4. THE WITCHFINDER

Jed Cobweb seeks out the local Witchfinder in order to report Janie's mother as a witch

It was the darkest of nights even though it was still quite early, and the baby was asleep. There was no moon outside and the only light was the guttering of the occasional smoky oil-lamp in the homes of those who couldn’t sleep in the pitch black of such a night as this.

And Jed Cobweb made his way out of the front door of his unlikely home, a stone-built castle tucked ostentatiously in a motley row of crude wattle and daub cottages.

“I’ll be seeing him then, Griselda,” he boomed.

His wife, a shrinking and weather-worn violet by now, crouched beseechingly next to him, imploring him to stay.

“I’m not a witch!” she gasped, “I never was, the Lord help me...”

“There you go, mentioning that sod again!” was his heartless retort, “it’s proof that our Janie’s right. It’s proof that you’re the most evil of witches. So, and I don’t need your permission here, you know, so I’m off to consult with the Witchfinder to see what might be done about the situation.”

“But Jed,” she implored, “I’m only a feeble woman and know no magic or spells!”

“Remember my number one hit of a month or two ago,” he snarled, pulling himself into the Stygian darkness of that night from Hell, “remember the skill with which I crafted my words…

“There’s a night you remember,

A night made of dust,

A night where the porpoise

Turns his lover to rust

And that night is becoming

The veriest of sin

As the evil starts beating

Deeply within...”

“I don’t even know what a porpoise is!” she moaned, “help me, Jed, as I let you into my life, help me...”

“I’ll see the Witchfinder,” he grated, “and a porpoise has purpose, don’t forget that, and his purpose is to destroy witches. To turn them to rust, as I say, through the gift of fire as the red liquid blood bubbles in witchy veins and turns to steam...”

“You’re not on my side, Jed!” she wailed.

“But I am,” he whispered softly, “I wouldn’t be anywhere else...”

Then he melted into the black of the worst of all nights. A mist of drizzle descended onto him, and he cursed because of all things on this wretched planet the one thing he couldn’t tolerate was water. It sizzled against his skin, it turned in an instant to steam, it evaporated into an invisible cloud that rose into the invisible skies on this invisible night.

“Brought down on to me by the witch!” he raged, and he stomped, steaming, onwards. The Witchfinder’ home wasn’t so far away and he’d sort the b***h out, that he would, and everyone would have their portion of fun on the burning field before another dawn drove the mist away…

Back in the doorway of his home Griselda Cobweb was weeping, her tears washing down her face like salty rivers and her heart breaking like real hearts do when their world becomes dashed by cruelty and fear.

“What’s wrong, mummy?” came a diminutive voice.

The tiny figure of year-old Janie Cobweb was standing on the stairs and staring almost vacantly at her mother.

“He’s going to hand me to the Witchfinder, and they’ll take me and torture me until I confess to being the worst of all sinners, then I’ll be condemned … I have no friends left, Janie, not since you were born, and those who were my friends will gladly gather in a great crowd and cheer me on as I’m dragged to my doom … I can sense it even now, but I’m not a witch! I never was a witch! I know no magic, I know no spells, so who reported me?”

“I did, mummy,” replied Janie Cobweb quietly, “I told Jed. And I told him because there’s only room for one witch on this unhappy little world, and that isn’t you!”

“You mean, Janie…?” gasped Griselda.

“Yes, mummy, you know what I mean...” hissed the baby, and in those words she heard the Necromancer’s voice. She heard her horned and fork-tailed lover’s voice from the night of lust that he had offered her, and she had so happily consented to receive.

Meanwhile, Jed Cobweb, still steaming most unnaturally, found his way to the Witchfinder’s home. It was better and much larger than most, built of more substantial stuff than mere wattle and daub, and set apart from the rest of the village because he spent his life spying on the tiny population, seeking evidence of this or that piece of witchcraft so that there could be a celebration in the burning field, and he shared it, according to rumour, with a dozen dwarves.

“I’ll get rid of the b***h,” he muttered as he walked along. Suddenly his heart was filled with hatred for the mother he’d left weeping in her doorway. There was still a misty drizzle falling and turning, as it bit into his skin, into fire and steam and billowing from him in a scalding cloud. He, given a choice, would have preferred to be anywhere on this pesky Earth than where he was. He hated the cold, he hated the wet, particularly the wet, and he hated the woman he was living with, though living with was a bit of a misnomer because he spent by far the greater part of his time away from home, being a twelfth century pop star.

That brought him praise and adulation, and, of course, wealth, for the crowds that gathered round to hear him express his latest number one hit paid for the privilege to pour love, and the young men praised him with tears in their eyes whilst their womenfolk through dubious items of underwear at him. And when he’d finished his recital the cheering went on for an inordinate amount of time. He was loved, all right, and he soaked it up.

The building, when he arrived at the Witchfinder’s home and place of work, was a wooden built edifice, solid and reliable. The door was heavy, made from solid oak, and it had upon it a sign that proclaimed that this was the residence of the Witchfinder, and let all fear for their lives if they enter without good cause.

That was his little joke because he knew that everyone feared him anyway. After all, whenever the village was showing signs of becoming boring and the people needed something to lift their spirits, he turned his attention to naming a Witch and producing evidence that, in more enlightened times, would be considered most spurious.

But Jed knew the measure of the man. Jed knew that the Witchfinder was no more than a sad middle-aged individual with a disproportionate concept of his own importance, so with that superior thought dominating his mind he rattled on the huge oak door.

It boomed hollowly deep within.

Impressive, thought Jed.

Then, with a squeak and a creak it slowly opened. A grotesque figure (to Jed’s mind) stood there when it was fully open, naked as the day he’d been born and with pustules over a great deal of his torso. The Witchfinder, quite clearly, was a very sick man.

“Well?” he asked, trying not to sound too weak.

“I have come to report a witch, mistress Griselda with whom I am obliged to live,” replied Jed, summoning his inner strength that had been somehow turned into steam on his walk to where he was. “And I demand that she be taken from her place, taken this very night, and tied to a stake on the burning field, and sent to her Master and Creator in the dark kingdom of Hades via the gift of flames!”

“You do, do you?” barked the Witchfinder, “Well, I’ve got news for you, squire, very important news. I’m not a well man as you might tell from my skin condition and its rather unpleasant pimples, but I do need a good burning to cheer me up. Come in, sir, come in...”

What had looked like a clean and sturdy residence from the outside turned out to be anything but on the inside. The Witchfinder, it seemed, was no dab hand when it came to housework.

He bade Jed sit on a stool near the smouldering remnants of his fire and fixed him with his witchfindery eyes.

“There are male as well as female witches,” he said, his voice croaking, “and it would seem to me that in order for a man to know a witch by sight, to recognise witchy features and be able to report that knowledge he must, perchance, be a witch himself, and anyway I’ve always had a soft spot for mistress Cobweb and when I’m recovered might well fancy a tumble in her bed with her. So let me see. You recognise her as a witch, do you? That means, according to my calculations, that if there is a witch anywhere it is you, sir! Yes, you, sir, with jets of steam rising into the air from your fiery heart!

“So I conclude that you, being a witch, must be taken forthwith to the burning field and bound to the stake that is prepared there, and that fire be raised from dried tinder and that you burn until your spirit goes to its maker in Hell, and may God bless your soul!”

“Don’t use that name!” shrieked Jed Cobweb, and a dozen little men, not one of them above four feet tall but clearly fully grown, appeared from an inner room carrying ropes and whips, and bound him in a remarkably short instant.

One of them leered at Jed.

“God,” he hissed into the condemned man’s ear in a hideously cruel way, and in response a superheated jet of steam hit him square in his face, and scalded him so badly that he fell down in a sudden faint, thus convincing one and all that they really did have a witch and that a good burning would be a jolly fine affair.

This promised to be a wonderful night after all.

© Peter Rogerson 11.11.17