The White Feather Hex | Page 6

by ending his own made Mirestone fairly sick. However, all was not over. So the Dutchman had died; the hex had worked--a lot sooner than he had expected though. Now he certainly would be delayed in his progress, for he had counted on examining the body for any traces left that would suggest something out of the ordinary. One thing, however, he had learned was that the hex at least worked on humans. The mangled body that was being washed over the rocks would be enough proof on that score.
Mirestone poured another drink. He leaned back in the chair and placed the glass to his lips. He was tilted so far back that as he raised the wine to a drinking position, it blocked his view of the room. As he slowly sipped it, however, the room began to come into view--the ceiling first and slowly the wall. His eyes focused on a piece of thread hanging from the ceiling, and as the wine sank lower and lower in the glass, the thread grew longer and longer until in one last swallow he was able to see the end of the line.
Mirestone's hand went stiff as he looked at the thread, for on the end of it was a pure white feather.
* * * * *
In an instant Mirestone realized that the hex had not worked. Peter's death at the bridge had been a grotesque coincidence. Had the untimely plunge in the rapids been the result of the hex the feather would have long since been red, therefore, the tragedy was no more than an accident and Mirestone's hands were innocent of the Dutchman's blood. That realization, of course, didn't bother him, for he was not concerned whether or not he was responsible for Peter's death, but he was genuinely worried in the failure of the hex. He wondered if he had done something wrong. If he had, the last link, that could have corrected him was broken. From here on in he was on his own.
He calmed himself and began to think. He retraced everything that he had done to see if he couldn't have found some margin in which error could have crept in. He remembered how carefully he had bent over the feather reciting the exact words taught him by Peter. He especially remembered that part of the hex, for hadn't the feather been ruffled by his breath when he spoke....
Gradually the truth began to dawn on Mirestone. His own breath must have released Peter from the hex. The last person's breath that touched the feather would feel the sting of the power. Mirestone sat back dumbfounded. He was to be his own guinea pig. What ghastly horror was he in for? Would he die quickly like the goat or would his death be prolonged over a period of days like Peter had suggested. He gripped himself. It wouldn't do to lose control of his senses. There must be a way out of the predicament. But Peter said that as soon as the feather turned red there was no turning back. Ah--there's the answer. The feather is still white ... there's still a chance.
Mirestone grabbed his cloak and raced for the door. He must get an animal--another goat, perhaps, and expose the feather to its breath. He must hurry lest the spell will start working.
The slippery mud dragged him back and impeded his progress, but he struggled on through the blinding storm towards the barn. It was so black outside that he could hardly make out the buildings. All at once he saw the barn looming ahead of him. Which door? Every second counted; he would try the first one he came to. Wait--what's this holding his cloak? Mirestone turned and fumbled with some barbed wire fencing. It had snagged him in the dark, and he soon became hopelessly entangled in it. Crying and shrieking, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and ran on in his shirt sleeves. He wrenched open a door and sprawled in the barn head first. On his hands and knees he scurried across the mealy floor to the goat stall. The kids sprang in terror as he lurched in drunkenly, grabbing about in the dark for one of them. Catching one by the hind leg, he groped his way out again.
Thrusting his shoulders forward he slid through the gripping mud, tearing his way through the engulfing rain with his free hand. His leg left numb from the wound inflicted by the barbed wire, and a trickle of blood was running down his shins. Without thinking he reached down to rub the wound, but quickly yanked his hand up again. What was that horrible sensation he felt as he passed his hand over the fleshy sore? He couldn't see in the rain,