Points of View
by Mark Dalligan © 2008
Powdering pale cheeks ruddy, man-like Mandrake and her sisters Henbane and Nightshade ready. In the cauldron, herb infused child-fat has cooled to a malleable grease. They smear it over naked bodies, shivering despite the warmth.
“Tonight!” they chant. “Tonight!”
At the Mistley Inn, some leagues distant, all round confidence trickster and long retired Witchfinder, Matthew Hopkins is in his cups. From the shadows he covets the landlady and her daughter with a passion his body no longer feels. He thinks of the good times, riding the length of East Anglia with John Stearne, invited by towns to rid them of witches.
A fortune he had made, playing on their superstition yes, but more so, greed, self interest and petty local vendettas.
Hopkins signals, and admires the girl's breasts as she refills his tankard from a jug. The long needle burns in his pocket like a live thing, longing to find the numb spot created by the unclean touch of Satan, real or not, on this nubile creature.
Between broom twigs they weave Mugwort and Pennyroyal for protection, Thyme for courage and Meadowsweet to turn the Devil's eyes.
“Justice!” they chant. “Justice!”
Hopkins remembers his wealth, cold gold, secure in a chest below the floorboards. He'd planned to buy a grand estate but old age and a wasting disease are stealing the future. The appointment under they old oak tonight will change everything.
Mandrake screams and the broomsticks rise, taking the witches far above the Suffolk countryside. They circle in the air, sniffing for direction, then speed over the dark waters of the Deben, towards Essex.
The Witchfinder struggles into his coat and tosses a coin to the girl. Catching it, she shudders. Like the rest of the village, she knows the man's reputation.
Hopkins glances into the sky. A rising wind has torn asunder the clouds and a waxing moon floats like a picked clean skull. He lights a torch at a brazier and sets off for the woods, unsteady on his feet.
“Murderer!” they chant. “Murderer!”
“Sister killer!” Mandrake shrieks.
“Black heart!” Henbane yells.
“Vengeance!” Nightshade growls.
Hopkins, sitting between the oak's roots, falls into a drunken slumber. A startled squirrel cleaves a branch of mistletoe and it falls to girdle the old man's neck in holy white beads. He does not wake.
“The End!” they chant. “The End!”
The women spiral down, the speed pulling their hair behind them, as if reluctant to follow. They land in front of Hopkins and the grass smokes beneath their feet.
“Now!” they chant. “Now!”
Each holds a steel pin, glowing white with heat and they advance on their enemy.
Hopkins opens his eyes for the last time and sees the naked bodies. They have arrived, he thinks, soon now the bargain with the Devil will be struck and he will regain his youth.
Tomorrow he will visit the barmaid. Then he sees the truth.
The needles dart forward and there is agony. They dart and dart and dart and never stop.