The White Feather Hex | Page 3

I have traced it down to several families, but none could
tell me anything about it that was factual. Half of the stupid fools made
up stories as they went along--some concocting the biggest bunch of
asinine tales that I've ever heard. But you, Peter, are a descendant of the
Scheinbergers. I know for a fact that Otto Scheinberger practiced the
white feather hex and passed the power on down to your father. From
there it stopped. However, there must be some record of it in your
family. You are in possession of the books of your grandfather, aren't
you?"
"I have several of his books. Some of them I have read."
"Well," Mirestone waited. "Did you come across anything about the
hex?"
"Yes," answered Peter. "I read about that which you mention."
"Splendid, now we are getting somewhere. Can you find me the book
that tells of it?"
Peter finished drinking his wine and setting the glass upon the table, he
slowly rose and faced Mirestone with a look of superiority playing
about his rustic features. "No, I am afraid not. You see, I have burned
the book."
Mirestone's face went white. "You burned it?"
"Yes," said Peter. "I don't wish to have anything to do with such black

magic. It is better burned."
"But you must remember the hex. Although the book is destroyed you
still have the information in your head, nein?"
"I could never forget it if I wanted to," replied Peter reluctantly. "If I
could burn my memory also it would be better."
Mirestone went back to the fireplace and placed several chunks of
wood on the blaze. A bright orange glow leaped out from the hearth
and danced mockingly over his pallid brow, hiding his lank jowls in the
shadows cast by the cheekbones. Like some grim spectre he rose up,
towering above the little Dutchman. Peter had only to look into his eyes
to see the imperative request that lingered behind the hollowed sockets.
* * * * *
Throughout the remainder of the night Peter, almost in spite of himself,
wracked his brain to bring back to mind everything that was mentioned
in the book about the hex of the white feather. The idea was clear
enough, but the minute details, the infinite possibilities for mistake, and
the exacting specifications concerning the experiment were blurred in
his memory. He knew that with time he could bring back everything
that he had read, but it would take deep concentration and, perhaps,
many days of trial and error to determine the right path that they must
follow in order to have success.
Mirestone, realizing that any distraction would break Peter's train of
thought, sat quietly in the corner finishing off the Dutchman's supply of
wine. He watched Peter closely through his slitted eyes, and it seemed
that his compelling stare was the only force that could drive the
frightened Peter on. Every so often Peter would glance up and see
Mirestone leaning back in the corner half concealed by the deep
shadows--only his partially opened eyes could be seen flickering in the
fiery glow of the hearth. Then he would cover his face with his large,
knotted hands, work the twisted fingers through his hair, and try to
bring back to mind the evil recipe.

The glow from the fireplace gradually died down to make room for the
streams of morning dawn. Peter blinked sleepily and got up to stretch a
bit. Outside the dull morning light worked its way over Peter's
farm--clouds of mist still poured up from the gorge, circling the bridge
and creeping up the bank across the fields. Peter unlatched the heavy
oaken door and went outside to the outbuildings.
Meanwhile, Mirestone had started a fire in the stove and was placing
slabs of bacon in the pan. "Nothing like a good old-fashioned peasant's
breakfast," he laughed as Peter came in the door several minutes later.
"So, you brought a goat, heh?" he noticed. "Are you figuring on
starting in soon?"
Peter set a small kid on the floor and watched it scamper about the
room, looking for an exit. "Yes, we might as well. I don't like this
business at all. I wish to get it over with as soon as possible, and----"
Peter eyed Mirestone squarely. "I expect to be paid well for my
trouble." He was trying to make himself believe that that was his only
reason for complying with Mirestone's demands. Actually he was not
so sure....
* * * * *
As the heat of the noon day sun blasted down on their backs, Mirestone
watched Peter pass a feather, freshly plucked from a white Leghorn,
under the nose of the bleating kid. Mirestone listened carefully to what
Peter was telling him. The breath of the victim