sleeping form ofhis host. Peter had been over twenty-four hours now without sleep, andalthough the old Dutchman had tried desperately to fight off thedrowsiness that overcame him, the recent excitement of the day hadfinally taken its toll. Lightning struck near by followed with an earsplitting blast that shook the house to its rocky foundations. Pieces ofslate flew off the roof and were carried away into the night. The rainpoured down in a great deluge, blurring the window, making it impossibleto see in or out.
Mirestone held out a glistening white feather in his long spideryfingers. He placed it within a few inches of Peter's nose and watchedthe delicate edges riffle in the Dutchman's breath. Crossing to thetable, he leaned over the white fluff and breathed the short Germanincantation over it. How it glistened in the firelight! He bent closerand closer as he whispered the magic words that Peter had taught him,his breath ruffling the feather, playing about in the fringed softness.He hung up the feather by a thread and watched it hop back and forth inthe center of the room.
* * * * *
Peter awakened and saw Mirestone sitting by the fire noting everymovement of the feather. "What are you doing, heh?"
Mirestone swung around and glared at the bleary eyed Dutchman. "Sitdown," he commanded. "Sit down and watch the feather turn red."
Peter didn't need to be told that it was his feather. He knew by themerciless eyes of Mirestone that everything was over. "So, you weredetermined to find out what would happen if the hex were tried on aman?"
Peter was surprised at how easily he took his fate. There was no need ofexcitement--this was his end and there was no changing it.
"Yes, I had to know, for I can't leave until I have a complete record ofall the results." Mirestone certainly was not cocky now. He lookedalmost ashamed of himself as he sat there nervously watching a man'sfate swing by a silken thread. "I'm sorry, Peter, my friend, but that ishow it must be. You are a stepping stone to a glorious reckoning thatwill soon take place. The hex of the white feather--I can hardly believethat I have at last tracked it down. And you, Peter, are the lastwitness, the last link in the chain of those who know the secret, andhow can it better end than by your becoming a part of the secret?"
Peter realized that he had not much longer to live and nothing he coulddo to Mirestone would change his fate. Perhaps he could save others,though.
"What is this glorious reckoning you were speaking about?"
"As soon as I see how your case ends, I'll be able to go ahead andrelease my vengeance on those stupid, bungling fools who have thwartedmy progress in the black arts. They claim to speak in the name ofhumanity, no less!"
"In that case," exclaimed Peter, "I won't let myself be a foothold foryour damned work--it is of the devil and I'll have no part of it."
"Shut up, fool. You are a part of it already."
"Not if my body is destroyed before you can get hold of it."
Peter played his trump card. He quickly sprang back and slipped out thedoor into the storm. Mirestone jumped up after him, but it was too late.He peered out into the raging tempest making out the figure of Peterstruggling with the hatch on the horse barn. He pulled his cloak abouthim and started towards Peter to stop him. The rain beat his face,blinding him momentarily, and before he could see clearly a dark masspounded by, swift hoofs spattering mud all over him.
Down the road sped Peter on the horse--down the road and towards thefoot-bridge. Mirestone ran a few steps and halted. He heard the hollowstaccato of horse's hoofs on the planks for an instant, followed by asplintering crash that rumbled up from the gorge. A long, guttural crypierced the black gloom as man and horse plunged down to the seethingdeath awaiting them.
Cursing savagely, Milestone trudged back through the rain to the house.He slammed the door shut and threw his cloak on Peter's bed. There wasone more bottle on the shelf; he smashed the neck and poured a glass. Ifone could see him bent over the table sending silent curses into hiswine, he could readily imagine the feeling of defeat that had spreadover Mirestone's countenance. The idiot of a Dutchman who had to playthe hero's part and save other lives by ending his own made Mirestonefairly sick. However, all was not over. So the Dutchman had died; thehex had worked--a lot sooner than he had expected though. Now hecertainly would be delayed in his progress, for he had counted onexamining the body for any traces left that would suggest something outof the ordinary. One thing, however, he had learned was that the hex atleast worked on humans. The mangled body that was being washed over therocks would be enough proof on that score.
Mirestone poured another drink. He leaned back in the chair and placedthe glass to his lips. He was tilted so far back that as he raised thewine to a drinking position, it blocked his view of the room. As heslowly sipped it, however, the room began to come into view--the ceilingfirst and slowly the wall. His eyes focused on a piece of thread hangingfrom the ceiling, and as the wine sank lower and lower in the glass, thethread grew longer and longer until in one last swallow he was able tosee the end of the line.
Mirestone's hand went stiff as he looked at the thread, for on the endof it was a pure white feather.
* * * * *
In an instant Mirestone realized that the hex had not worked. Peter'sdeath at the bridge had been a grotesque coincidence. Had the untimelyplunge in the rapids been the result of the hex the feather would havelong since been red, therefore, the tragedy was no more than an accidentand Mirestone's hands were innocent of the Dutchman's blood. Thatrealization, of course, didn't bother him, for he was not concernedwhether or not he was responsible for Peter's death, but he wasgenuinely worried in the failure of the hex. He wondered if he had donesomething wrong. If he had, the last link, that could have corrected himwas broken. From here on in he was on his own.
He calmed himself and began to think. He retraced everything that he haddone to see if he couldn't have found some margin in which error couldhave crept in. He remembered how carefully he had bent over the featherreciting the exact words taught him by Peter. He especially rememberedthat part of the hex, for hadn't the feather been ruffled by his breathwhen he spoke....
Gradually the truth began to dawn on Mirestone. His own breath must havereleased Peter from the hex. The last person's breath that touched thefeather would feel the sting of the power. Mirestone sat backdumbfounded. He was to be his own guinea pig. What ghastly horror was hein for? Would he die quickly like the goat or would his death beprolonged over a period of days like Peter had suggested. He grippedhimself. It wouldn't do to lose control of his senses. There must be away out of the predicament. But Peter said that as soon as the featherturned red there was no turning back. Ah--there's the answer. Thefeather is still white ... there's still a chance.
Mirestone grabbed his cloak and raced for the door. He must get ananimal--another goat, perhaps, and expose the feather to its breath. Hemust hurry lest the spell will start working.
The slippery mud dragged him back and impeded his progress, but hestruggled on through the blinding storm towards the barn. It was soblack outside that he could hardly make out the buildings. All at oncehe saw the barn looming ahead of him. Which door? Every second counted;he would try the first one he came to. Wait--what's this holding hiscloak? Mirestone turned and fumbled with some barbed wire fencing. Ithad snagged him in the dark, and he soon became hopelessly entangled init. Crying and shrieking, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and ranon in his shirt sleeves. He wrenched open a door and sprawled in thebarn head first. On his hands and knees he scurried across the mealyfloor to the goat stall. The kids sprang in terror as he lurched indrunkenly, grabbing about in the dark for one of them. Catching one bythe hind leg, he groped his way out again.
Thrusting his shoulders forward he slid through the gripping mud,tearing his way through the engulfing rain with his free hand. His legleft numb from the wound inflicted by the barbed wire, and a trickle ofblood was running down his shins. Without thinking he reached down torub the wound, but quickly yanked his hand up agai
n. What was thathorrible sensation he felt as he passed his hand over the fleshy sore?He couldn't see in the rain, but his leg told him that it was somethinghairy, almost bristly.
He ran on towards the house, stumbling in the treacherous mud. Once hefell completely down in the slime. Wiping the dripping earth from hisface, he was told again that something was wrong. His cheeks verifiedhis shin's story of a rough, jagged caress.
Holding his hand in front of his face he saw, amidst a flash oflightning, a curling, black claw, bristling with long, ragged hairs.Screaming hysterically he dropped the kid and fell forward into the doorof the house. The latch gave way with his weight and he tumbled into thecottage.
Dancing madly on the end of a thread was a blood red feather.
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