruff—?"

  "Dead, sir, these twenty years. Nobody lives over to Woodruff's anymore. He weren't much of a farmer when all’s said, and they do say he bought the place because it were so lonely and secret-like . . . him being a black warlock, as the story goes."

  Ezekiel lowered his voice impressively. "They say, also, that his ghost still walks, but I don't know. We do know they meet there, sir, but what's that to the purpose? Nobody knows who any if them are—though I guess most of us got our suspicions."

  "And yet do not dare to act on them," said Dr. Crow, leaning up against a towering granite slab. "The Circle, I take it, is a large one—twice or thrice the usual thirteen?"

  "Yes, sir, I reckon so, though nobody seems to know exactly how large. It don't do to inquire too close, there being so many of them, and all so spiteful," said Ezekiel, balancing back on his heels. "A man says or does anything that one of them takes amiss, the next thing he knows his cows are dry and his sheep got the staggers and . . . and sometimes worse things as well. T'here's been children died, and nobody rightly knew what ailed them. But the worst of it is, it ain't always something that somebody's done to rile 'em—sometimes they'll ruin folks just for pure wickedness. Maybe you don't know this, sir, being city-bred, but a farmer or a herdsman living off the land, you kill his crops and his stock 'tis the same as killing him, it ain't no different, excepting he dies slow. And once it's known they've got it in for a family, there's not hardly anybody who dares to lend a hand."

  "And the local authorities?" asked Dr. Crow. "They, too, are powerless?"

  Ezekiel clenched and unclenched a big fist. "Three years ago, afore them witches grew so bold, the magistrate over to Pfalz sent some of his men. They caught Hagen Jansen with a wax doll stuck full of pins in his pocket, and they . . . they tried to beat the names of the other witches out of him. It didn't do no good, though, and maybe it made things worse. There was a spell on Hagen and he couldn't betray the others, not if them constables tortured him to death. They finally left-off beating him, and tried him and hung him. But after that . . . them witches got real busy, and things ain't been the same since. You won't do anything, to stir them up?"

  The flowers in Ezekiel's hands grew limp, due to the tightening and squeezing of his enormous hands. Apparently, the young farmer was entertaining second thoughts. "Tilda said, if you set out to stop them, they'd be stopped. She said you was a match for the whole lot of them. She said you could bust up any Coven, Magic Circle, or Secret Society that ever was. But I don't know . . ."

  "I have enjoyed considerable success in the past, and against more sophisticated sorcerers than your local Circle. Yet it is unlikely that I am infallible," said Dr. Crow, smiling faintly at Tilda's exaggerated opinion of his capabilities. "But succeed or fail, I shall make very sure that nothing I do appears to be the work of any mortal agency.

  "I intend," said the supposed clergyman, "to put a very considerable fear of Divine Retribution into your Lüftmal witches."

  Midnight found Dr. Crow and Ezekiel Karl on the road to Woodruff's farm. "It would be wise," the parson had said, "to learn the lay of the land in advance, and plan our campaign carefully." They made the journey on foot, and Ezekiel carried a covered lanthorn, for they would want a light later, but did not wish to attract attention if anyone passed by on the road.

  The waxing moon was still high and bright when they arrived at the abandoned farm. The barn was a sturdy structure, standing weathered but firmly upright, its boards gleaming silver in the moonlight. The huge double doors were closed and barred.

  Dr. Crow stepped forward to lift the bar, but Ezekiel stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Look up, sir . . . this ain't no way for the likes of you and me to enter."

  Suspended from a beam over the door dangled what first appeared to be a dirty scrap of tattered cloth; but when Dr. Crow stepped sideways, to view it with the moon at his back, he discovered that it was a crudely fashioned rag-doll, of uncertain sex, hanging like a felon from a noose. "An unpleasant piece of business, to be sure," said Dr. Crow, frowning up at the fetish. "But we need not fear so awkward and crude a device. Indeed, it were child's play for me to—"

  An uneasy movement on the part of his companion caused him to look around. Ezekiel's rusty hair was bleached by the moonlight to a commonplace straw, but it was not the moonlight that drained his face of all color or drew his features into a mask of apprehension.

  "Ah, well, as you say, it would perhaps be better not to take unnecessary chances," Dr. Crow decided. "We can come back tomorrow with the proper tools and loosen one of the boards."

  "There's a loose board at the back," said Ezekiel. "Fact is, that's why I brung you here, because I knowed about the poppet already. If you'll just follow me, sir, I'll show you what I mean."

  They circled around to the back of the barn, where Ezekiel counted five planks from the northwestern corner. "This'll be the one." A single wooden peg held the board in place, allowing him to rotate the plank and reveal a narrow entry into the barn.

  "I would not wish to appear suspicious," said Dr. Crow, "but how did you come to know this?"

  Ezekiel allowed the board to fall back into place. "I told you old Matt had a bad reputation, that some folks say his ghost still walks? There was many a night my friends and me spent in this barn when we was boys, just hoping to catch a glimpse of Woodruff's ghost. There was no reason in them days we couldn't of entered by the door," he added, with an embarrassed grin, "but once we knew about this loose board . . . it just seemed more romantical, somehow, to enter by the secret way. "

  "I understand perfectly," said Dr. Crow. "I might have done the same thing myself, when I was a boy."

  He lifted the plank and passed sideways through the gap, and so into the barn. There was ample width to accommodate his slender frame, but it made a tight squeeze for Ezekiel, who had clearly added to his bulk since his ghost-hunting days.

  Once inside, the young farmer rotated the metal covering on his lanthorn, allowing the light to shine out on one side. He held it high, to reveal the vast, empty interior of the barn. "I see no stalls, no grain bins," said Dr. Crow.

  "Guess they tore them down to make room for . . . for whatever it is they does here. Then they used the wood to feed their fire." Ezekiel indicated a large heap of blackened boards in a kind of firepit at the center of the building. He lifted the lanthorn again. "The loft's still there. Hope they didn't burn the ladder."

  A lengthy tour of the premises did not yield the ladder. "No matter," said Dr. Crow. "I have simply to bring a rope ladder with me on the night of the Sabbat and draw it up behind me."

  Ezekiel shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, sir, as I can come up with one. At least, not
the kind with grappling hooks on the end, which I reckon is what you're after."

  "Do not trouble yourself," said Dr. Crow. "I can provide the ladder. You might be surprised by the variety of things I carry about in my baggage."

  He had been carrying the light, but he passed it back to Ezekiel. "I have seen enough. This place (though you may not think so) offers ample possibilities, more than sufficient scope for my talents. I shall arrive here early on the appointed evening and make my preparations. You may come with me, if you like. There will be considerable danger involved, but I believe the entertainment I provide will be well worth the risk."

  While Dr. Crow returned to the Head of Cabbage, Ezekiel went home to his own small farm. The next two days passed quietly and they did not communicate again until the night of the full moon, when they met behind the inn an hour after sunset.

  Though the night was a sultry one, they were both wrapped in long, dark, concealing cloaks, and wore their tricorns pulled low to shadow their faces. Ezekiel again carried the covered lanthorn, while Dr. Crow brought with him a leather satchel, resembling a physician's handbag.

  "You actually got a rope ladder with grappling hooks in there?" asked Ezekiel, eyeing the leather bag doubtfully.

  "I have," came the soft reply. A chance movement caused the cloak to fall open, revealing lighter-colored garments below. For whatever reason, "Dr. Crow" had apparently abandoned the clerical pose for the night.

  "My ladder is very light, but exceedingly strong, for it was woven of the roots of a stone, the hair of a virtuous woman, the shadow of— But I wax fanciful. It was not, in truth, made of any of those things, but neither was it woven of any common hemp. I carry, besides, everything else that we are likely to require . . . including these." And he opened his cloak and his coat to reveal a brace of pistols in a belt around his hips.

  The walk to Woodruff's farm took about an hour. When they reached the barn, the doors were still closed and barred, but Dr. Crow insisted on a stealthy circuit of the building, just to make certain that he and Ezekiel were the first to arrive. Then they entered again by way of the loose board at the back.