The White Feather Hex | Page 6

the black gloom as man and horse plunged down to the
seething death awaiting them.
Cursing savagely, Milestone trudged back through the rain to the house.
He slammed the door shut and threw his cloak on Peter's bed. There
was one more bottle on the shelf; he smashed the neck and poured a
glass. If one could see him bent over the table sending silent curses into
his wine, he could readily imagine the feeling of defeat that had spread
over Mirestone's countenance. The idiot of a Dutchman who had to
play the hero's part and save other lives 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