The White Feather Hex | Page 4

had to be spread over
the feather before anything further could be done.
"Tie him," commanded Peter. Mirestone held the goat by the scruff of
his neck and fastened a halter about him. The other end was secured to
a stake allowing the kid to run about in a circle of ten feet or so in
diameter.
"We will 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