Joseph Delaney - The Spook's Curse

We left the last of the houses behind us and joined a throng of people crossing the narrow stone bridge over the river, moving slowly through the damp, still air. There was a white mist on the riverbank but we soon rose above it as we climbed up through the trees, trudging through mounds of damp, mouldering leaves to emerge near the summit of the hill. A large crowd had already gathered, with more people arriving by the minute. There were three huge piles of branches and twigs ready for lighting, the largest one set between the other two. Rising from these pyres were the thick wooden stakes to which the victims would be tied.

High on the beacon fell, with the lights of the town spread out below us, the air was fresher. The area was lit by torches attached to tall, slender wooden poles, which were swaying gently in the light westerly breeze. But there were patches of darkness, where the faces of the crowd were in shadow, and I followed Alice into one of these, so that we could watch what was going on without being noticed ourselves.

On guard, with their backs to the pyres, were a dozen big men wearing black hoods, with just slits for eyes and mouths. In their hands they carried cudgels and looked eager to use them. These were the assistant executioners, who would help the Quisitor with the burning and, if necessary, keep back the crowd.

I wasn’t sure how the crowd would behave. Was it worth hoping that they might do something? Any relatives and friends of the condemned would want to save them, but whether there were enough of them to attempt a rescue was uncertain. Of course, as Brother Peter had said, there were lots of people who loved a burning. Many were here to be entertained.

No sooner had that thought entered my head than, in the distance, I heard the steady beat of drums.

‘Burn! Burn! Burn, witches, burn!’ the drums seemed to thunder.

At that sound the crowd began to murmur, their voices swelling to a roar that finally erupted into loud catcalls and hisses. The Quisitor was approaching, riding tall on his big white horse, and behind him trundled the open cart containing the prisoners. Other men on horseback were riding alongside and to the rear of the cart, and they had swords at their hips. Behind them, on foot, were a dozen drummers walking with a swagger, their arms rising and falling theatrically to the beat they were pounding out.

‘Burn! Burn! Burn, witches, burn!’

Suddenly the whole situation seemed hopeless. Some in the front rank of the crowd started to shy rotten fruit at the prisoners but the guards on the flanks, probably worried about being hit by mistake, drew their swords and rode directly at them, driving them back into the throng, causing the whole mass of people to sway backwards.

The cart came nearer and halted, and for the first time I could see the Spook. Some of the prisoners were on their knees, praying. Others were wailing or tearing at their hair, but my master was standing straight and tall, staring ahead. His face looked haggard and tired, and there was the same vague expression in his eyes, as if he still didn’t understand what was happening to him. There was a new dark bruise on his forehead above his left eye, and his bottom lip was split and swollen – he’d evidently been given another beating.

A priest stepped forward, a scroll in his right hand, and the rhythm of the drums changed. It became a deep roll which built to a crescendo then halted suddenly, as the priest began to read from the parchment.

‘People of Priestown, hear this! We are gathered here to witness the lawful execution by fire of twelve witches and one warlock, the sinful wretches whom you see before you now. Pray for their souls! Pray that through pain they may come to know the error of their ways. Pray that they may beg God’s forgiveness and thus redeem their immortal souls.’

There was another roll of drums. The priest hadn’t finished yet and in the succeeding silence he continued to read.

‘Our Lord Protector, the High Quisitor, wishes this to be a lesson to others who might choose the path of darkness. Watch these sinners burn! Watch their bones crack and their fat melt like candle tallow. Listen to their screams and all the while remember that this is nothing! This is nothing at all compared to the flames of Hell! Nothing compared to the eternity of torment that awaits those who do not seek forgiveness!’

The crowd had fallen silent at these words. Perhaps it was the fear of Hell that the priest had mentioned, but more likely, I thought, it was something else. It was what I now feared. To stand and watch the horror of what was about to happen. The realization that living flesh and blood was to be put into the flames to endure unspeakable agony.

Two of the hooded men came forward and roughly pulled the first prisoner from the cart – a woman with long grey hair that hung down thickly over her shoulders, almost as far as her waist. As they dragged her towards the nearest pyre, she began to spit and curse, fighting desperately to tear herself free. Some of the crowd laughed and jeered, calling her names, but unexpectedly she managed to break away and began running off into the darkness.

Before the guards could take even a step to follow, the Quisitor galloped his horse past them, its hooves throwing up mud from the soft ground. He seized the woman by the hair, twisting his fingers into her locks before bunching his fist. Then he tugged her upwards so violently that her back arched and she was almost lifted from her feet. She gave a high, thin wail as the Quisitor dragged her back towards the guards, who seized her again and quickly tied her to one of the stakes on the edge of the largest pyre. Her fate was sealed.

My heart sank as I saw that the Spook was the next prisoner pulled down from the cart. They walked him towards the largest pyre and bound him to the central stake but not once did he struggle. He still just looked bewildered. I remembered once more how he’d told me that burning was one of the most painful deaths imaginable and he didn’t hold with doing that to a witch. To watch him bound there, awaiting his fate, was unbearable. Some of the Quisitor’s men were carrying torches and I imagined them lighting the pyres, the flames leaping upwards towards the Spook. It was too horrible to think about and tears began streaming down my face.

I tried to recall what my master had said about something or someone watching what we do. If you lived your life right, he’d told me, in your hour of need it would stand at your side and lend you its strength. Well, he’d lived his life right and had done everything for what he thought was the best. So he deserved something. Surely?

If I’d been part of a family that went to church and prayed more, I’d have prayed then. The habit wasn’t in me and I didn’t know how, but without realizing it I whispered something to myself. I didn’t mean it to be a prayer but I suppose it was one really.

‘Help him, please,’ I whispered. ‘Please help him.’

Suddenly the hair on the back of my neck began to move and I instantly felt cold, very cold. Something from the dark was approaching. Something strong and very dangerous. I heard Alice give a sudden gasp and a deep groan, and immediately my vision darkened so that, when I turned and reached towards her, I couldn’t even see my hand before my face. The murmur of the crowd receded into the distance and everything grew still and quiet. I felt cut off from the rest of the world, alone in darkness.

I knew that the Bane had arrived. I couldn’t see anything but I could sense it nearby, a vast dark spirit, a great weight that threatened to crush the life from me. I was terrified, for myself and for all the innocent people gathered there, but could do nothing but wait in the darkness for it to end.