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Of Black Cats and Brooms, Witches, and Full Moons
A "Halloween Contest" Honorable Mention
by
D J Barber
She lay nude. Arms and legs pegged and outstretched as far as the joints would permit. It was dark. The cold, stone floor had awakened her, but now she became aware of a soft chanting around her. A shuffle of feet could be heard and she was aware of someone entering, what she perceived to be a cave, carrying a lantern—its candlelight danced around the cavern.She was now aware of the chanters, sitting around her, their eyes focused upon her, malignant and scowling.
A small bat hung from a crevice in the jagged ceiling of the cavern, looking down on the scene. A young woman tied by the wrists and ankles, was pulled into a large X upon the floor within a painted pentagram. Around her sat five witches, dressed in long gowns of varying color and caps with wide brims, who were within long triangular painted outlines—the small side of the triangular shape to each side of the pentagram, forming a large star. A circle was painted around the circumference of the star.
The bat was focused not on the young woman—or the witches. The brownish shade of the painted floor interested the bat most—for it was blood—the blood of the goat, whose carcass boiled in the large cast iron cauldron, at the mouth of the cavern.
Within the triangles which circled the pentagram, each witch was brought a lighted lantern in turn, by the long-limbed hop-goblin who moved monkey-like in the shadowy light.
The young woman could see clearer now. She could discern each of these witches in turn. The one by her head was dressed in black, her face like like a dried, ancient apple. By her right arm was one dressed in deep gray, eyes as black as night, and possessed long-fingered hands that seemed more like hawk's feet than human hands. At her right foot was one dressed in deep red, almost as dried blood. Her hair hung limp and wispy. A ragged steel gray.
At her left foot, the witch wore brown, not the pleasant chocolate brown, but a muddy, fetid color. She had a long, hooked nose, and drool seeped from her lip. By her left hand sat a witch who wore purple, a regal color, shiny and alarmingly bright. Her eyes were palest blue, like a tropic sea, her hair, thick and white as snow. Her face was round, her nose small. Her lips pursed in a sneer. This purple witch spoke.
“Oh, my darling,” she hissed, voice like the sound of an old steam radiator. “In all my centuries, I've not seen one as you.” Her voice rose high and squeaky. “We've waited for your like, dear child.” She chuckled, more like a cackle. “Yes, waited. And now that we have you, we are complete, yet for another time, and times, and half a time.”
The witch in the brown called out: “Twice in a sevenyear, heh-heh-heh!”
The purple witch lifted her gaze to her brown sister. “Don't be repulsive, witch of the Earth!”
The brown witch averted her eyes. “Beg your forgiveness, dear witch of the principalities. It was just that---I was so excited.”
“Perhaps,” spat the purple with. “Perhaps.”
As one, without any noticeable sign or signal, the five witches began again to softly chant. The language was unknown to the captive, but it was certainly threatening.
Above in the shadowy darkness, the bat dropped off its perch and fluttered out of the cavern's opening.
*
Outside, the hop-goblin sat by a small fire and absently chewed the last little bit of meat off the finger-bone of the old miller, who he'd murdered that very dawn. It was the miller's daughter who lay sprawled upon the cavern floor. This night was to be special, for it was Hallo'ween.The hop-goblin grinned at the thought as he threw the small bone on the fire, stood, and brushed himself off. “Let me see...” he said. “I delivered them lanterns to the old girls, the goat is bled, skinned, and in the boiling pot. The girl...well, she's all tied up!” The hop-goblin laughed at his own wit, despite himself. After a moment he again thought about his list. “I have the eye of an owl, ground up them horns off the goat into the powder. Lemme see--Ah, yes. The eggs of a newt—got them too. A toad's tongue—can never do a proper spell without the tongue of a toad, now can you?”
He sat back down at the fire and looked up into the darkening sky. The Full Moon waxed low, a narrow black cloud passed before it. He was about to reach for the last of the fingers when---”Hell and Fire!” he screamed, then quickly stifled himself, lest the witches here., then whispered. “I forgot the damnable cat!”
He ran into the nearby forest, in his monkey-like gait, swearing oaths to any demon who would here. “How's in Hell can we have the spell work at all if I don't get that damn cat!”
An owl hooted in the distance, and the hop-goblin spat a lunger on ground, pausing to catch his breath. “Wish it were that owl I lacked,” he swore. He got down on all fours and began to sniff about. “I'll find you, my little pretty. My little giblet—my,my,my. Damn you to ribbons, cat!”
The hop-goblin suddenly stood straight up. “The old mill! Where I got the girl, old sod! The miller, he had a cat! I saw the filthy thing with my own eyes, I did.”
He tore off into the wood, heading south toward the river—the old mill. It was dangerous returning there, the hop-goblin knew. But is was far more dangerous to remain here about those witches without the cat. Well. Not the whole cat—just its liver. And time was his enemy too. If this spell wasn't complete by the stroke of midnight, he may as well donate his own liver—not that any spell could be cast using a goblin liver, but those hags would probably be slow in the process of whatever death they chose for him. He shuttered at the thought and ran on.
*
One would have never known what mischief had taken place here in the early hours. A man now dead—his daughter in a state of torture and soon to die in a most dreadful way. But all was quiet in the old mill. It lay somewhat outside the boundaries of the village, a barn-like structure set by the river. The hop-goblin returned, cautiously sniffing about, ever wary for the men, who were probably well aware that all was not well here.But, no. There was no sign that anyone had been here since this morning's mayhem. The hop-goblin prowled around the outside of the building, searching for that old black cat—the one he had noticed as he carried the corpse to the old wheelbarrow he had used. Suddenly, there it was. Just by the wheel that ground the grains to flour by force of the river. It was large with green-gold eyes, black as night, and sat staring balefully at the hop-goblin, without fear.
“Come, little pretty,” called the hop-goblin. “Daddy's got a ripe surprise for you.”
The cat looked left, then right, and then quickly slid under the big wheel. “Damnation!” wailed the hop-goblin, and ran to the place he had last seen the cat.
*
The young woman looked at the purple-clad witch. “Why?” she asked. “Why are you doing this awful thing?”“Because,” the witch returned. “Because I can.” She looked towards her sisters and continued, “Besides, how do you think we manage to live so long. If not for spells and the lost lives of others? Well, let's just say it's convenient we came upon you, young girl.” The witch again glanced at her companions and smiled a wicked smile. And then they all laughed.
The young woman wanted to cry, but she was not going to let these witches have the satisfaction. Instead, she closed her eyes and thought about happier times, wondering if the memories would be all that was left of happiness in her life.
Meanwhile the cauldron had just began to bubble, which brought the purple witch to her feet. She walked over and saw the slow simmer deep in the pot. And then she sniffed...Her eyes bulged from her face. “You pox of a hop-goblin!” she wailed. “Where are you?” She ran to the mouth of the cavern and looked about. Spying the campfire, she went there, attempting to ken where he had gone. “By all's that black and cold, this accursed hop-goblin had better appear before my cauldron comes to a full boil. Or he'll join what be in the pot!”
*
He had the cat. It was now in a burlap sack he had found in the mill. The sack was thrown over his shoulder and as he walked, the cat periodically yowled and attempted to claw its way out of the sack.“Slim chance you got, you stickin' bugger,” spat the hop-goblin. “I ought to have skinned you first, but if that liver of yours don't get in that cauldron fresh and warm, I might as well have left you under the mill.”
He walked with some abandon, noting how high the moon was, and was terrified he taken too long. “As long as I'm not discovered, there's still a chance I might live to eat breakfast come morning.”
The cat went into another fit of yowling and scratching and the hop-goblin suddenly lost his grasp on the bag.
*
An aged and gnarled hand reached out in the darkness and grabbed the broom. Not the ordinary sort of broom that might be found in any washer woman's closet. No. This was a special and magical broom. The type a witch uses. The flying sort, whose owners sit upon as on a saddle on a winged steed and streak across a nighttime sky.The purple witch, cursing long oaths, straddled the broomstick and was airborne a moment later. She flew south, quick as a gale, hate fomenting in her wretched soul. She flew in a widening circular pattern, hoping to catch a whiff of the hop-goblins trail—his stink should prove easy to track. She spied him, not a hundred yards from the edge of the wood where his little fire sat in embers. He was struggling with something—she couldn't discern what. But he seemed to be having a difficult time. 'I'll show him difficult,' she thought.
She swooped low, the bristles of the broom smacking the hop-goblin in his head, sending him crashing into the rocky path on which he trod. He fell to his face, the black cat, hopped from the bag, and squirmed away and out of sight. The witch was suddenly before him, staring down at the beleaguered creature.
“You have disappointed, hop-goblin. You were given a simple task and you have failed me. How am I to cast a spell when I do not have all the ingredients I require?”
“Oh, your grace. Please. Don't despise a lowly dog such as me. I did my best—I truly did. Why, I just had that silly cat now, but he got clean away.”
She squinted her eyes and raised a crimson wand. “Now,” she spat. “Return from the wormwood where you first emerged. Be gone, foul thing. Be gone from my sight!”
A small flash and the hop-goblin vanished. Just a wisp of smoke raised from where he had just been prostate on the forest path. She turned about, and carrying the broom across a shoulder, walked back toward the cavern, seething in anger.
*
Cats. Curious natures that they possess. And the age-old saying—well, Midnight, for that is what the old miller had called the stray tomcat—Midnight--was just as curious as any of his species. He sat in the dirt under that blackberry patch by the edge of the wood, and watched as that foul creature that had murdered the miller was pulverized into dust by this odd, old woman. And as she strolled away, broom over shoulder, Midnight followed. Perhaps she might spare him a morsel, or maybe even a small dish of milk!Midnight followed, ever curious, ever hopeful of a snack. He trailed her only a short distance, and watched as she stopped by a dying fire at the mouth of a cave, but for only a moment, before stepping inside. The black cat stole over next to the dying embers and grabbed up a bit of meat on a crooked little bone.
Then he walked to the mouth of the cave and sat, listening for any sign of welcome.
*
The purple witch sat down with a thump inside her little piece of the blood-painted star, looking at her sisters with a defeated air. “Damn fool of a hop-goblin,” she sighed, glancing wistfully at their prisoner. “There'll be no proper Hallo'ween now.”The others were glum. The opportunity of holding their special mass rarely fell on the year's biggest holiday. And there was a Full Moon too!
“I suppose we might as well let her go,” spat the purple witch.
“Really?” asked the black clad witch, whose dried apple face wrinkled even more.
“Really?” echoed the others, forlorn at the thought.
“It's either let her loose or kill her. And the damn hop-goblin has ruined any satisfaction I'd get from spilling blood, so—” the purple witch rose and brought a small knife from beneath her gown and cut the cords which pegged the young woman down.
The woman rose to sitting, rubbing her wrists and ankles. “So. I can just go?” she murmured.
“Might just as well!” snapped the purple witch. “Don't tarry nearby, though, dearie. I might change my mind, after all.” she laughed and the others joined in.
Struggling to her feet, the former prisoner walked, somewhat unsteadily, toward the cavern opening, shivering from the cold night air, as well as in terror. She side-stepped a black cat that looked suspiciously like the one her father indulged with a morsel or two from time-to-time and disappeared into the nearby wood.
The purple witch sat back again and looked upward at the ceiling. A little bat had just re-settled itself and hung precariously above their heads, chattering in what sounded like a giggle.
“It's midnight, dears,” sighed the purple witch. “maybe come the Winter Solstice we might have another opportunity, eh?” And just then, Midnight brushed against her purple gown and yowled loudly.
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© Barber, 2006