Containing some Essential Information regarding the Nature of Esbats, Sabbats, Flying thro’ the Air upon Broomstaffs, and other Matters with which the enlighten’d young Woman of parts should be acquainted; together with a most dreadful Scene upon Stonehenge Down, which few Readers should venture upon in an Ev’ning, especially when alone.
THAT AFTERNOON, WE PREPAR’D for the weekly Meeting of the Coven. ’Twas agreed that after the Meeting, Isobel and Joan should put me on the Road to London (from which I had stray’d in eluding Mr. Doggett) and we three should part—howe’er, not without Isobel’s revealing some Mystery which, she declar’d, would both astonish and delight me. Therefore, I was to wear my Travelling Clothes—Daniel’s Clothes, to speak truly—and Lustre was to be groom’d and fed and prepar’d for the long Journey. As we made these Preparations, and Joan and Isobel readied divers Ointments and Brews for the Meeting, I was able to ask a few of the myriad Queries that had been seething in my Brain all Day. I wisht to know all about Herbs, all about Divination, and whether ’twas true (as I had heard from my Nurse in Childhood) that a Witch had only to stand o’er her Broomstaff and utter certain Words in order to fly thro’ the Air.
Whereupon Joan put a Broomstaff betwixt her Legs and said:
“Horse and Hattock, Horse and go! Horse and Pellatis, ho, ho!” But she mov’d not an Inch off the Ground.
“Then you cannot fly thro’ the air?” I askt.
“See for yourself,” said Isobel, laughing.
“But have you not Flying Ointments?” I askt.
“Ah, Fanny,” said Isobel, “some Ladies in our Coven set great store by an Unguent containing Extract of Monk’s-Hood, and Deadly-Nightshade; they say it enables ’em to fly; but I say it disorders their Senses and makes ’em think they fly. I’d sooner drink good Claret.”
“No Subject is more fill’d with Foolishness than Notions of Witchcraft in the common Mind,” said Joan, “and, i’faith, many Witches themselves believe that Nonsense. They join the Old Religion, hoping to learn to fly, or set Curses upon their Neighbours, and the Meaning of the True Devotion is lost.”
“But do they not worship the Devil?” I askt—for so I had heard.
“One Woman’s Devil is another Woman’s beloved Husband,” said Isobel, smiling mischievously, “and what the Witch-Hunters call’d the Foul Fiend, the Prince of Darkness, may be just another Name for God.”
“Then you believe in Jesus Christ?”
“No,” said Joan.
“Well, yes,” said Isobel, “but I believe in a greater God, too.”
“A Female God,” said Joan, “whose Name is too holy to be spoken. She that hath made the World and exists ev’rywhere in ev’ry living Thing. She that is both female and male, with Horns upon her Head, and a Belly that brings forth Young….”
“Hush,” said Isobel.
“But this is Heresy,” I said.
Isobel lookt at me sternly. “Be not so quick to use that Word,” said she, “lest it be us’d against you. The Passion that one Soul hath for God cannot be judged by another.”
I held my Tongue. Was it possible that the Great God who made the World was female? Or were these two old Women out of their Wits?
“And what Herb do you use to bring Lovers back together?” I askt, being quick to change the Subject.
“Caraway,” Joan said.
“With Lemon Balm,” said Isobel.
“But it must be us’d in Conjunction with certain Spells.”
“Which Spells?” I askt.
“Fanny, my Dear,” Isobel said, “you cannot learn all of Witchcraft in one Afternoon. Come, we must prepare for the Esbat.”
“The Esbat,” Isobel explain’d, as we two rode on Lustre’s Back o’er the rolling Hills, where the Hedges seem’d dark green Velvet to the bright wet Green of the Lawns, where the Poplar Trees form’d Walls against the Wind, and the stone-roof’d Cottages slumber’d in the Hollows of the Hills, “is the weekly Meeting.”
“’Tis not to be confus’d with the Sabbat,” Joan said, riding close beside us upon an Ass call’d Bottom. “Sabbats are held but four Times a Year—Candlemas, Roodmas, Lammas, and All Hallows E’en.”
“The most important Times being Roodmas and All Hallows E’en,” said Isobel. “And to a Sabbat, many Covens come. The Esbat is only a little Meeting—for weekly Business.”
“But where are we going now?” I askt, as we cross’d a grassy Down where a large Flock of Sheep graz’d in the light Rain.
“We are going to a great Stone Circle where we shall meet the Coven,” Isobel said. “Hush, now. This is more careless Talk than is wise, here on the open Down.”
“But who shall hear us,” I askt, “the Sheep?”
“E’en the Sheep have Ears,” said Isobel.
The County of Wiltshire was then, as now, Belinda, a vast continu’d Body of chalky Hills whose Tops spread out into fruitful and pleasant Downs and Plains, upon which great Flocks of Sheep were fed. Pleasant Rivers flow’d beautifully into verdant Vales where fruitful Meadows and rich Pastures lin’d the Banks. There were innumerable pleasant Towns, Villages, and Houses in the verdant Vales, but upon the Downs the Country seem’d wild and uninhabited—the proper Resort of Witches, Faeries, and all Manner of Gnomes, Elves, and Hobgoblins.
I had heard, of course, the Country Lore that the “Little People,” the green-coated Faeries, and the Witches were wont to meet upon the Barrows and at the Stone Circles; but I had always consider’d ’em mere Country Fictions and Superstitions.
Thro’ my prodigious Reading in Lord Bellars’ fine Library, I had Knowledge of the Dispute about which England’s learned Antiquaries had so puzzl’d themselves, concerning the strange upright Stones of great Antiquity upon Stonehenge Down. Some alleged it to be a Pagan or Heathen Temple, some an Altar or Place of Sacrifice, some a Monument for the Dead, and some a Trophy of Victory. Some held it to be Roman, some British, some Saxon, some Danish, some Druid, and some, before ’em all, Phoenician.
But I had ne’er seen this Place of Wonders, and to be sure, I had ne’er seen it just as the setting Sun was sinking below the Horizon, kindling Fire in the Sky. ’Twas a Sight to strike Wonder in the Heart of a shelter’d Maid of Seventeen!
The Stones seem’d at least twice the Height of a tall Man (i’faith, I was surpriz’d that they were not taller) and there were four Rows of ’em, one within the other, some standing singly, some with great Lintels of dress’d Stone, so rude and rugged they seem’d as if the Devil himself had thrust ’em up out of the Bowels of the Earth. As the fiery Sphere of the Sun sank behind ’em, who should come creeping betwixt their shadowy upright Forms, laden with earthen Potts, Horns of Unguent, Baskets of Food and Simples (and trail’d by their Dogs, Cats, Toads, and other domestick Familiars), but true Witches—or so I had come to believe.
They were Women of divers Ages, dress’d in hooded Garments, not unlike those in which Joan and Isobel had attir’d themselves before setting out. Some wore black Mantles, a few wore green, and upon their Heads, they wore Hoods of black Lambskin. They carried tall Staffs, many with Knobs on them, and some had fine Stones set in intricate Brass-Work about the Knobs. Most of the older Witches wore, around their Waists, great fur Pouches, which bulged with mysterious Contents. I fancied Magical Feasts within, or whole Menageries of domestick Familiars, e’en Imps and Devils.
Above the Circle of grey stone Arches, older than Time, of Ancestry unknown, the Sky was bloody with the setting Sun; the billowing Clouds sail’d across it like Pyrate Galleons into a tropical Port, where Witch-Doctors waited to sacrifice the Crew to ravenous local Gods (or so I mus’d at the Time, ne’er having yet seen either a Pyrate, a Galleon, or a tropical Port!).
I trembl’d, as much with Fear as with Cold. The Witches advanced, seating themselves in a small Circle at the Base of the great Altar Stone inside the Circle of Stone Arches. Some were Ancient Crones and some were beauteous and young. There were twelve Women in all, and a variety of Familiars who scurried behind ’em (and curl’d up in the Folds of their Garments when they seated themselves upon the Ground).
But who was this that now appear’d in a dark blue Mantle trimm’d with Fox Fur, with Horns upon his Head, and wearing a terrible Mask of Wrath?
I clutch’d Isobel’s Hand.
“Is it the Devil himself?” I askt.
“Shh,” said Isobel, “’tis the Chief, the Grandmaster of our Coven. Sit here and keep still.”
The terrible Maskt Man seated himself upon a fallen Stone and a beautiful red-headed Girl came and sat at his right Hand.
“’Tis the Maiden of the Coven,” said Isobel. “She is also the First Deputy of the Goddess.”
I’faith, I understood none of this, but I could not draw my Eyes away from the Face of the Maiden. She was a Girl not much older than myself, with Eyes of piercing green, and Skin of a surprizing Fineness and Pallor. She wore a dark green Mantle trimm’d with Lambskin and pointed russet leather Shoes with curious Crosses cut into ’em, and Gloves that appear’d to be made of Cat’s Fur. But most astonishing of all was the Ornament she wore about her Neck. ’Twas made of two Tusks of Wild Boar join’d at their curv’d Middles by a Thong of Leather so that, in Shape, it resembl’d two Crescent Moons, dancing Back to Back, or two Scythes, bound into one Weapon.
Upon her Lap, she held a Book into which she wrote at the Bidding of the Grandmaster.
He himself was a terrifying Sight, but whether this was due to the Mask he wore, or to his Person, I cannot say. His Mask was of lacquer’d Wood, japann’d in a purplish Blue, not unlike the Skin of a Plum. From his Skull, two Cows’ Horns protruded, as if they would spear the Sky, and cov’ring his Head where Hair would be, was a matted Carpet of Lambswool. Likewise, his Chin, or, to speak truly, the Chin of the Mask, sprouted what seem’d to be a Goat’s Beard. His Mouth was terrible, set with black Pebbles for Teeth and parted just slightly to allow his Commands to issue, and his Eyes glow’d red like fiery Jewels. Upon his Feet, he wore pointed Shoes with cleft Toes, and they were of the same russet Leather as the Maid’s. They resembl’d Shoes I had seen in old Engravings in Lord Bellars’ Library, and the Points were so long ’twas a Miracle he could walk. He carried a forkt Staff which he thump’d upon the Ground to signal that the Meeting would begin.
“Let the weekly Deeds be reported,” said the Maiden, speaking for him. Whereupon there ensu’d a Recital from each Member of the Coven of all the Doings of that Week, which the Maiden duly inscrib’d in her Book.
I shall not trouble you, Belinda, with a full Account of all the Conversations which took place at the Esbat. Suffice it to say that as the Witches were telling of their Work in the previous Week and their Work in the Days to come, as they consulted with the Chief and the Maiden about various Herbal Receipts they had tried, new Members they had sought to recruit, and Illnesses which would not yield to the usual Remedies, I took care to hide my Head behind Isobel’s Shoulder, praying not to catch the awful Eye of the Grandmaster. Fain would I have got thro’ the entire Esbat unrecogniz’d, but that was not fated to be; for presently the Grandmaster turned his terrible Mask towards Isobel and me, pounded the Ground with his Staff, and in a strange, echoing Voice, demanded: “Why is a Man in our midst?” ’Twas the first Time he had spoken out loud.
His Voice sent shivers thro’ me. ’Twas neither the booming Voice of Masculinity nor the sweet Voice of Femininity, but a strange Admixture of the twain.
“’Tis no Man,” protested Isobel boldly, “but a Woman dress’d to repel the Wickedness of the World in her Adventures on the Road to London.”
“A new Convert?” askt the Maid.
“Yes,” said Joan with all Swiftness.
“Well then, proceed,” said the Maid, and the Group return’d to their weekly Accounts, leaving me so shaken that my Heart pounded in my Bosom like a defenceless Animal caught in an iron Trap.
When the weekly Business had been compleated and the Maiden had duly inscrib’d in her Book all the new Receipts, the likely new Members who were disillusion’d with Christianity, and new Methods of Divination, the Chief once again thump’d his Staff upon the Ground, and pointed his forkt Stick at me.
“Let the new Member come forward,” he thunder’d.
I lookt imploringly at Isobel. By this Time, the bright Moon had risen o’er the black Stones and the Grandmaster’s Face glow’d blue and evil in the Moonlight.
“Go,” she directed me.
I rais’d myself stiffly from the cold Ground, stepp’d slowly across the Circle, and stood before the Chief.
“Are you born Woman?” he demanded.
“Yes,” I replied.
“Will you swear to uphold the Great Goddess, She whose Name is too holy to be spoken, in all Her Works large and small and to do Her Divine Bidding for the Good of all, but most particularly for the oppress’d Members of your own Sex and those less fortunate and more defenceless than yourself?”
“Yes,” I said, before I knew quite what Words my Lips had utter’d, whereupon I immediately began to tremble piteously because I fear’d I had forsworn the Saviour and would at once be condemn’d to Hell.
“Hath the Lass a divining Familiar?”
I star’d blankly at the Grandmaster.
“Yes,” Joan responded for me, from the back of the Circle.
“Where is thy Familiar?” he askt again of my stupid Gaze.
Joan led Lustre forward into the Centre of the Ring.
“Doth he obey thy Commands?”
“Yes,” I said, for so he did.
“Pierce his Flesh then, and thine own.”
Joan gave me the small silver Dagger she wore on the Chain ’round her Neck. “You need only draw one Drop of Blood,” she directed.
Carefully, as gently as I could, I took the Knife to Lustre’s beautiful right Buttock and slit the Skin quickly in the Place where he had most Flesh and would feel it least. Then I drove the Point of the Dagger into my own left Fingertip.
“Press the two Wounds together,” said the Grandmaster. Obeying, I held my Finger steady on Lustre’s Haunch, whilst the whole Coven chanted:
“By this Beast, I divine,
By this Friend, Her Will is mine.”
The Horse stood very still and attentive. It seem’d he had felt no Pain; my Finger prickl’d, but neither was I in Pain.
“Be seated,” commanded the Grandmaster, whereupon Isobel came forward also and both she and Joan escorted Lustre and myself back to the outer Rim of the Circle. We sat down again upon the Ground. Lustre stood above us.
Was there nothing more? No Black Mass, no kissing the Devil’s Bum, no wild hoidening thro’ the Woods in search of carnal Ecstacy and Transports of the Flesh? I was astonish’d. Had one only to swear Loyalty to the Great Goddess and to one’s Horse?
If ’twere Witchcraft, then Witchcraft seem’d not so sinister a Thing. There were many Names for the Supreme Being and just because none I had e’er heard was female did not mean a Female God was impossible. Hath Divinity a Gender? I doubted not but the Grandmaster’s Words might accord with some Truth or other, tho’ perhaps with one I had not yet encounter’d.
The Grandmaster now conferr’d with the Maid. They whisper’d long and their Whisp’ring was like the Touching of the Leaves of Trees on a Summer Night. Finally, the Maid spoke.
“Hath anyone a Spell in which she requires the Assistance of the whole Coven?” She lookt ’round the Circle at the Witches.
Many of them seem’d about to speak, but thought better of it. Presently, a young Witch with a Heart-shap’d Face, full, plump Breasts, Hair of chestnut brown, and a Belly that was surely Great with Child, made bold to speak.
“I would blind my Master,” she said, “for first he ravish’d me, then he cast me out when I was with Child. I would blind his Eyes so that he can ne’er take a Fancy to another Lass and do to her what he hath done to me.”
The Grandmaster conferr’d with the Maid, pounded his Staff upon the Ground, then askt of the Girl: “Wouldst thou take the Vengeance of the Goddess into thine own Hands, Sister Alice?” (for that was the Girl’s Name).
“The Goddess would approve,” said she.
“If the Goddess wishes him blind,” said the Grandmaster, “She will blind him.”
“But his Pow’r is uncheckt,” said Sister Alice. “He can harm other Innocents.”
“Are you well?” askt the Grandmaster. “Have you a Place to bear and tend your Child?”
Sister Alice nodded. “Sister Louisa hath taken me as her Serving Maid, and hath provided in her Will for the Child and me.”
“And your former Master, how is he?”
“He hath lost his only Son in a foolish Duel, and he is cast down and melancholick.”
“The Goddess works in curious Ways,” said the Grandmaster. “Her Ways are oft’ more subtle than ours, but stronger.”
“I have a Request,” Joan said, in a trice, speaking loudly from the very back of the Circle where I sat betwixt her and Isobel. “Our new Member requires Proof of the Goddess’ Pow’r. She, too, hath been ravish’d and abus’d, but in her case, there is no Redress. She is alone, friendless but for us. I propose we make a Puppet and cast a Spell upon her Deceiver as our first Gift to a new Convert.”
“Yes! Yes!” cried the Coven in Unison.
“What Spell dost thou propose?” askt the Grandmaster.
“The Waxen Puppet, the red-hot Pins,” said Joan.
“And which Part of him wouldst thou disable?”
Joan thought a Moment and then laugh’d wickedly. “The Part with which he hath disabl’d Fanny!”
The whole Coven now began to giggle and cackle and exchange lewd Remarks.
“Silence!” said the Grandmaster. “And what if another Part of him is harm’d by Mischance, and he cannot walk? Would Justice then be serv’d?”
Joan shrugg’d her Shoulders. “’Tis the Risque we run,” she said.
“Let the Coven vote,” said the Grandmaster.
The Maid pointed to each Covener in turn and wrote the Answer in her Book.
“Aye,” said the first Witch, a wither’d Crone, with a black Eyepatch and Wisps of white Hair peeping out from under her Hood. Her Face was like the Map of the Moon.
“Aye,” said the next Witch, who was young and blond and had as her Familiar a furry white Dog with a pink Tongue and black Nose.
“Aye,” said the next, who identified herself as Sister Louisa (and was, therefore, I suppos’d, the Benefactress of the young Witch with Child who had spoken before).
“Aye,” said the same young Witch, Sister Alice. “Aye, aye. I’m for it.”
Around the moonlit Circle they went and ev’ry Witch except Isobel said “Aye.”
When Isobel’s Turn came, she said: “I cast my Vote with Fanny. Whate’er she wishes, I will second, for ’tis said that the Past cannot be changed, but only the Future.”
The Grandmaster then turn’d to me. “What wouldst thou, Fanny?”
My Senses were disorder’d and my Heart still pounded in Terror. I knew not what to answer.
“What wouldst thou?” came the echoing Query again from the terrifying Mouth of the Mask.
“Will he be disabl’d fore’er,” I askt, “and possibly lame?”
The Witches titter’d. I heard one not far from me say, “The Lass is mad.”
Presently the Grandmaster answer’d. “Sister, we cannot predict the Effect of our Spells with utter Certainty. Perhaps he will lose only the Use of his Privy Member, perhaps more. I cannot tell you otherwise.”
I ponder’d well. In my disorder’d Mind I consider’d Lord Bellars’ Beauty, his fine straight Legs, the soft Hair that twin’d on his muscl’d Breast, his manly Charms. He had us’d me rascally, but I still remember’d how I had lov’d him. Was not Love still Love tho’ ’twere Love betray’d?
I remember’d back e’en before that tempestuous Scene of Love (and Love betray’d) to the Time in Childhood when Lord Bellars had first taught me to mount a Horse and ride—not side-saddle like a Girl, but with a proper Saddle like a Man. I remember’d how he lov’d the Hunt, how he leapt the highest Hurdles on his own Arabian Stallion, High Flyer, how he had given me Lustre, High Flyer’s Foal out of Molly Longlegs, his own prize Brood Mare; how he especially came down to the Country from London to present me with my beloved Lustre on Christmas Eve of my fourteenth Year. E’en now I could see him leaping o’er Stiles and Hedges, his Cheaks ruddy with the brisk Weather, his Redingote flying behind him, his Boots gleaming in the Sun.
“No,” I said. “I would not cast a Spell.”
A Gasp of Horror went ’round the Circle of Witches. Some amongst them cackl’d and mockt me for a Fool.
“No,” I said warmly. “I would not. I shall not take Vengeance into my own Hands. The Goddess will do what She will.”
“So mote it be,” said the Grandmaster. “Let the Dance begin.”
The Witches rose (some still mocking me) and cast off their furry Hoods, threw down their Magick Staffs and Pouches. Many had Horns of Ointment, Animal Skins fill’d with evil-smelling Unguents with which they rubb’d their Legs, betwixt ’em, under their Arms, upon their Breasts. Sister Alice, the Witch who was Great with Child, offer’d me some of her own Provision, saying, “I pray you don’t regret your Soft-heartedness, Fanny.”
“What shall I do with this Unguent?”
“Do as I do,” she directed me. And she rubb’d ev’rywhere upon the most private Parts of her Body, saying, “’Twill make your Body light for the Dance.”
Putting my Cape and Beaver Hat upon the Ground, I took some of the sticky Stuff on my Fingers, reach’d into my Breech, and mimickt her in rubbing wheresoe’er she did. It prickl’d betwixt my Legs like the Stinging of many little Bees.
Then the Grandmaster march’d into the Middle of our Ring, lifted a rude Pipe to the Lips of his Mask, and began to play the most curious (but withal the sweetest) Tune that had e’er enter’d my Ears. Whereupon the Maiden join’d Hands with us, widening our Ring, and the Dance began.
It began slowly, the Ring first moving in one Direction, then the other, but presently the Dance grew faster and bolder, and i’faith, it seem’d to divert all melancholy Thoughts, to beget wild extravagant Imaginations in the Brain, to raise our Hopes, and to banish our Fears. The Witches pull’d in one Direction and then the other. As they danced, they held fast to one another’s Hands. I seem’d to see Forms and Colours in the Air—the brightest Colours my Eyes had e’er beheld and the most jagged Forms. At one Moment our Circle appear’d to be whirling in a dark Funnel, and the Ancient Upright Stones seem’d beneath us as well as above. Then the next Moment, I fancied that the very Stones were alive, swaying against the Sky, that the Sky itself was alive with other Witches riding the dark Clouds. I believ’d I saw Animals dancing at the edges of my Vision, not the Familiars, but legendary Beasts—Unicorns, Griffins, Basilisks. And then, stranger still to tell, I felt I had become united with the Earth, the Stones, the chalky Hills, the grassy Downs; I felt my Heart beat with the Hearts of the Witches, as if we were all one Woman, one Force, one throbbing Heart.
Then a most mysterious Thing came to pass; I felt myself—or truly, that Part of myself which is most myself, my Soul—fly out of my Body and hover o’er the Stone Circle and Barrows, as if I were a Bird, not a Woman. I lookt down upon the dancing Women as if I were a Nightingale or a Dove. I saw their Heads as round Circles of Hair, their Feet as Points of Leather. I seem’d to float, to soar, to dip and dive thro’ the Air. The Witches’ Dance below grew smaller and smaller as I ascended higher and higher into the Ether, and then, just as I fancied I would ne’er return to Earth, I plummeted in a Blaze of white Light, with the Colours around me those same brilliant Reds, Greens, Blues, or Yellows I had seen before, tho’ oddly jagged in Shape, like Strokes of Lightning in a Child’s Picture, or squar’d and angular as the Floor of an Italian Marble Hallway, or i’faith, a Board for playing Chess.
Then, in a trice, I was back in the Circle, whirling and turning, joining the Witches as they made a smaller Circle within the larger Circle, dancing closer and closer to the Grandmaster, who still play’d upon his Wond’rous Pipe.
Now the Maiden took the dark blue Mantle from his Shoulders, and the other Witches remov’d his Undergarments one by one; and thus whilst he play’d, and some Witches whirl’d in place, and others took his Clothes from him, he was reveal’d as—I could scarce believe it—a Woman!
When the Breasts appear’d, the Witches chanted, “She is risen.” When the dark triangular Thatch of Hair appear’d, the Witches chanted, “She is born.”
Perhaps I have gone mad, I thought. Perhaps my Senses are disorder’d by this Unguent, but despite my Discomposure, and despite the Madness of the Dance, I plainly protest that the Grandmaster was a Woman. Now she twirl’d in place, still wearing the terrible Mask. Witches came forward and anointed her Body with Unguents. She pass’d her Pipe to the Maiden; she receiv’d from that same Deputy her curious Necklace of Boar Tusks, shap’d as a double Crescent. The Maiden chanted: “Behold the Goddess; She is born; She is we; She is One.”
The Witches were all in a Frenzy now; but i’faith, my own Wits were so disorder’d that my Judgement was not the best. Ne’ertheless, I recall that Isobel took me aside and whisper’d that now I must mount Lustre and ride far beyond the edge of the Ditch surrounding the Great Upright Stones; for I had not yet been formally baptis’d into the Cult and there was one Part of the Ritual I must not see. But she herself would come to fetch me as soon as this Ceremony was o’er, whereupon a Great Feast should begin which would last until Dawn and the first Crowing of the Cock. Moreo’er, I was not to be cast down, for at the very next Sabbat, I should have my full Initiation, if I wisht it, and then the Sisters of Wicca should have no Secrets from me whatsoe’er.
I put on my Cape and Hat once more, mounted Lustre, and rode in Darkness beyond the outer edge of the Stone Circle. I rode to one of the Barrows beyond that awesome Monument, still looking for all the World like a Boy, despite my Knowledge of the Witches’ Female Creed. I shudder’d a little with the Cold and i’faith with Fear of the Dark. Nor had the Stones ceas’d to sway and gyrate ’gainst the Sky, for my Senses were still somewhat inflam’d by the Magical Unguent. ’Twas like a fright’ning Dream from which I could not waken.
I waited thus on horseback, apart from the Mysterious Ceremony, unable to see the Witches e’en as shadowy Forms dancing in the Darkness, and i’faith unseen myself, because of the sloping Bank that surrounds that Mystical Monument, when, in a trice, I heard the Thund’ring of Hoofbeats, and heard Men’s Voices shouting to each other, and out of the Moonlight along the Great Avenue, I saw a Parcel of Blackguards gallop straight for the Centre of the Witches’ Circle.
What then ensu’d, Belinda, I tremble to recollect, but Truth, my dear Daughter, is a sterner Goddess than either Morality or Innocence, and what I was to learn about Human Nature that Night would have turn’d e’en the Third Earl of Shaftesbury into a gloomier Prophet than the Duc de La Rochefoucauld.
Shots rang out. Bloodcurdling Screams rose to Heaven. There was piteous Wailing and Weeping, and piteous Pleas for Mercy. From where I stood, I could see nothing, but from these Horrid Sounds I deduced that the Witches were being tortur’d or murder’d.
Without thinking of my own Safety, I spurr’d Lustre and gallop’d back towards the Ring, but when we were scarce halfway there, the Horse rear’d up, and would go no closer; i’faith, he froze in his Tracks like a statuary Horse cast of Bronze. Now, howe’er, I had a plainer View of the Battle (due to a Break in the Stone Circle) and fain would I have been blinded upon the Instant than to have seen what my Eyes then beheld.
There were but five Rogues, led by a Boy of Ten, who slobber’d and shook like a Half-Wit, and who continually scream’d, “Vile Witch! She cast a Spell on me!” pointing a crooked Finger at each of my Sister Witches.
In the Centre of the Circle two Men held the beauteous Maiden of the Coven to the cold Ground, whilst the others ravish’d her in turn, with as great Brutality as they could muster; and less, it seem’d, for whate’er Pleasure an unreasoning Beast might find in so forced an Act of Passion than for showing off their Brutality to their Brute Brothers. She was violated perhaps ten, perhaps twelve Times; and whereas at first she whimper’d and fought, after a while she seem’d to lye still, her glaz’d Eyes staring Heavenward, her Mouth mutt’ring, “Gracious Goddess, have Mercy.” Whereupon the Brute who then was tormenting her with his swollen red Organ, grew inflam’d by her Piety and, pulling his ugly Truncheon out of her poor abus’d Cunnikin (which now spill’d o’er with dark Blood), he thrust it violently into her Mouth, saying, “This’ll teach thee to pray to Devils!” and he ramm’d his Organ so far back in her Throat that she turn’d red and chok’d and seem’d on the very Point of Death. Whereupon he withdrew it, and each of the other Men ravish’d her Mouth in turn, until it bled as horribly as her poor Nether Lips. When I thought I had seen the Worst and could bear to look no more, one of the ugliest of the Lot, a Rogue with a Strawberry Nose and the slitty Eyes of a Pig, extracted his Scimitar from its Scabbard, and, ignoring her most piteous Screams and the Pleadings of the other Members of the Coven, carv’d a Cross into the Flesh of her Forehead, and carv’d it so deep that her whole Face ran red with Blood, and soon she swoon’d in his Arms and expir’d.
“Thus is our Soft-heartedness rewarded!” Sister Alice scream’d, accusing the Grandmaster, who huddl’d in her Nakedness betwixt Alice and Joan. She had done very ill to draw attention to herself with this Scream, for now the same Rogue turn’d his horrid Lust upon her, dragg’d her into the Centre of the Circle, threw her to the Ground, ripp’d her Clothes from her Body, and despite her Screams that she was with Child (which, indeed, could be seen by all), ravish’d her fiercely and hideously; and having done so, offer’d her to the other Men. Three of them refrain’d, owing to her Great Belly, but another hideous Rogue, with a greater Belly than her own, a Beard of flaming red, and Pustules that stood out upon his Cheaks, rose, as ’twere to the Challenge, and ravish’d her both above and below; and not being content with the Conquest of two Orifices, drew her whimp’ring to her Knees, caus’d her to thrust her Bum in the Air and ravish’d that Orifice, too, until it bled copiously and she scream’d for Mercy. Then she was dragg’d to her Feet, pusht down upon the Great Altar Stone, and as the red-bearded Man stopp’d her Screams with his Hand, the Pig-faced Man ravish’d her again, and withdrawing, took his horrible Scimitar and thrust it into her Cunny in place of his Organ, as if i’faith Sword and Organ were but the same horrible Weapon. Alice seem’d to faint with the Agony. The Blood ran down the black Stone and pool’d darkly ’neath the Altar. The Sisters begg’d the Goddess for Mercy, but none was forthcoming, for now the same Rogue rais’d his Scimitar again and stabb’d Sister Alice a dozen Times or more in her Great Belly, surely murd’ring her Child, and leaving her as bloody and limp as a Carcass in a Butcher Shop.
I could watch no more. My Guts heav’d violently and I would have vomited, but for the Fact that I had had nothing to eat for lo these many Hours. How I wisht to scream, “Take me instead!” and gallop into the Centre of the Circle at least to preserve Isobel and Joan from the Wrath of these Rogues. But I was frozen in place, my Mouth mute; my Body a Statue. Like one of the Walking Dead, I stood and watch’d each of my Friends in turn ravish’d, blooded, and hideously murder’d. I could not move to save them or myself. My Body grew cold as Ice; I only pray’d that I, too, would be found and murder’d so that I would not carry Memories of this Massacre for the Rest of my Days upon Earth; and yet, I cannot deny this, I also wisht to live. For this cowardly Desire to Live, for this ignoble Wish to survive when my Friends had dy’d, (and i’faith, dy’d so horribly), I fear’d I would carry a Cross of Guilt for all the Days of my Life which nothing could assuage—not Wine, not Boon Companions, not Wealth nor Fame.
I stood then frozen by a curious Admixture of Horror and Guilt, but presently, Lustre began to gallop, almost as if he had heard my Pray’r to survive, above all; and swift and true, he raced away from the Great Stones, o’er the Plain, towards Haradon Hill. As I clung like a Puppet to his Back, I pass’d another Parcel of Great Coxcombs, trotting towards the Upright Stones, as if they’d had Wind of a fine Fancy Dress Ball and could not bear to miss the Party.
“Come! join the Sport!” one of them holler’d, thinking me the Man I seem’d to be. But I clung to Lustre’s Back and gallop’d away, wond’ring what on Earth there was to live for, now that I knew what I knew of the Great World.