Goblin Moon (27 page)

The two farmers squirmed in their seats. They had
arrived after the incident with the ale and had not noticed the
stranger reading so quietly by the fire.

“Don’t you pay no mind to what you just heard, for
there ain’t nothing in it,” said the lean, leathery man. He
gestured toward his stocky companion: “My friend here, he’s a
cautious man, always aworrying what will happen when things ain’t
done proper—particular when the doing things right means dipping a
hand into his neighbor’s purse.” And he glared fiercely at the
other farmer.

“That’s right . . . he has the right of it,” the big
man agreed, perhaps a little too heartily. “Speculation, that’s all
it was. We’ve a fine churchyard here, a grand old graveyard with
lovely old stones. Scholarly gentlemen from the town come down to
look at ‘em all the time. You might want to take a look yourself,
Parson.”

Dr. Crow realized he had hit on a topic the locals
did not care to discuss with outsiders. It was also plain that the
subject of the antique stones in the churchyard had been introduced
by way of a distraction.

“Thank you,” he said, “I have already seen the
graveyard. The older stones are indeed a fine example of the
funerary arts as they were practiced in the thirteenth and
fourteenth centuries. You are fortunate in being located on rising
ground and so far from the river, else your graveyard had not
survived so long. When I had my health, I traveled extensively and
always made a particular point of stopping to look at cemeteries
along the way. I find yours of great interest.”

He took a sip of ale and cleared his throat.
“However, I also take a deep interest in the history of these
places, and especially in local traditions and superstitions
relating to graveyards. I have heard some disturbing tales in my
time, as you may well imagine, and I find there is often a direct
relationship between a wave of . . . well, we can scarcely call
them grave-robberies, for those who are buried in unhallowed graves
do not possess anything to attract the ordinary scoundrel . . . let
us say, then, a relationship between a wave of
clandestine exhumations
and an increase in black
witchcraft in the country around. It seems that practitioners of
the dark arts make use of the bodies in some of their more
appalling rituals. The Hand of Glory, for instance—I do crave your
pardon,” he said, looking around him at the sullen faces of his
listeners, “I did not mean to bore you or to make you uneasy by
this somewhat grisly hobby-horse of mine. I can see very plainly
that nothing of the sort is happening here.”

And so saying, Dr. Crow returned to his book. For all
that he sat so near the fire, he was aware of a pronounced chill in
the common room. Yet he had learned much more than any of them
realized: in his experience most villagers were all too willing to
regale inquisitive outsiders with hair-raising tales of local
horrors, so long as the ghosts and ghouls were purely imaginary. It
was only when the horrors were genuine that everyone in the
vicinity began to clam up.

Certainly, no one approached him or spoke to him
after that, except for Tilda, when she came to remove the empty
pewter tankard. “I had a fancy, sir, when I first saw you, that I
met you somewheres afore.”

The clergyman turned a page before looking up. Tilda
was a remarkably pretty girl, no more than seventeen or eighteen,
with long, silky, corn-colored hair, which she wore in a single
plait.

“Had you indeed? That hardly seems possible. I have
never been here before.”

“No, sir,” said Tilda respectfully. “It was only a
resemblance, like as not. You have a look of a gentleman—a
gentleman who lent me a hand up out of the gutter and reformed my
way of life, in a manner of speaking.”

Dr. Crow smiled faintly. “Ah . . . a clergyman, like
myself, I apprehend.”

“Well, sir,” said the girl, with an answering smile.
“He appeared to be some kind of a religious, anyways.”

The next morning, Tilda volunteered to carry Dr.
Crow’s breakfast upstairs. “No reason Charlotte should do it, all
them stairs. Let me look after the Reverend, after this.”

Balancing the tray, she climbed two flights to the
attic, knocked on the Reverend Doctor’s door, and announced
herself. A voice on the other side invited her to enter. The
chamber under the eaves ran the whole length of the attic. It was a
bright, airy room, with two large dormer windows, floors of
bleached oak, and an enormous old-fashioned bed with velvet
curtains that dwarfed the other, plainer furnishings.

Dr. Crow had not yet donned his coat, but he was
otherwise dressed as he had been the day before, in a dark
waistcoat and breeches, and immaculate white linen. He sat in a
ladderback chair by an open window, with his feet propped up on a
stool and his black-stockinged ankles crossed, buffing his nails
with a handkerchief.

“I trust you slept well, sir.”

“I seldom have difficulty sleeping, my dear.” He
reached into his waistcoat pocket and extracted a tiny box (it
might have been a snuffbox, but Tilda knew that it was not) with an
inlay of pearl and ivory. “There is no need for you to pretend that
you do not recognize me, or that you do not remember what this box
contains,” he chided her gently. “We both of us know that you
do.”

Tilda carried the tray over to a table by the other
window. “I’m sorry about that down below. I should of held my
tongue. I hope you don’t think, sir, that I would ever betray
you?”

“How could I, indeed?” he said. “But of course you
could not know: the constables of Thornburg are still combing the
streets for a gigantic one-eyed Spagnard.”

Dr. Crow had both his eyes, and very fine eyes they
were, too (as Tilda was not slow to notice), being a sober grey,
fringed with extravagant dark lashes. He was not above average
height, and his build was slender.

He waved a hand in the direction of the bed. “Sit
down and chat with me awhile, my dear. In truth, I am glad to find
a friend here, where I expected none. It seems that the Fates smile
on me; or is this more than mere coincidence? I was sent here by
certain . . . associates of mine . . . to investigate a report of
witchcraft in the district. But who was it that alerted
them—
do you know?”

Tilda sat down on the edge of the bed and folded her
hands in her lap. “Well, sir, you’ve guessed it. It happened this
way: I did as you told me, sir, and left Thornburg real quick. I
was on my way to Pfalz, but I stopped in here. They was looking for
a barmaid and this seemed a quiet little village, sir, a safe sort
of place. And I wasn’t eager to take up my old way of life,
after—well, after the risks involved was brought home to me as they
were. So when Mr. Chawettys offered me the job, I was glad to take
it. And I like it here, sir, and I had met a young man, afore I
heard what strangers to these parts don’t generally hear, and I
discovered the village wasn’t near so safe as I thought.”

She shook her head, released a long, heartfelt sigh.
“Well, there it was . . . I was scared to stay, but I hated to
leave my young man—he’s a good man, is ‘Zekiel, and he treats me
real good in spite of I told him I used to be a whore—and I was in
in a rare taking deciding whether to go or stay, until I thought of
you. I said to myself, if there’s mischief of
that
sort afoot, perhaps Mr. Carstares as saved me
in Thornburg would like to hear of it.”

“Just by the way of information,” he said quietly,
“my name is not actually Carstares. “

“No, sir, I didn’t suppose that it was,” said Tilda,
spreading out her skirts. “Nor I don’t suppose it’s Dr. Crow,
neither.”

“It is not,” he said, replacing the snuffbox and
tucking his handkerchief into a pocket in his breeches. He rose
gracefully his feet and began to pace the room. “At least, I am all
but certain that it is not. I do experience some difficulty, now
and again, remembering exactly who and what I am, but I am
generally able to recall my own name.”

She smiled uncertainly. “Your little joke, sir?”

He paused by the fireplace, rested an elbow on the
mantel. “Perhaps.” He smiled back at her, but the smile did not
reach his eyes. “But I must apologize for interrupting. You were
telling me, I believe, that you felt I might be interested . .
.”

“Yes, sir. But I didn’t feel right contacting you
direct. I thought—I thought if I sent a message with your name on
it, mentioning where I met you, you might think the Knights was
involved and that I was in danger, and you might be angry, sir, if
you come to help me, and found out that it weren’t so,
having—having more
important
affairs to
occupy you.

“So what I did, I asked ‘Zekiel to write it out for
me three times: that the village of Lüftmal weren’t a proper place
to live no more, everyone walking in fear of witches, and the dead
not safe in their graves. And he took it into Thornburg, where he
left them letters in the shops of a glazier, a bottlemaker, and a
man who sold trinkets of blown glass.”

He nodded approvingly. “You are a young woman of
considerable resource—as indeed, I suspected when first we met—and
your friend Ezekiel sounds like an excellent young man. My own
friends were not slow in passing the information on to me, nor did
I consider the matter beneath my attention.’

He removed his elbow from the mantel, put up a hand
to straighten his neckcloth. “And so I am here. But your neighbors
do not confide in me. Not an unusual state of affairs, to be sure.
It is common practice to hush these things up . . . the innocent
not wishing to arouse the wrath of the guilty. Yet it is a definite
inconvenience. I could attend to this matter far more expeditiously
if I had a friend here. Or someone, not a newcomer like yourself
but a trusted and knowledgeable member of the community, who was
willing to assist me. You have no clergyman, as I suppose?”

Tilda shook her head. “No, sir. Dr. Ulfson rides over
from Pfalz every Sunday, if the weather ain’t bad. “

“And what of your swain—the resourceful Ezekiel—would
he be willing to conspire with me for the good of his neighbors?”
Tilda twisted her hands together. “He may be willing. I don’t know.
He’s done so much already—more than anybody else in the village
would of done. I’ll ask him, anyways. But, if it ain’t impertinent
for me to ask, I’d like to know something more about—about your
friends who sent you here.”

He turned to face the window. “I understand perfectly
that you require reassurance, but I am bound in honor not to reveal
their secrets. I am, as you seem to have guessed . . . an agent of
sorts . . . assigned to sniff out practices of black magic and put
an end to them if I may.”

“An agent . . . of the Prince, sir?” said Tilda.

He turned back to look at her. “Perhaps I have chosen
the wrong word. It may be too much to dignify my calling with the
name of agent . . . or of spy, either. I represent no government,
rather an organization of well-meaning but self-appointed citizens
. . . what our cousins in the New World would call a Vigilance
Committee. Yes, I suppose I must admit to being a vigilante. It is
a lowering reflection, to be sure, but it is always best to face
facts.”

He heaved a great sigh. “Yes, I am a witch-hunter and
a vigilante. And something of a magician on my own account, as
well. I wonder if you find any of this reassuring at all?”

Tilda unclasped her hands. “You said enough to
satisfy me. I hope it will be enough for ‘Zekiel. It may be—I don’t
know. Anyways, I’ll speak to him this very day, and if he’s
agreeable I’ll arrange for him to meet you in the churchyard this
evening.”

“Thank you,” said the self-styled vigilante.
“Somehow, I have every confidence that you will be able to persuade
him.”

Chapter
22

Wherein the Wickedness of the Lüftmal Witches is
more fully Revealed.

Dr. Crow spent the afternoon in the ancient Lüftmal
cemetery studying the gravestones, until Tilda’s young man arrived
at sunset. He was a rangy youth with a shock of flaming red hair,
and a huge bouquet of meadowflowers clutched in one hand.

“ ‘Zekiel Karl, your worship,” he said, offering his
other hand to the supposed clergyman in a forthright manner. “I
come here pretty regular, for to lay flowers on my granny’s grave,
so I reckon there’s none will wonder at our meeting here.”

Dr. Crow sat back on his heels—he had been down on
his knees and his elbows in the long green grass, examining the
lettering on one of the stones—and placed his own well-kept hand in
Ezekiel’s big meaty palm. “I am obliged to you for agreeing to meet
me.”

“I’m willing to do more than that, sir,” said the
young farmer. “If it pleases your worship, I can take you to see
them witches at their mischief. They always hold a Sabbat in old
Matt Woodruff’s barn at the full of the moon, and that’s coming up
real soon.”

Dr. Crow raised a shapely dark eyebrow, for this was
plain speaking indeed. He rose gracefully to his feet, adjusted the
narrow ruffles at his wrists, took out a handkerchief, and dusted
the knees of his breeches. “Their habits and their meeting place
are known, then? And yet nothing has been done to bring any of them
to justice? This dwarf (as I must suppose by the name), Matt
Woodruff—?”

“Dead, sir, these twenty years. Nobody lives over to
Woodruff’s anymore. He weren’t much of a farmer when all’s said,
and they do say he bought the place because it were so lonely and
secret-like . . . him being a black warlock, as the story
goes.”

Ezekiel lowered his voice impressively. “They say,
also, that his ghost still walks, but I don’t know. We do know they
meet there, sir, but what’s that to the purpose? Nobody knows who
any if them are—though I guess most of us got our suspicions.”