lover, the man about to die. She looked down, expressionless as Michael slid the noose around his neck. The wind whipped her auburn hair across her face. A muscle twitched, distorting her features. She raised her head, muttered silently to the heavens, smiled. Her smile was radiant, the glaze in her eyes spoke of vile, obscene secrets.
The man in black tossed back his head and laughed.
Michael kicked the stool out from under him.
“The last generation of evil be gone.” Someone screamed.
Then all was silent but for the moan of the wind and the steady creak, creak, creak of the oak’s burdened branch.
Again the wind caught his cloak, whipped it around him as he spun madly, kicking and twitching, then fighting no more. As if hypnotized, they watched the dead man... dancing, dancing, dancing in a macabre circle.
“So be it,” said Michael.
“We be doin’ it like in other lands,” bellowed the second man with authority, met with applause by the crowd. “A hangin’ followed by a burnin’ an’ then that be the end of it.”
One by one the people broke their trance, gathered twigs and piled them beneath the dead man’s swaying form.
“This be for corrupting my sweet Mary” said a woman as she placed a branch on the heap.
“And for killing the wee newborn,” whispered a young lad. “The poor little cheel.”
“Let not a witch live,” yelled Michael, stirring the crowd to frenzy.
As the other man knelt to light the funeral pyre there was a discernible depression in the atmosphere. The sky grew dark. The rain, which had been soft and teasing, pelleted down at an angry slant, extinguishing the flames. He relit it, fanned it with his large hands as the crowd chanted.
Again, the rain smothered it. The dense fog that blanketed the cliff-side was torn free by a violent gust of wind that howled eerily as the hounds of hell. People clung to each other to maintain their balance against the gale-force blast as the storm became a violent, unyielding flagh.
All eyes turned upward, following the groans and creaks from above their heads. The oak’s branch cracked, then snapped, hurling its gnarled arm and the hanged man over the cliff.
Michael held his breath, watched as the body bounced against the granite rocks, then into the sea below. He watched as the waves swallowed the man, hungrily gulping at the floating black cloak until nothing remained but the fear in Michael’s heart.
“The divil’s work,” he gasped as he stared down at the cold, wet grave.
“No, no, it be fittin’ don’t you see?” The other man said in a strained, shrill voice. “’Tis an omen surely. He’m were put to cliff by the hand of God, like the bastard dog he were.”
“’Tis true,” someone muttered as the crowd huddled at cliff’s edge.
“So be it.”
“Amen.”
The crowd dispersed, heading down-hill to the village of Petherick, back to the safety of their cottages. At the head of the procession the green eyed woman swayed as she danced and babbled a lunatic song. Her hand stroked her belly, just starting to swell with child. Sheets of cold rain lashed at her face, gusts of wind tore at her ragged shawl as she twirled about, singing, laughing—muttering words that held the key to dark and ancient knowledge.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
