Witch from the Sea

My father was for going to join in the macabre proceeding but my mother stopped him.

“I will not go,” she said quietly, “nor will you, Jake. What will our guests think?”

“They’ll think that another of Satan’s brew has met her just deserts.”

“They are gentlefolk, remember. Such a spectacle will disgust them.”

“Justice should disgust no one.”

My mother looked impatient and she turned away from him. She went over to the Landors and told them that we should return to the house without delay or she feared that the meat which was turning before the spit would be burned to a cinder.

My father, amused, as he often was by my mother’s defiance, refused to be done out of what he would consider a treat, and rode off in the opposite direction.

He was going to give his approval to the ceremony of hanging the witch.

The subject of witches came up over the meal and Father was vehement.

“The woman was guilty and had her just reward,” he said. “Those marks on her face proved it. Her succubus visits her nightly. The marks were found all over her body.”

“Oh come,” said my mother, “they were warts. Many have them.”

“Then tell me why she can cure them in others and not in herself.”

“I am not skilled in these matters,” retorted my mother.

“So it doth seem,” replied my father. “Well, Mother Enfield has now joined her master. There she will rot in hell.”

“Why should she?” asked my mother. “If she has served her master well perhaps he will reward her.”

“If I had my way this country would be purged of witches. I’d ferret them out. I’d have the gibbets busy.”

Fennimore suggested that often innocent women were accused of witchcraft simply because they were old, lived alone, had a cat, a squint or a few warts.

“If they be innocent they must prove it,” said my father vehemently.

“People are too ready to accuse others,” commented my mother. “Perhaps they should look to their own shortcomings before being so ready to condemn them in others.”

“By God, woman,” said my father, “we are talking of witchcraft!”

He was a very intolerant man. He had a code and there was no diverging from it. He had been guilty of rape, I knew. There was Carlos to prove it—the result of a raid on the Spanish coast. What Colum Casvellyn had done to me was exactly the sort of trick he would have played on a woman; and yet he would be outraged because this had happened to his daughter. As my mother had said so often, there was no reasoning with him.

Now he talked fiercely about what he called the cult of Satan. My mother said that witchcraft had stayed with us; it belonged to the days before Christianity came to our land. It was a part of the religion of the ancients. It was anti-Christianity; it was worship of the Horned God whom Christians called the Devil.

She, who had studied the subject, was knowledgeable about it. She said that the Sabbats were in fact a kind of religious ceremony in which the Horned God was worshipped; and because there was a need to people the earth, the dances performed at the feet of the horned God were in fact fertility rites.

My father watched her sardonically as she talked—a mixture of pride and derision in his glance. Fennimore said that this was so and the way in which to wipe out witchcraft was not to torture and kill defenceless old women but to lure them from their beliefs in this old pagan religion and make Christians of them.

“Oh, you are a reformer,” said my father with a laugh.

“Well, perhaps that is not such a bad thing to be,” replied Fennimore.

“It is a very good thing to be,” said my mother, smiling at him warmly. There was no doubt that she was very fond of Fennimore.

She managed to turn the subject back to the ever-interesting one of trade and the new project for it was clear that my father might become too dogmatic and introduce a discordant note.

And so the unfortunate incident of the witch’s hanging was forgotten and the rest of the day passed pleasantly.

In the morning the Landors left. Plans had been made; ships were being converted, the new enterprise was about to begin.

I was now certain, and as the fearful truth dawned on me that as a result of that extraordinary night I was going to have a child I felt as though the bars of a cage were forming round me.

I knew of course that I must tell my mother. My father had left on a short voyage and I chose the time while he was away. I asked her to come to my bedchamber as I had something very important to say to her.

I faced her there and blurted out: “Mother, I am with child.”

She stared at me in disbelief and I saw the colour leave her face.

“Linnet. No!”

“I fear it is true.”

“Fennimore …” she began. “I am surprised …”

“No, not Fennimore, Mother.”

I was trying hard to find the right words and they would not come.

“Not … Fennimore!” She was frankly bewildered.

Then the words started to tumble out. “It was that night. He … he took me to Castle Paling. It was there …”

“That man!” she cried.

I nodded. “You … he … You love him?” she demanded.