Black Ceremonies Read online

  “Explain what?”

  Maitland took off his jacket. He had lately taken to wearing black polo neck shirts; and he pulled off the one he now wore – to reveal a body covered with an innumerable number of horrific scars.

  Hilton gasped, a shocked expression upon his face. “Good God! Andrew, I don’t know what to say. How on earth is it possible?”

  “That I cannot explain. They are not self-inflicted. The bite marks do not match my dental records, and indeed how on earth would I have been able to bite myself so, even under the influence of such a potent drug?”

  Hilton was leaning forward, so as to examine the scars in more detail. “It’s not possible. You were definitely alone when you took it?”

  Maitland nodded. “Yes. Absolutely. No young hippie girl!”

  “Incredible, incredible,” Hilton muttered, shaking his head.

  Maitland pulled his polo neck back on and returned to his seat. “There’s one more thing I feel I should share with you.”

  “More?”

  “Yes, my friend, there’s one fact I omitted to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Forgive me, I did not tell you that the user of the Liao, can not only project himself back into the past but also forward into the future. You see, the unfortunate Private Prendergast was a soldier in World War Four!”

  TOURIST TRAP

  The village sign proclaimed Hexhill as the winner of a Best-Kept Village competition. The American tourist had to agree that it was certainly a well-deserved honour.

  At its heart was the village green, complete with pond. Black and white timber-framed houses, and whitewashed cottages, with well-tended gardens, bordered the road that encircled the green.

  It was just how he had imagined it.

  “The quintessential English village,” he said to himself, taking another photograph – this time of the ducks on the village pond. “Pretty as a picture.”

  The clock on the church tower struck the hour – eleven o’clock, and the tourist decided that St Michael’s was where he would begin his tour of the village.

  And after St Michael’s, he grinned – the Mockingbird, where he would have a pub lunch. Perhaps a roast steak, and a couple of pints of cool beer, which would be most welcome on such a warm August day.

  “Good morning!” A cheerful voice hailed him. The tourist closed the lych-gate, and looked round. The greeting was unexpected, because he had not seen anyone in the churchyard.

  “Oh, I’m sorry I startled you.” A young man rose from where he was kneeling. He had been obscured by a gravestone. He introduced himself, “I’m Reverend Dobson.”

  The vicar’s youthfulness surprised the American – he guessed Dobson to be in his early-thirties – and he had anticipated that the village would have an older man as its incumbent priest.

  The tourist raised his hand in greeting, “Good morning, Reverend. I didn’t see you there.”

  “I was just removing these,” the vicar explained, holding up a bunch of wilting flowers. “These chrysanthemums are well past their best, I’m afraid. I hope I didn’t frighten you Mister … er …”

  “No, not at all.” Although in truth, the sudden greeting had made him jump. “Forgive me. I ought to introduce myself, the name’s Joe Buchowski, from the US of A.” The American laughed. “Although I guess you probably figured that out, hey?”

  The vicar’s smile became a sheepish grin. “Well, yes, I must admit I did have my suspicions.”

  “Don’t tell me; it was the shirt, wasn’t it?” The tourist wore a particularly garish Hawaiian shirt – predominantly orange and lime green in colour – and blue shorts. He was a large man, in his mid-fifties, whose muscles were running to fat.

  In fact, Buchowski was the living embodiment of the vicar’s stereotyped image of an American tourist.

  But before the vicar could answer, Buchowski went on, “Only an American would have the style and panache to wear a shirt like this.”

  Unsure whether the American was joking or being serious, the vicar played it safe, and smiled again. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Buchowski.”

  “Likewise, Reverend,” Buchowski responded, shaking the vicar’s hand.

  “You’re here on holiday?”

  “Sure am. Say, this is a mighty-fine little village you’ve got here, Reverend.”

  The vicar nodded. “Most certainly, we’re all very fond of it. And you’re sure to get a warm welcome from the villagers, Mr Buchowski.”

  “Well, it certainly is different from New York. Hey, you mind if I take a look around your church?”

  “No, of course not. Please feel free. And if you have any questions afterwards, I’d be pleased to answer them. You’ll find me in the vestry.”

  After studying the gravestones and monuments in the churchyard, Buchowski entered the church. He knelt and said a prayer for his late wife, Mary; then had a look round.

  When his inspection of the stained glass windows, memorial plaques, and effigies of long-dead important locals, was complete, he sought out the vicar.

  “Say, Reverend, there ought to be some relatives of mine buried in the graveyard, but I can’t seem to find me any. It occurred to me, that perhaps they’re buried in the crypt?”

  “Relatives?” the vicar queried.

  “Yeah, on my mother’s side of the family. Left England way back when.”

  “Ah, that explains it. I should have guessed. As pretty as our village is, it’s a bit off the beaten track to be a tourist attraction. Now what was the name?”

  “Oh, sorry, didn’t I say? Trenair.”

  The vicar took off his glasses, and polished them absentmindedly. “Trenair?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Say, anything the matter, Reverend? You seem to have gone a little pale.”

  “No, no. I’m quite all right.”

  “Good. So how come there are no members of the Trenair family buried in the Hexhill graveyard? I have got the right Hexhill haven’t I?”

  “Oh, yes, you’ve got the right place. The Trenair’s lived in Hexhill, all right.”

  “So what’s the story, Reverend?”

  “Look, if you could excuse me a moment there’s something I must attend to. But I would be able to join you shortly, and then I could explain why there are no members of the Trenair family buried in our graveyard.”

  “Well, okay. How about we meet in the local hostelry, I sure could do with a beer.”

  “Yes, that sounds splendid; Fred Benton serves an excellent pint. I’ll see you there. In about a quarter of an hour?”

  “Sure thing, Reverend. In fact, I think I’ll head there right now.”

  Reverend Dobson watched Buchowski cross the village square in the direction of the pub, then he hurried off to attend to his urgent business.

  Reverend Dobson arrived at the pub accompanied by a pair of burly farmers. Buchowski was sitting at a table, in conversation with some particularly garrulous locals, and enjoying a cigarette and his second pint.

  He was having a thoroughly pleasant time: the locals were friendly, the beer was surprisingly good, and he’d liked what he’d seen of the village and the surrounding countryside. It was wonderfully peaceful; and there would be little, if any crime here. I could get used to this, he thought. Hexhill would be a great place to live.

  Buchowski had been on the verge of asking his companions about the Trenairs when he spotted the vicar. He stood up and waved. “Hey, Reverend Dobson! Over here. Come and join us.”

  The vicar paused a moment, saying something to the pair of farmers.

  “Let me get you a drink. What’ll you have, Reverend?” Buchowski called to the barmaid, “Hey, miss. Another pint for me, and whatever the Reverend is having.”

  Reverend Dobson shook his head. “No, that’s all right, Mr Buchowski, I’ll get these.”

  “Well, if you’re sure, then that sure is friendly of you.” The tourist sat down again and stubbed out his cigarette.

  Reverend Dobson crossed to the b
ar and spoke to the landlord. Then whilst Benton prepared their drinks, he announced to the locals, “Our American visitor, Mr Buchowski is a descendent of our village.” He allowed the murmurs to quieten before continuing. “He is a descendent of the Trenair family.”

  Buchowski had risen, perhaps expecting a round of applause. He certainly didn’t expect the silence and stony looks that he received. Puzzled and embarrassed, he sat down again. The men whom he had been talking with, got up and moved away.

  “Hey, Reverend, why the unfriendly reaction? Is there something I should know?” Buchowski asked, as Reverend Dobson joined him.

  “Here.” The vicar handed him a fresh pint. “Drink some of this.”

  Buchowski drank, then looked at the vicar for an explanation.

  “The Trenairs were notorious in these parts.”

  Buchowski frowned. “Notorious? In what way?”

  “They were witches.”

  “Witches? No kidding!” Buchowski laughed. “You’re having me on, right?”

  Reverend Dobson’s expression was severe.

  “You’re not serious?”

  “Oh, but I am. Deadly serious.”

  The American was eager to learn more about his notorious ancestors. “Well, what did they do?”

  “Perhaps better to ask: what didn’t they do? They were known to consort with the devil. And their evil spells and curses were the bane of many. The villagers, and all for miles around lived in fear of the Trenairs.”

  Dobson paused to drink, smiled and then continued. “That was until the witch-finder came. This holy man of God imbued the villagers with the courage to at last stand up to the evil Trenairs.”

  The smile had gone now. “They were witches every last one of them. And they met the fate they so justly deserved. That is all apart from Molly Trenair who escaped and fled to the New World.”

  The American laughed. “On her broomstick, I suppose.”

  The vicar ignored Buchowski’s attempt at levity. “All of the Trenairs: man, woman, and child were witches. And that is why you found no Trenairs laid to rest in our graveyard. Such evildoers cannot be buried in consecrated ground.” The vicar allowed himself another brief smile. “Not that there was much left of them to be buried.”

  “Well, that’s quite a story, Reverend. I had no idea I was descended from such an infamous family. I sure can’t wait to tell everyone back home.” Sensing from the silence and unfriendly stares of those in the pub that perhaps he had outstayed his welcome, Buchowski got up to leave. “In fact, it’s about time I was on my way. It’s quite a trip back to my hotel.” He offered his hand to Reverend Dobson. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Reverend.”

  Reverend Dobson remained in his seat, ignoring Buchowski’s proffered hand.

  “Well, goodbye then.” Buchowski shrugged, and headed towards the door. And to think he had thought these people friendly, he hadn’t even had that roast steak he’d been so looking forward to.

  Behind him the vicar spoke. “Mr Buchowski! You are a direct descendent of Molly Trenair. And although you bear the name Buchowski, the witch’s blood still flows in your veins!”

  “He even has the features of a Trenair: the blue eyes, dark hair and large nose,” put in one of the old men who had been regaling the American with local gossip earlier.

  “Well, excuse me, mister, but it just so happens that those features are prominent on my father’s side of the family as well. And it didn’t seem to bother you a moment ago.”

  A group of villagers moved to block his exit.

  “Hey, I can assure all you folks, I’ve never even pulled a rabbit out of a hat; never mind turned anyone into a frog.”

  “It can be no coincidence that you have come here on the first day of August,” said Fred Benton, the landlord.

  Buchowski was unsure of the significance. “What on earth’s that got to do with anything?”

  Benton wasn’t convinced. “Ha! He pretends ignorance.”

  “Lammas, a day when the Trenairs held their foul sabbat,” Reverend Dobson enlightened Buchowski.

  “George. Ted. Seize him!”

  Despite Dobson’s sudden order, Buchowski was surprised when the two farmers grabbed him. “Hey, what are you doing? Let me go!” Buchowski was a big man, but he felt sluggish and weak.

  He was unable to struggle free. “You put something in my beer!”

  “Bring him,” commanded the vicar.

  The farmers hauled the American out of the pub. The rest of the regulars following.

  “Come on, you don’t seriously believe in this witchcraft crap, surely? This is the twenty-first century.”

  “Witchcraft is an evil that must be stamped out, Mr Buchowski, wherever and whenever it is discovered,” the vicar answered.

  Outside more villagers had gathered. In desperation, Buchowski looked from face to face in the hope that there was someone to whom he could appeal to for aid. But instead, all he saw were expressions of open hostility.

  “You guys are crazy!”

  Reverend Dobson continued, “However, we are not barbarians, Mr Buchowski. We shall not condemn you out of hand. We shall give you the chance to prove you are free of the taint of the witch blood. There is a tried and trusted method for proving whether one is a witch. If you are as innocent as you proclaim, you will willingly undergo our test.”

  Still struggling, Buchowski was brought to the edge of the pond. “Where do you guys think you are? This isn’t Salem.”

  “Bring the rope. Tie left foot to right hand; and right foot to left hand.”

  “Look! I’ve heard of living history, but this is taking things too far. There’s no way I’m agreeing to that,” the American protested. “You think I’m crazy? Hell, even I know that that’s a no win situation. If I float I’m a witch, and if I don’t I drown anyhow.”

  “On your knees, witch,” snarled one of the farmers who held him captive – a ginger-bearded, shaggy-haired fellow.

  Buchowski drew on all his reserves of strength. He stamped on the foot of the ginger-bearded farmer, and an elbow in the stomach, winded the other.

  And before anyone else could react, Buchowski threw himself into the pond.

  Villagers were running around the side of the pond with the intention of surrounding it and him. But the tourist reached the other side before the locals could trap him. He emerged from the pond, wet and slimy. He had lost a sandal, and his camera would be ruined.

  Breathing heavily, Buchowski ran as fast as he could, pursued by a baying mob.

  He hadn’t run as fast since Vietnam. Ahead he could see his hire car – a silver Ford Mondeo. Heart pounding, gasping for breath, Buchowski risked a glance over his shoulder. The villagers were still pursuing him, but he would reach his car before they got to him. He laughed in relief. He was going to make it.

  For an agonising moment he thought he had lost the key, but then he found it, and had started the engine. Buchowski started to accelerate just as the fastest of the pursuing villagers threw himself onto the bonnet of the car. The local managed to hang on for mere seconds before losing his precarious grip. Buchowski sped out of the village, whooping in exhilaration, adrenaline pumping.

  The American was driving far too recklessly for such a narrow country road. He was fortunate that he met no other traffic coming in the opposite direction.

  His luck ran out whilst he was glancing in the rear-view mirror looking for pursuers. He saw the stray sheep that was in the middle of the road at the last moment. Instinctively he swerved to avoid it. Losing control of the car, the Mondeo went off the road and head-on into a tree. The front of the car crumpled, and Buchowski thanked God for the invention of airbags.

  He clambered out of the car. Shaken by the crash and unsteady on his feet. The sheep seemed unperturbed, and was busy grazing the grass verge.

  Buchowski swore at the animal. “Damn stupid creature, you’re lucky not to be lamb chops!” It must have escaped from the field to the left that contained a flock of Su
ffolks.

  The American wasn’t far enough away from the village to be safe; he could see some of the villagers running along the road. And as he watched, a Land Rover sped past them. If he stayed on the road, there was no way he could escape. But if he sought refuge in the wood that grew alongside, well, he just might be able to evade his pursuers.

  Yet even as entered the trees he could hear the barking of dogs.

  Nettles stung his legs, and thorny briars scratched the American as he pressed deeper into the trees. Buckthorn, hawthorn, rowan and ash made up the bulk of the wood.

  Buchowski staggered, wheezing from his exertions. He’d let himself go, and was out of shape. He hated to admit it, but he was fat not fit. He was an old man in an English wood, not the young soldier he had been in the jungles of Vietnam. An old man who ate, drank and smoked too much, and exercised too little.

  The adrenaline rush had worn off. He was getting chest pains, and he’d drunk too much beer too quickly; and he suspected that last pint had been drugged.

  Despite his discomfort he kept going. He had to get away. He struggled on, only to trip over a fallen branch. Buchowski landed awkwardly with a cry of pain. He had twisted his ankle.

  He tried but hadn’t the energy to get up again. “You damn fat old fool,” Buchowski swore at himself. And at the villagers, “Bunch of crazy bastards!” What the hell was going on here? Were these people serious? Had he stumbled upon the British equivalent of some inbred, hillbilly rednecks? Or was it one big joke at his expense?

  He was afraid, but he wasn’t sure which worried him more: the fact that all this might be for real, or that he might be being played for a fool.

  He could hear them getting closer, villagers shouting, dogs barking wildly. It wouldn’t be long before they found him.

  A young woman reached him first, Buchowski realised he recognised her pretty face. She was the barmaid from the pub. She knelt down by the American, and said, “We’re not all superstitious yokels, Mr Buchowski. We don’t all believe in witchcraft.”

  Then she was up and away.