-Fin.
*~*~*
C. Priest Brumley is a bipedal humanoid with an iron (ah, screw it: soft butter) will. His interest in writing came early, attempting to write his first book at the age of twelve. By the time he was in high shool, he had also developed a taste for graphic design, and continues to hone both skills to this day. A graduate of the Carville Job Corps Academy, he currently resides in New Orleans, LA, and can always be found online at his official Facebook page www.facebook.com/cpriestbrumley
The Three Trials of Atty Eve
Kris English
“Witch!”
“Burn in Hell!”
“Think of the children!”
Insults raged from all sides of the circle as the young woman huddled in rags in the centre of the mob. Women, holding children to their breasts, screamed and spat while men pounded pitchforks on the flagstones of the village centre.
“What on God’s green earth is happening here?” a voice boomed across the baying crowd followed instantly by silence. Only the wind blowing through the trees and the soft whimper coming from the rags could be heard. Heads turned to observe the newcomer slowly edging a horse forward. Tall and imposing with a dark overcoat and a wide brimmed hat.
“Milord, we ‘ave captured this witch,” spoke a man, the village mayor.
“I received your message,” the stranger replied, pushing his horse through the crowd.
Then, he spoke in a voice that carried across the square. “My name is Kristopher English, and I am the Witchfinder General.”
“Very good, milord,” the mayor said. “You must be here to oversee the trial.”
“I do not see a trial, just a rabble of villagers baying for blood,” the Witchfinder spat with contempt. “First, tell me about the witch and her crimes.”
“Milord, her name is Atty Eve. She has lived in the village for eight years, we took her in as a child after we found her wandering in the woods,” the mayor explained. “She has been filling the children’s minds with stories, leading them away from salvation. Our Reverend has witnessed the children utter words in weird tongue and shake uncontrollably since talking to Mistress Eve.”
“Mister Williams, lift the accused. I wish to see her.”
A man stepped forward from behind the horse, pulling the woman to her feet; he brushed the long matted hair from her face. She stared defiantly at the Witchfinder.
“I must speak with the accusers first,” he said. Two boys and an older girl stepped forward.
“What are your names?”
“If it pleases milord I am Ashley McKenna,” the golden-haired teenager spoke first.
“I am Laurence Bastwick,” a dark haired ten-year-old mumbled next looking towards the ground.
“My name is Robert Houghton,” the shy eight year old finally replied.
“I wish for you to tell me your story,” English commanded.
“Milord, Laurence, Robert and I all enjoy playing in the woods. Several weeks ago, we found Mistress Eve’s home. She looked so pretty and her son sat upon the stoop singing like an angel.” Ashley replied.
“Where is her son now?” the Witchfinder demanded.
“He is almost a man, and ran as soon as the village men came close to the home.” The Mayor said.
“We shall capture him after we finish this trial,” the Witchfinder replied. “Please, continue.”
“Milord, we approached the house and were met by lovely smells of herbs. Mistress Eve began to tell us stories from Malleus Maleficarum, of dancing with the devil while denouncing the one true God. We began to dance and I felt funny, like she had put a spell on me. The boys took off their clothes, acting like wild animals,” the teenager paused as the two younger boys looked sheepishly at the floor. “I danced unnaturally with the witch’s son.”
“How did you come to escape?” English asked.
“We woke up the next morning, in a clearing a little ways into the wood,” Ashley replied staring at her feet.
“Lies!” Atty Eve spat. “Those little toads mocked my son and then this harlot tried to seduce him. He ignored her and she ran off.”
“Shut your mouth, witch,” Williams backhanded her.
“If all you have said is true, then she is truly a witch, but she must endure the Trials to prove her innocence.”
Atty cried out in fear as Williams picked her up from the floor throwing her over his shoulder. The mob all followed to the fast flowing River Ouse.
“First is the trial by water, if she is innocent of all crimes, then she shall sink to the bottom and be met at the gates of Heaven by Jesus; if she is in league with the Devil, water spirits shall push her to the surface,” Witchfinder English announced to the villagers.
Before the brackish water, stood a wooden platform with one end anchored to the ground and a long limb reaching over the water dangling a rope. Attached to the rope was a chair. Williams and the villagers bound Atty Eve’s hands tightly as she watched them, subdued. Men from the village lifted her body, placing her on the chair, and letting it swing out across the water. The only sound was the creaking of the rope as the crowd fell into a hushed silence.
“Lower her down,” the Witchfinder commanded.
The pair released the rope that was wound tightly lowering her into the water. Slowly, the water lapped up across the wooden chair, over the rags she was wearing, and into her lap, startling the young woman. She hissed with the coldness of the water as it went over her belly, chest, then finally lapped at her chin. Screaming wildly she tried to lift her head from the water, but it slipped over her mouth. She stared once more into the eyes of the villagers, then her head went under. The crowd let out a sigh as the seaweed like hair disappeared. Minutes passed and the Reverend stepped forward.
“She has gone to God now. He is opening his arms to welcome a new angel into his fold.”
No sooner had he finished when the young woman emerged, very wet, but still alive.
“The Devil hath protected her,” a woman cried.
Williams and the villager dragged her from the chair, as she coughed up black water, and hauled her in front of the Witchfinder.
“With God as our witness, we gave you a fair trial to prove you were innocent, but sometimes the Devil’s hands can be strong,” he intoned. “Now, we know Atty Eve is guilty. She must be hanged before the church.”
A horse was brought forward and the witch was thrown over its back like a sack of potatoes as everyone moved towards the small stone church, which lay in the centre of the village. Some say the church was built when Jesus was born; others say the Romans built it. In the square beyond the church was a small fountain with a hastily erected structure to house the noose used for heretics and witches. Though this structure had seen no use, local militia had insisted upon it being built. Atty looked upon the structure with a degree of fear; two thick beams had been buried into the ground and a third lay atop them.
“Do you have anything to say before you are hanged, Mistress Eve?” the Witchfinder asked.
“I am innocent. That young lady tried to seduce my son, who in turn ignored her,” Atty Eve said loudly over the other voices.
“Lies!” Ashley shouted.
“Witch!”
“You shall join the Devil in Hell,” voices no longer separate, but as one, chanted at her.
“You have failed the trial by water, therefore, you shall be hanged. May God have mercy on your soul!”
Williams stepped forward carrying a noose, fitting it tightly around the neck of the bound woman. Atty choked briefly, then let out a deep breath as he picked her up throwing her over his shoulder. The villager placed a roughhewn ladder against the structure and Williams began to climb. Reaching the top, he took the other end of the rope and tied it securely around the beam. Without ceremony, he grabbed Atty and threw her away from him. The rope snapped taut, strangling the supposed witch. The crowd watched fascinated, seeing a hanging for the first time. She dangled, her legs jer
king like a puppet on a string.
Some would say later, they heard the soft pluck of a bow or saw the arrow that caused it. Days later, the Witchfinder found the arrow, but by then rumours had already grown that the Devil had saved the Witch himself. The rope snapped causing her to crash to the ground gasping for breath, and for the second time, alive after a trial.
“The Devil is strong with this one,” the Witchfinder said with glee, knowing this witch would be his crowning glory. “If she cannot be drowned and she cannot be hung, there is one way to kill a witch—by fire!”
Villagers were sent out to gather wood as darkness began to descend on the village. While the villagers worked installing a large stake into the ground, the Witchfinder watched impassively, his face shadowed by his hat.
“The Devil is at work tonight.”
The Reverend stood next to the rider, indicating the moon, which was blood red.
“Indeed he is.”
“Have you met many witches, milord?”
“Yes, they are dastardly and devious,” the Witchfinder returned.
He went quiet as the last villager came forward and placed a bundle of sticks at the base of the stake. Atty Eve was bought forward and tied to the stake.
“Tonight is your hour of deliverance; confess your sins and God may yet help you in the afterlife.”
“I have nothing to confess, my lord. I am innocent, but tonight innocent blood shall be spilt and I shall have my retribution in the next life. Ashley McKenna, Laurence Bastwick and Robert Houghton, your souls will be mine,” she cackled with laughter.
The villagers screamed. Williams stepped forward and placed his torch to the wood. Instantly, crackling could be heard and whoosh, the wood began to flame snaking towards the sky.
The flames seemed to move slowly at first, but then they began to lick at Atty’s feet. She began to scream from the pain and the heat. The flames got higher. Now capturing her rags and scorching her body. Not one of villagers would forget the screams, like the pained howls of a wolf or some unnatural creature. Time seemed to accelerate and the screams cut off as the woman died.
“My work here is done,” the Witchfinder said and turned his horse away.
The Reverend blinked. He would later say it was a trick of the light, but he swore by the Lord Jesus, that he had seen the Witchfinder’s eyes glow like the dying embers of red coal. The Reverend shuddered and the Witchfinder rode into the forest leaving the village behind. Some distance into the woods, he stopped and looked out.
“Do not worry child. I knew your mother,” he said softly and the sixteen-year-old son of Atty Eve came into the light of the torch Williams held.
“You are the Witchfinder General,” he said loudly.
“Hardly, but those simple villagers will believe anything.”
“Who are you?” the boy asked.
“A friend of your mothers, she is now in my residence,” the man said, taking off his hat. His face was made of pure shadow and where his eyes should be, were glowing red spots. He offered the boy his hand.
“Take my hand and join me.”
“You are the Devil!”
*~*~*
Kris English lives in the wilds of Norfolk, UK and has been writing since he was fifteen. Though currently unpublished he has a couple of books finished and is working on an internet serial. For musings by Kris English you can visit https://archersscribe.wordpress.com/
Welcome to the Afterlife
Jessica Kirkpatrick
Death, I knew him well. Too well, I realize now.
He's a portly fella, Death is, with thinning hair that is about the shade of straw. His hook nose was always in a romance novel of some sort. Last I saw, Nora Roberts was his latest obsession. That could've changed in the last few months... or was it years? I'm not really sure anymore. Time moves in circles now.
I was in the library when he walked in the door, ebony robes blowing around him. Seeing a scythe hanging from a belt holding a pair of blue jeans still startled me. The computers all blinked out at once as a small bellow eased through the stacks. The librarian looked up from the circ desk.
"Shhh!" She growled. Death stopped short.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. His face turned pink. Heat spread across my own cheeks. "Have you seen Kathy?"
"Computers."
Nodding, he walked over to the five or six computers against the wall. I turned more so he could see me better. He sat at a computer beside me.
"Hello."
"Hi," I responded. Facebook was holding most of my attention. Sally was getting married. "What'cha wants to see me for?"
"I have to talk to you, Kathy."
"'Bout what?"
"It's time," he said. I looked at him fully. Death leaned forward.
"Time for what?" I asked.
"I'm sorry, Kathy."
I stared into his blue eyes. They were like ice. A switch in my brain was flipped. "Oh."
He motioned for me to follow him. I logged out of Facebook and my email before returning the computer pass. Death led me to the reference section, the aisle too slender for my post-baby body. He stopped me between two shelves.
"Reach for that dictionary," he ordered. I obeyed. I felt a hand on my back and that's the last I remembered.
According to AL protocol, I had to watch my death on an old movie reel.
"No one's died with DVDs and a DVD player, yet," the technician said, setting up the projection.
My hair looked terrible. Instead of being held in a gently pulled back ponytail, it was going everywhere. I hadn't bothered to brush it out. Death wasn't in the movie. According to the film I was going forward on my own accord. My black slacks were wrinkled and my blouse unbuttoned. Another fluke of the day. It was white. The tank underneath was stained, when we could see it. For once, there was something from my usual routine in my wardrobe choice. Every one of my tanks was stained with food. I stopped and turned. Looking up, I searched for the dictionary Death asked me to get down. It was on the very top shelf, wedged in tightly. Watching myself reach for a book, I gripped my pants leg.
Don't let me do that!
A camera change.
A grown man, shouting at the librarian for who knows what, shoved the bookcase as hard as he could. It started falling, hitting the one next to it. That one hit the next and soon there was a domino effect. I had to watch as the bookcases collapsed until they fell over poor old Kathy Jones.
There was a change of scene and I was crouching, covering my head. I hadn't gotten the dictionary all the way off the shelf. The case it was on had fallen against the one held up by the wall. There was a space for me to crouch. Not all the books had fallen off, yet. I was breathing hard in the video. And out of the video.
The grown man jumped on top of the first shelf, causing a butterfly effect. The vibrations caused the dictionary to fall off its metal shelf just as I moved my arms down. Someone had just asked me if I was okay. Poor chap.
"Yeah," I said. The dictionary—as thick as a brick and as big as a box—hit my head with a crack!
After the movie, I was taken to my room.
It was larger than my In Life room. A double bed took up the space by the wall furthest from the door. A white side table was beside it, with a lamp and alarm clock. They were all vintage. I had no closets, but a wardrobe sat to the left of the table, also white. My dresser from life sat to the right of the door, mirror hanging over it. A kitchenette, complete with fridge, was up against the left wall. It had a retro look, bright red. Ugly. I figured the fridge would be empty. I was wrong. Really, really, really wrong. It was stocked so full; almost everything fell out when I opened the door.
It took an hour to pick everything up. As I did, I noticed a lot of yogurt. Try three million of those little tubs you get from the super market. The stove was gas and I even had a microwave. Vintage, of course. A Victorian desk sat at the foot of the bed. No computer. No television. I didn't even have a stereo. Sighing,
I nearly tripped over a short table. Black. Too short for chairs, I noticed the four brightly colored cushions arranged around it.
Death was sitting on the blue one.
"What on Earth is going on?" I asked, pacing. "I just saw my own death, but I can't be dead. My mother needs me not to mention my daughter who is pregnant. I’ll never get to see my grandbaby. I’ll never see my great-nephew. My ladies need me to change their diapers and make sure they eat. What about them?"
"Calm down, Kathy."
"I am not dead."
"Kathy, sit down. Have some food."
I did. Salmon sat in front of me. Various comfort and high fattening foods were with it on the plate. I didn't take a second bite. Death stared at the newspaper in his hands. He flipped it open. "New Comers" was the headline.
"Eat." It was a demand, not a request.
"I'm on a diet, Death." His eyes flew up to meet mine. They held no ice now, only sympathy.
"Calories don't count here."
I wasn't so sure I believed him. His hair now had the same shine that a crooked salesman had when he was about to sell you a lemon. It was slicked back. Even his suit, though attractive, looked sleazy. Lucky him, though. Not a single wrinkle. My outfit had been the one I had died in. I did notice that he had a Doctor Who tie.
"New or classic ‘Who’?"
He smiled. The newspaper turned its page and a book appeared right before me. It floated in mid of the air. I grabbed it.
‘Are You There, After Life? It’s Me, Deceased’, was its title. On the front cover was the picture of a corpse. It was macabre, yet comforting. Talk about a bizarre feeling. Death smiled like he knew what I was thinking. The salmon looked tasty.
"That book is meant to help you navigate this world."
"I can't be dead."
"Well, I am sorry."
I stared at him. Rouge, for some reason, adorned his cheeks. He wore eyeliner and...
Is that lipstick?
Death started strumming his fingers on the table. He seemed impatient.
"Are you the Other Mother?" I asked, jokingly. He only smiled whimsically.
"Ah, Neil Gaiman. Can't wait to reap him." His words made my blood run cold. I changed position on the cushion to relieve my back pa—”