Free Witch Water by Edward Lee

be lactating yet her abdomen shines lean and flat. It’s a
jarring contrast: all that glistening skin, white as fresh snow,
shimmering below the dark-crimson hair. Indeed, her hair is combed
back wet now, rendering the appearance of actually being dipped in
blood; the tuft at her pubis shines similarly. She is reciting
words of some unhallowed prayer that Fanshawe remains deaf to. His
gaze stays riveted to her stimulating physique until something
unsought drags his eyes down to show him that the nude woman is
standing within a queerly angled pentagram inscribed on the bare
wood floor. The inscription has been fashioned with some black
substance akin to char. Immediately he notices the sticks of burnt
bones lying aside.
    The candle-lit spectacle recedes, to reveal
a dozen other cloaked figures looking on from the background…
    Abbie’s reverberating voice continues, “They
practiced their witchcraft in secret. Years went by, but the town
never knew…”
    The black mental fog creeps back, then
disperses.
    The room is gone. The night seems to seethe as Fanshawe is looking at a clearing deep in a
woodland where trees hulk like dryadic miscreations. Their knotted
arms outstretch, soon to be mimicked by Evanore, now dressed in her
own hooded gown, and the remaining twelve in her coven. In
gangrenous moonlight, they stand in a circle in the clearing, some
bearing torches. But as Evanore raises a newborn babe in her
hands—
    Chaos unfolds.
    More torches plunge into the circle, these
held by townsmen with stern, determined faces. Other townsfolk
wield pitchforks, and others, muskets. Male coven members are
butt-stroked in the face; the women are dragged to the ground and
stripped, then slapped dizzy by hard opened palms. The black mass
had been encircled without anyone ever knowing, and as remaining
members try to flee, they are beaten to the ground by still more
men in tri-cornered hats, then hog-tied. Several armed deputies
part, allowing the stout and basilisk-eyed Sheriff Patten to enter
the scene; he is followed by the black-cassocked town pastor whose
large silver cross flashes in torchlight. The infant which had
nearly been murdered is delivered to the pastor’s hands. Patten
looks this way and that, then his gaze seems to find what it seeks:
Evanore Wraxall. She’s already been stripped naked, and stands
defiant as one deputy keeps her in place by elbows pinned behind
her back. The sheriff pauses to stare at the white, raving body,
but then the pastor’s reproving glance reminds him that lust is a
grievous sin.
    Patten crosses himself. Duly shackled now,
the other heretics are being roughly led out of the wood, but three
of the sheriff’s raiding party hold several torches together,
boosting the potency of their flame, and into this flame, four
branding irons are held. Minutes pass.
    The pastor nods consent; Patten stands, arms
crossed, the fire-light in his eyes. Four of the deputies pull the
irons out when they’re smoking hot, then they turn them toward
Evanore…
    The witch’s nude body seems to relax, even
in what she must know awaits her; the guard behind her holds her
fast.
    The branding irons are each formed in the
shape of the cross.
    One iron is pressed into the front of the
right breast, then another is pressed into the left. Flesh silently
sizzles. A third iron burns into her white abdomen, cooking the
flesh. But the fourth is handed to Sheriff Patten himself. He
whispers a prayer, then approaches, then sinks the iron into the
abundant plot of pubic hair, searing first the hair, then the
private flesh beneath. Only after an extended allotment of time is
the iron withdrawn, leaving a smoking indentation in the shape of
the Savior’s symbol.
    But Patten’s lower lip twitches as if he’s
secretly infuriated, while the pastor’s face seems made of stone;
for not once through the agonizing ministration did Evanore scream
or even flinch. Instead, she simply smiles back at her persecutors
as the brand-marks