The White Feather Hex

The White Feather Hex, by Don
Peterson

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Title: The White Feather Hex
Author: Don Peterson
Release Date: November 3, 2007 [EBook #23308]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
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The White Feather Hex
BY DON PETERSON

[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales March
1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.
copyright on this publication was renewed.]
Heading by the Author
[Illustration: You waited till the feather turned red.]
It all started with a Dutchman, a Pennsylvania Dutchman named Peter
Scheinberger, who tilled a weather beaten farm back in the hills.
A strong, wiry man he was--his arms were knotted sections of solid
hickory forming themselves into gnarled hands and twisted stubs of
fingers. His furrowed brow, dried by the sun and cracked in a million
places by the wind was well irrigated by long rivulets of sweat. When
he went forth in the fields behind his horse and plow, it wasn't long
before his hair was plastered down firmly to his scalp. The salty water
poured out of the deep rings in his ruddy neck and ran down his dark
brown back. As he grew older the skin peeled and grew loose. It hung
on him in folds like the brittle hide of a rhino.
It seemed that the more years he spent in his fields behind the plow
horse, the more he slipped back into the timeless tradition of his
forefathers. He was a proud descendant of a long line of staunch
German settlers commonly known as the Pennsylvania Dutch. He grew
up in his fundamental, religious sect having never known any other
environment. He was exposed to the sun, soil, and wind from the early
days of his childhood, and along with the elements he also was exposed
to the evils of the hexerei. The hexerei, or witchcraft, was something
that was never doubted or scoffed at by his people. Then why should he,
a good Pennsylvania Dutchman, doubt or scoff at such tradition?
Perhaps, had he moved away from his ancestral lands and had been
cultured in modern communities, been educated and raised in other
schools, he might have matured. But having no time for any other
diversions than might be found on his rustic homestead, he grew up
behind the plow horse, tramping in the dark, stony pasture land, eking
out his meager existence from the black fields of Pennsylvania.

Now, Peter's life could have gone on unnoticed among these forgotten
hills, except for the strange visit of Martin G. Mirestone, student of
German history.
It was a cold night when Peter met Mirestone. Peter had been sitting up
rather late pondering over an old, yellowed book by the light of a
kerosene lamp. The pale flame flickered about the walls sending
shadows scurrying back and forth creating all types of weird shapes and
designs. Peter huddled over the withered pages, every now and then
glancing up at the walls to watch the fantastic games that light and dark
were playing. Then putting his book aside for the night he prepared to
go to bed.
He went over to the window to draw the shutters, stopping for an
instant to peer out into the gloom along the stony path that ran from his
house to an old foot-bridge about fifty feet away. Curling up from the
gorge, mist seemed to play among the rotted planks; it rose and fell in
great billowing blankets, sometimes concealing the structure from
view.
* * * * *
Peter was about to latch the shutter and leave when his attention was
focused upon a figure that seemed to emerge from the fog--sort of
fading in from nowhere. It made its way across the narrow span like
some ghostly apparition. The mist enveloped his legs and clouded his
features. Peter drew back in terror, for the mere appearance of the man
coming out of the darkness was enough to fill his infant brain with
visions of death and hexerei.
As the figure drew closer Peter saw that it was wearing a cloak. All the
more ghostly it appeared with the cloak sailing behind him in the wind
like some devil's banner. Peter just stood transfixed as he watched the
stranger come up the winding road to his house.
Slamming the shutter he