Witch Water (32 page)

A thin maroon stain, vaguely in the shape of
a hand.
Blood,
he realized.
And it hasn’t been there
long, it still has red in it.

Then he thought:
Karswell. He was
here.
A brief scan of the surrounding brush verified this
almost beyond doubt, when Fanshawe discovered a fat cigar butt with
a Monte-Cristo band, and—

Unbelievable.

—a small, clear jar. The jar’s lid lay right
next to it.

Karswell must’ve made his own
witch-water,
Fanshawe deduced
.
New England’s full of
unconsecrated graves of condemned witches…
It was perfectly
feasible that a writer of occult history and a Christian mystic
would know how to make it. He challenged himself:
All right.
There’s only one more thing left to do…

He flicked open the tiny penknife on his key
chain. He looked at the modest blade, then looked at the palm of
his left hand. He winced at the initial puncture of the knife-tip
into the middle of his palm. Blood welled up first as a pea-sized
bead, but very quickly it formed a grim puddle in his hand. When he
turned the flashlight off, the blood looked black in the
moonlight.

Well?

Fanshawe spoke aloud the queer words he’d
recently read on the centuries-old parchment: “Besmear ye mystickal
and horrid sphere with thine own blood…”

He placed his bleeding hand on the orb,
leaving a scarlet print.

“And then take into thy mouth one driblet of
ye wretched and most nefarious
aqua wicce…
”

His slick hand wrapped around the flask’s
glass stopper, twisted, then he felt the ancient black wax give
way. He lifted the stopper out—

Fanshawe swayed in place, grimacing: he
stood on solid ground like a man on a tight-rope. It was an
appalling
odor that issued from the flask’s aperture, like
rotten-meat stench blended with the smell of basement mold.
My
GOD! I’ve got to DRINK this?
 Queasiness engulfed his
stomach. But—
Only a ‘driblet,’
he reminded himself, which
he assumed could only be a minuscule unit of measure.

The odor’s foulness wafted before him; his
eyes watered.
Am I really going to…,
but when a side breeze
crept up and blew the reek off, Fanshawe didn’t even think about
it.

He snatched in a breath, took one sip of the
cryptic water, paused—

Down the hatch.

—and swallowed.

He stood still in the next pause. His brows
popped up at the accommodating surprise: the water was absolutely
tasteless and totally inoffensive.

For about two seconds.

An impalpable impact sent Fanshawe to his
knees. A taste more revolting than anything he could conceive
filled his mouth, a taste that could only be described as
evil.
At once, he gagged, then he began to dry heave,
blundering about the clearing on hands and knees.
My God my God
my God!
His mind spun. His equilibrium reversed, all the while
his stomach spasming progressively harder, such that subsequent
abdominal cramps flared pain as if he’d been sledgehammered in the
gut.
I’ve poisoned myself!
he somehow was able to think
through the shards of pain and waves of terror. When he rolled over
on his back and opened his eyes—

He could see nothing. Fanshawe was
blind.

A darkness slammed down on his psyche like
an ax-fall, dragging him down and down and down until, only seconds
later, he died.

««—»»

Or at least he
thought
he died, given
the pain, loss of sight, and sheer
blackness
that had
overwhelmed him. When he roused, he remained on his back, his eyes
staring up. Low, coal-smoke-colored clouds slid swollen overhead.
Only the faintest veiled luminosity tinged the edges of the clouds,
as though the moon had been ingested by their tumorous shapes.
Hooooooooly SHIT!
he yelled at himself.
I must’ve been
out of my mind to drink ANYTHING that’s been sitting in an
attic for three hundred years!
Though he sensed some time had
passed, his stomach muscles still ached sharply, and the dizziness
lingered when he pulled himself to his feet. He calmed down and
caught his breath…

He was looking around the clearing.

His jaw dropped.

It was the same clearing, but…
not
the
same, either. The surrounding brush was much higher than it had
been, while the clearing’s perimeter was closer, far less
delineated, and was completely devoid of decorative gravel. A
glance down to the town showed Fanshawe the same modest village
he’d seen after midnight through the looking-glass…

Then he turned and faced the Gazing
Ball.

At first the carved markings on the pedestal
seemed infested by fitful movement, but Fanshawe’s shock since
drinking the vile water left him disoriented.
How could I NOT be
disoriented?
 he reasoned with himself. However, the
next
shock gave him more to be disoriented about.

The Gazing Ball—or Bridle—stood before him
in the moon-tinged darkness, straight as a chess piece. And as for
the metal globe itself?

It bore no incrustations, no tarnish, no
weather damage. Instead, it shined as if just polished.

The damn thing looks brand new,
Fanshawe thought, but then an even darker thought insinuated
itself.
That’s because it IS brand new…

Fanshawe’s mind stayed relatively blank as
he crept about the hillocks. No, the trails weren’t the same; where
before they’d been gravel-paved and well-trimmed, now they were
just meager weed-lined lanes beaten into existence by constant foot
traffic. The scent of wood-smoke hung heavily throughout. Then an
owl hooted from a high tree, its white blank face appearing
distortedly human at first glance—Fanshawe thought of an invalid’s
face. But his wanderings were quite aimless; in a sense he already
knew his way around. Of course, the very peak of Witches Hill
lacked the accompanying wooden sign explaining the spot’s
historical significance, but it did
not
lack the barrel.

Fanshawe’s face blanched as whitely as the
owl’s when he directed his flashlight to the foot of the barrel and
saw a puddle of coagulating blood which crawled with flies. There
was vomit there as well, and chunks of what appeared to be scalp
tissue with long threads of hair still attached.

My God…

Fanshawe backed up, nauseous.

It was an undersense more than conscious
impetus that guided his next steps. Consciously, he could not
reckon the reality of where he was, what he’d done, and what he
would next do. Instead, he let his feet take him where they
may—

Down the straggly hill, toward the town.

Ramshackle horse-quarters stood where the
Travelodge should be. Fanshawe heard the scuffs of his shoes
answered by heavy snorting sounds. He’d just crossed Back
Street—its teetering abodes and primitive service-buildings showing
white-washed boards and crudely glazed window panes. All that lit
the town was cloud-filtered moonlight. He thought of switching on
his flashlight but felt alarm when he realized that might instantly
make him a target for attention. The town was asleep, and he needed
it to stay that way.

But he knew where he was going now…

Wraxall’s house should be just across the
next street. When he slipped through an alley, he froze—at the
sound of a bell—

A
church
bell.

It struck once, twice, then a third time.
The nature of each peal sounded fat and buoyant in the air of the
warm night, but also oddly brittle.

Fanshawe knew he’d heard this bell
before.

Three o’clock in the morning,
he
deduced. Instead of emerging from the other side of the alley onto
Main Street, he hung back, letting himself sink into shadow. The
bell-ringer would come out of the church any moment, to walk into
the tavern where he’d wait till it was time to sound the bell
again, probably by the assistance of an hour-glass. Before
Fanshawe’s eyes, the night-veiled dwellings of Main Street
stretched, then, as suspected, a door was heard opening and
closing. Footsteps crossed hard-packed dirt. Fanshawe glimpsed the
bell-man approaching the tavern and disappearing into it.

Now.

He stepped out of the shadow-black alley,
prepared to whisk himself across the street, but nearly shouted via
the surprise that came next:

“Who be thither? Come for another go upon a
helpless woman, have thee, thou
stinkards?
Well, I say
pox
on you, and may there be a
plague
upon all thy
children! May they be borned with cloven faces and empty
heads!”

Fanshawe’s heart slammed.

Just beside him stood a pillory, and in its
long wooden brace hung a woman dressed in scraps of soiled fabric.
Worse soiling left the color of her yard-long hair impossible to
determine.

Another one,
Fanshawe thought.

Sunken eyes in a gaunt face craned upward.
“Glory!” she rasped in a whisper. Decayed teeth grinned at him in
relief. “Pray, sir, ’tis not one’a
them
that you be, I can
see as much! Hear my plea, I beg! Release me! ’Tis a fortnight
they’ve kept me here. They spit on me in the name of
God—
hear me! Into mine womanhood they spurt their seed any
time they’ve the mind to, and ‘tis only foul water and livestock
gruel they let be my sustenance!”

“For God’s sake,” Fanshawe groaned,
disgusted. He could see rings of scab and infection about the
prisoner’s wrists and neck. “Kept quiet, I don’t want that guy to
hear”—he fiddled with the latch on the brace.

She shivered, concealing a squeal of delight
as he finally worked the latch and raised the wooden brace.

Joints cracked and she moaned when he helped
her up. Between the tatters of her clothing, Fanshawe saw a body
like a victim of a death camp. Immediately she hugged him, which
caused Fanshawe to recoil from the power of her body odor.

“For thine kindness, I wilt do anything you
may ask!” Rotten breath gusted into his ear, and then she caressed
his crotch.

Fanshawe was revolted. “No, no—just run, get
out of here!” he whispered. “These people are crazy.”

“Oh my great dark lord! May the Morning Star
bless
thee and keep thee safe!” and then the raddled woman
crossed herself, but it was the sign of an
upside-down
cross
that her hand gestured over her chest.

Fanshawe stared.

“Myself and all mine own shalt pray that
Lucifer guide thee always. We shalt do anything you deem us worthy
of, great necromancer!”

Fanshawe stammered, “Buh-but I’m not a
necrom—”

The woman hobbled off, disappearing down
another alley.

A witch…

“Halt, you!” another voice rose. It boomed
down the street like a basso shout: a man’s voice.

Fanshawe ground his teeth in fear. A large
man lumbered in his direction, and when a reef of clouds moved off
to let the moon shine, Fanshawe grimly recognized the obese stature
of the man: the vest about to break its buttons, the star-shaped
metal badge, and the swollen, corroded nose and blemished face.

Patten, the high sheriff.

Fanshawe wanted to run, but his knees locked
when he saw the fat, shambling man raise a flintlock pistol. “Be
still and speak thy business on this Godly street at so an
hour!”

Fanshawe opened his mouth—

More footsteps, then another voice boomed:
“On my word, Sheriff, just now from my window I espied that fellow
unfetter the harlot from her just and legal capture!” A slimmer man
raced from another door, bearing a lit lantern.

“Oh, did he now?”

Fanshawe remained unmoving as the men
converged, but when they got closer, their steps slowed as if
intimidated. The sheriff’s out-broken face creased in fear.

“Behold his manner of dress…”

“Yea! Just the same as—”

“That one come only a week afore! Another
warlock,
turned up by deviltry to curse our Christian
flock—”

The other man’s voice quavered. “What-what
be that he’s got in his hand?”

“’Tis a weapon?”

Fanshawe raised the flashlight and turned it
on. “No, listen—it’s just a…”

The slim man dropped his lantern in the road
and fled, shrieking in nearly a feminine voice. The sheriff froze,
terror open on his face. “A sorcerer’s scepter—surely! A wand that
yields a spot of light like that of ye sun!”

Absurdly, Fanshawe said, “It’s just a damn
flashlight, man. Look, I don’t want any trouble—”

Sheriff Patten’s lower lip trembled; his gun
hand shook. But when Fanshawe shined the flashlight in the man’s
face, he saw the expression slowly go from a gibbering panic to a
slowly rising disregard for danger. He began to step forward.

Shit! What am I gonna do now?

“A Christian soldier such as I need have no
fear. God shalt protect me always, as one of those with faith.” His
gun hand was shaking less. “Now, keep thyself still and let go that
scepter, lest thee find thy bosom with a hole large enough to admit
my fist!”

With a reflex he didn’t think himself
capable of, Fanshawe jerked to the left, to sprint across the
street. There was a
snap!
a flash, then—

BOOM!

The entire street concussed from the pistol
shot. Fanshawe’s teeth clacked, and he felt something substantial
plow past his head, displacing air; his feet carried him through
another alley as though he were on a tow-line. Behind him he heard
bells clanging, shouts, and the sheriff’s voice booming nearly as
loud as the shot: “All Christian men, awake—we’ve a wizard in our
midst! Deputies, come out! Call ye parson! Someone fetch Humphreys
and have him bring his beast!”

Beast,
Fanshawe thought in horror,
stumbling over rubbish in the alley. Then the thunderous barks of
an immense dog overpowered all other sound; it was so loud Fanshawe
wanted to scream.