Free Witch Finder by Unknown

bellows, watching as the forge roared louder, and the metal in its heart grew white and hot. And the thought came to him, that he was like that metal, about to be plunged into a fire hotter and more savage than any in nature, one that would test and temper him beyond anything he’d known.
    They were waiting for him in the kitchen as he came down the stairs the next day, bag in hand, muffler pulled high.
    ‘Luke, lad!’ John Leadingham clapped him on the back, a buffet that made Luke stagger and grin.
    ‘Watch out! You’ll have me over.’
    ‘It’d take more than that to knock you down, young Luke. I’ve seen brick outhouses built less sturdy than you.’ John Leadingham’s face wrinkled in a grin that made him look like a boy and Luke found himself grinning back, in spite of the nerves that griped at his guts. So. This was it. The beginning.
    ‘Got the tools of the trade?’ John asked intently. Luke nodded.
    ‘Wrapped in paper under me clothes.’
    ‘Good luck, boy,’ Benjamin West said. He pushed his glasses up his nose, peering short-sightedly at Luke through the misty lenses. ‘Take care of yeself.’
    ‘Luke . . .’ was all William said. He shook his head, as if the words were there, but stuck in his throat. ‘Luke.’
    ‘Goodbye, Uncle.’
    ‘You take care, hear me?’ He gripped Luke’s shoulders, looking at him, his grip so hard it was all Luke could do not to wince away from it. ‘Hear me?’
    ‘I hear you. I’ll take care of myself, I promise. I’ll be back within the full moon.’
    ‘And don’t underestimate her. She may look like just a girl, but she’s not just a girl, remember?’
    ‘I’ll remember.’
    Of course he’d remember. How could he forget?
    He looked around the little room, at the faces of the men he’d known all his life, good men, with hands and faces marked by hard work and hard lives, hands that’d sliced meat and hammered metal and carved wood, but hands too that had curved around a tankard in the warmth of an inn, held a woman, dandled a baby and wiped away tears. And hands that had killed a witch – each of them, every man in the room. Suddenly he wanted, desperately, to ask how it had been for them – was the witch old or young, man or woman? Had the witch begged, at the last, or wept? Had their heart misgiven them as they drove the blow home, or did their hand never falter?
    But it was the one question he could never ask, never discuss. It was the rule: outside the masked anonymity of the meetings, all hands were clean of blood. And he was not a Brother yet.
    He turned to go.
    ‘Wait.’ William put out a hand to stop him and he paused. His uncle dug in his pocket and pulled out two gold sovereigns. He held them out to Luke. ‘Take these.’
    ‘No!’ Luke was shocked. ‘No, I can’t. I don’t need it.’
    ‘ Take them .’ His uncle pressed the coins into his limp hand and Luke stood, feeling the dense weight of gold in his palm, growing warm against his skin. ‘I’d rather you had money if you need it. There’s not much I can do to help, but this I can do. Apart from that, you’re on your own, lad.’
    Luke nodded and pocketed the coins reluctantly, feeling the truth of his uncle’s words sink into his skin and bone. Apart from that, you’re on your own.
    He had never felt so alone.
    Then he turned and walked into the rain.
    ‘Who’re you?’ The man looking down at Luke was no taller than him, but he stood at the top of the flight of stone steps and Luke was at the bottom. Luke had the feeling that even if they’d been on level ground, something about his mud-spattered boots and rain-soaked coat would have left him at a disadvantage. The rain had stopped, but only a few minutes before, and his hair still dripped down his nose and the back of his neck. He looked up at the tall, white house towering above him, at the huge black door with its brass knocker, and then storey after storey of long windows glittering with raindrops.
    ‘I’m Luke