The White Feather Hex | Page 4

leave him for awhile," said Peter as he walked back to the kitchen.
Mirestone followed in the Dutchman's footsteps, and when they were inside, he listened intently as Peter recited a monosyllabic chant over the feather. "The chant is easy enough to learn," Peter assured him. "You will master it quickly."
"I understand so far," Mirestone said.
"Then that is all," Peter finished, "except that you can hang the feather up and watch it grow red."
"Red?"
"Yes," Peter explained, "That is the only way you can tell if the hex has worked."
Peter went to a chest at the foot of his bed and drew out a small box of sewing utensils. He broke off a piece of black thread and replaced the box in the chest. "Now I'll show you what I mean," Peter spoke wearily as he tied the feather with the thread and suspended it from one of the rafters in the room. "Just sit and watch."
It was not many minutes before a light red tint crept up the feather's quill, spreading slowly outwards towards the fringed edges. Deeper and deeper grew the intensity of the color until it reached a pure blood red.
"Hurry outside," cried Peter. "You can see the goat in its last seconds of life."
Mirestone hurried after the Dutchman. Jerking at the halter the goat bleated in agony, prancing up and down frantically. Its eyes grew horribly bloodshot and finally closed. With a feeble, choking sigh, the animal dropped over on its side, its legs still twitching spasmodically. Mirestone bent over the hairy form and examined the head, now wet with perspiration.
"Nothing can be done for the beast?"
"No." Peter looked on with a touch of pity in his eyes, "Nothing can be done once the feather has turned red."
As if the death of the kid was their cue, masses of thick thunderheads turned over with a deep rumbling thunder. The sky became crystal clear, and a greenish glow could be seen working its way across the horizon. The sky darkened as the glistening thunderheads now taking on an ominous coloring warned the farmers of the impending storm.
It was later that evening. Rain drummed against the slate roof of Peter's house and reverberated through the rooms to where Mirestone and the Dutchman sat by the fire in silence. Mirestone broke the still atmosphere by putting forth a question that Peter somehow knew would be coming sooner or later.
"I wonder how the hex would react on a human being?"
Peter hoped to end the topic by answering him quickly and not beating around the bush trying to evade the question. "It would kill him eventually. Maybe not so quick as the goat, but it would kill him."
"What do you mean not as quickly as the goat--do you think it would take more time on a human?"
"Perhaps. I have heard of cases in which the hex, once it was started, dragged on for many days."
"I see." Mirestone sat back again thinking to himself.
Peter didn't like this. He wanted to get rid of Mirestone. "Well, you have your information. I showed you how the hex works. So, why not pay me and leave?"
Mirestone got up and laughed in the Dutchman's face. Crossing to the larder, he brought down a bottle, cracking the neck on the beam above, just as he had done the night before. A wave of apprehension overcame Peter as he realized the old flip attitude of Mirestone's was coming back. That meant definite trouble, and Peter began to fear the consequences.
"So, why not pay me and leave?" he again ventured. "Or do you want something else?" Peter knew that he didn't need to ask that last question, for already he realized the grim experiment that was playing about in Mirestone's head.
"Yes. I just told you what I wanted. I want to see the hex on a human before I go."
"Why? You have your information. Why do you want to see it work on a man?"
"My stupid, little peasant friend, do I look like a student of history?"
For the first time Peter actually looked at Mirestone and saw him for what he was. Of course, he couldn't be a student. No student would act as he did, or even look as he did. The words jammed in his throat as he was about to voice a reply.
"Ha--Martin G. Mirestone, student of history, student of German history. No my little oxen friend. I am no more a student of history than you are, but I need the hex for other reasons which do not concern you." Then as if he were contemplating a great new joke he continued. "But on the other hand, maybe the future of the white feather hex does concern you."
Mirestone's voice was drowned out by a heavy rumbling of thunder and the increased splashing of rain on the windows.