Evanore now stands bereft of clothing; her lambent skin shines either in sweat or oil. Fanshawe can feel himself trembling as he looks at her in the dream: the slim, curvaceous body, long white legs, breasts so deliciously swollen she could be lactating yet her abdomen shines lean and flat. It’s a jarring contrast: all that glistening skin, white as fresh snow, shimmering below the dark-crimson hair. Indeed, her hair is combed back wet now, rendering the appearance of actually being dipped in blood; the tuft at her pubis shines similarly. She is reciting words of some unhallowed prayer that Fanshawe remains deaf to. His gaze stays riveted to her stimulating physique until something unsought drags his eyes down to show him that the nude woman is standing within a queerly angled pentagram inscribed on the bare wood floor. The inscription has been fashioned with some black substance akin to char. Immediately he notices the sticks of burnt bones lying aside.
The candle-lit spectacle recedes, to reveal a dozen other cloaked figures looking on from the background…
Abbie’s reverberating voice continues, “They practiced their witchcraft in secret. Years went by, but the town never knew…”
The black mental fog creeps back, then disperses.
The room is gone. The night seems to seethe as Fanshawe is looking at a clearing deep in a woodland where trees hulk like dryadic miscreations. Their knotted arms outstretch, soon to be mimicked by Evanore, now dressed in her own hooded gown, and the remaining twelve in her coven. In gangrenous moonlight, they stand in a circle in the clearing, some bearing torches. But as Evanore raises a newborn babe in her hands—
Chaos unfolds.
More torches plunge into the circle, these held by townsmen with stern, determined faces. Other townsfolk wield pitchforks, and others, muskets. Male coven members are butt-stroked in the face; the women are dragged to the ground and stripped, then slapped dizzy by hard opened palms. The black mass had been encircled without anyone ever knowing, and as remaining members try to flee, they are beaten to the ground by still more men in tri-cornered hats, then hog-tied. Several armed deputies part, allowing the stout and basilisk-eyed Sheriff Patten to enter the scene; he is followed by the black-cassocked town pastor whose large silver cross flashes in torchlight. The infant which had nearly been murdered is delivered to the pastor’s hands. Patten looks this way and that, then his gaze seems to find what it seeks: Evanore Wraxall. She’s already been stripped naked, and stands defiant as one deputy keeps her in place by elbows pinned behind her back. The sheriff pauses to stare at the white, raving body, but then the pastor’s reproving glance reminds him that lust is a grievous sin.
Patten crosses himself. Duly shackled now, the other heretics are being roughly led out of the wood, but three of the sheriff’s raiding party hold several torches together, boosting the potency of their flame, and into this flame, four branding irons are held. Minutes pass.
The pastor nods consent; Patten stands, arms crossed, the fire-light in his eyes. Four of the deputies pull the irons out when they’re smoking hot, then they turn them toward Evanore…
The witch’s nude body seems to relax, even in what she must know awaits her; the guard behind her holds her fast.
The branding irons are each formed in the shape of the cross.
One iron is pressed into the front of the right breast, then another is pressed into the left. Flesh silently sizzles. A third iron burns into her white abdomen, cooking the flesh. But the fourth is handed to Sheriff Patten himself. He whispers a prayer, then approaches, then sinks the iron into the abundant plot of pubic hair, searing first the hair, then the private flesh beneath. Only after an extended allotment of time is the iron withdrawn, leaving a smoking indentation in the shape of the Savior’s symbol.
But Patten’s lower lip twitches as if he’s secretly infuriated, while the pastor’s face seems made of stone; for not once through the agonizing ministration did Evanore scream or even flinch. Instead, she simply smiles back at her persecutors as the brand-marks continue to effuse smoke.
More black fog, then the field of Fanshawe’s nightmare shifts, to that of a quiet hillock webbed by footpaths and askew brush. A gray sky yawns over all, low clouds shedding drizzle, as the queue of shackled heretics, now dressed in rags, is led up at musket-point. The sheriff and his deputies take their places about the hill’s crown; so do the town’s citizens. The pastor reads from a Bible, then closes it.
Sheriff Patten steps toward the stoop-shouldered captives. He reads from a scroll…
Abbie’s voice echoes back through the dream’s black blood: “Evanore and the coven were all condemned to death…”
Now, a horse-driven carriage pulls into the town square. Jacob Wraxall gets out with his personal attendant, Callister Rood. Rood bears a large suitcase, then takes a crate down from the coach. A town man immediately rushes over to tell them something silently. Jacob’s reaction is one of alarm. And next?
Jacob is standing in the cemetery, looking solemnly down at some graves.
“Jacob and Callister Rood were abroad in England at the time,” Abbie’s voice wavers; however, a long silence follows, broken only by the sounds of Fanshawe’s quickening breaths. “But when they returned, Jacob’s daughter had already been executed…”
(II)
Was it the sound of a growling dog that Fanshawe woke to? He churned irritably out of his sleep, then sat up.
He grimaced.
At once, the long smear of nightmare poured back like reeking slop through his mind. His subconscious had concocted imagery to accompany Abbie’s grim recital of Wraxall and his daughter. Christ… The dream’s aftermath left him feeling faintly sick; the moderate hangover didn’t help. But then he winced, recalling what had roused him out of his sleep.
A growling dog? He rubbed his face. His eyes ached; they felt dry. I thought I’d heard a dog growling yesterday too, on the hill… But outside, then, he heard a rudely loud motorcycle in the distance. There’s your growling dog…
His brows shot up when he noticed that morning as well as most of the afternoon was already gone. Jesus! How could I have slept so long? For years—for decades, actually—he’d risen at four-thirty in the morning. Now I don’t have to anymore. The Wall Street pressure-cooker was finally behind him; perhaps his body was taking back the rest it had been robbed of after so many years of ceaseless thinking, speculation, buy-outs, and re-organizations.
But this?
He’d slept sixteen hours. Maybe I’m getting a cold… Could the faint headache be a cold coming on rather than too much alcohol last night? But either way… So what? he thought. If I want to sleep sixteen hours, I can. I can do anything I want; I’m on vacation…sort of.
But he felt worn out even with the extra sleep. The dream… Why would a dream—unpleasant but not excruciating—cause such exhaustion? The Witch-Blood Shooters, he suspected. Smart move, Fanshawe. At least the window promised spectacular weather. Now, if I can only enjoy it without feeling like shit… A cool shower helped a little, plus more casual dress, including a lighter sports jacket. Downstairs, he noticed no sign of Abbie or Mr. Baxter. An older woman he hadn’t seen before was preparing to open the bar, while a pair of college-aged waitresses set tables in the dining room, in preparation for the upcoming dinner hour. The Professors, he thought next, noticing several of them browsing the display coves. The long hair and beards were the giveaway. Bloodshot eyes were a giveaway, too, that at least their hangovers must be worse than Fanshawe’s. He heard the elevator open and close, then came a soft, regulated pattering as Harvard and Yale walked briskly down the carpeted hall and across the atrium. They wore blank, midriff running tops today, with no designation, but he thought he saw Harvard glance once at him, then say to her companion, “Where have I seen that guy before?” They jogged out into blazing sunlight and were gone. Fanshawe’s hangover pulsed at his temple. For an instant he thought of inconspicuously following them, to see if they repeated yesterday’s topless coddling at the hidden nook, but then rebuked himself for even considering it. He grabbed some complimentary candies off the check-in desk, then milled around the displays. It was not his own volition that guided him toward the display with the looking-glass, but when he found it—