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Introduction
The moon rose over the countryside one dark October night.
A lone stone house sat atop a hill that from a distance looked as though a river of flame ran from its front door—flame that belonged to torches which, in turn belonged to villagers baying for the blood of the occupant.
“Elizabeth Knotts,” the stocky man at its head called. “Thou standeth before thy peers accused of witchcraft. How pleadeth thee?”
“Judge me would thee, Gilbert Morris?” the woman replied. She had once been pretty, but it appeared that the years and a hard life had robbed her of that beauty. “I, who have cured your cattle of the foulest of pox? I, who have aided thine own wife upon the birthing of thy children? How can thee judge me so foully?”
The man looked away, but the crowd cried out and jostled.
“’Tis her fault,” called one.
“She be guilty,” called others.
Gilbert turned to face the angry mob. “She must be tried. It is the law—” He turned back to Elizabeth, his face a picture of embarrassment and guilt. “I be sorry, Elizabeth,” he whispered before turning once again to face the crowd. “Take her to the square.”
A cheer went up as two burly men stepped forward, took hold of the woman and between them, marched her to the village square.
Upon their arrival, Elizabeth observed a large tree trunk, which stood amidst a pile of kindling and firewood—evidence of an outcome which evidently, had already been decided.
“Hast thou anything to say afore I pronounce judgement upon thee?” she was asked.
“Only this, villagers,” she spat. “I know each and every one of thee behind this travesty of justice and I know fully that this is not just. Thou hast made a grave error in thy judgement of me, for I have done nothing but aid thee.” She swept a gnarly finger across the assembled villagers, each of whom took involuntary steps back. “All of thee. Is this to be my repayment of that aid?
“Mark these my words,” she hissed in a tone that struck fear into the hearts of each and every one of the villagers present and although she spoke softly, none had any difficulty in hearing them. “Thou wilt find my wrath descending upon thine offspring. Whether it be in one year or a millennia, I shall return and I shall take my revenge on the descendents of each and every one of thee—”
Silence fell upon the assemblage. No sound—save for the rustling of the trees and the guttering of the burning torches—could be heard. Gilbert Morris turned to the Mayor.
“Are we being perhaps a little hasty?” he asked, trembling at the thought of his descendents being punished for this.
“Surely thou canst believe her blasphemous spoutings; her heresy?”
“Forgive me, my Lord, but it’s clear that you do. Otherwise thou wouldst not believe that she could possibly be responsible for the crimes which thou hast levelled against her.”
The Mayor “harrumphed” and gave the order.
“By the power vested in me on this, the thirty-first day of October in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and nine, I condemn Elizabeth Knotts to be burnt at the stake for the crime of witchcraft.” He raised his voice and demanded, “Burn the witch.”
The crowd cheered as they each threw their torches into the wood around the base of the stake.
“I shall have my revenge, mark my words, I shall!” Elizabeth screamed and with that, the flames rose to the sound of her cackles.
That was the last time anyone saw Elizabeth Knotts. No-one really knew what happened to her on that fateful All Hallows’ Eve as no trace of her body was ever found in the remains of the pyre. The only thing they did find was a pack of Tarot cards, undamaged in the ashes …
***
Fifteen year-old Steve Collins tottered into the living room, where his mother was making some final adjustments to her witch costume for the Hallowe’en party they would be attending later that evening.
“What do you think, mum? It’s not finished but—”
His mother cut him off mid sentence. “What do you think you look like?” she demanded.
He stared at her in disbelief as she berated him for his choice of costume. “You said you wanted me to go in fancy dress. After I found this stuff in the attic, I decided I’d go as David Bowie—Ziggy Stardust. What’s wrong with that? I thought you might help with the makeup.”
“Makeup??” She almost blew a gasket right there on the spot. “I think not! You’re a young man, Steven. You should consider acting like one. What will people think?”
“Who cares?” he said with indifference. “It’s a fancy dress party for God’s sake. This was all the rage when you were my age. Anyway, what does it matter what they think?”
“Who cares?” she asked. “I care. I’m not having you going out dressed in my clothes and makeup and that’s final.”
“But mum,” he whined. “It’s not like I’m going to dress like this all the time, is it?”
“That’s not the point. I thought you’d choose something like a pirate or maybe a vampire—not going out looking like a prancing poof.”
“Everybody dresses like that. Usually, it’s either those or cavaliers,” he said depreciatingly. “I wanted something different.”
She was adamant that his choice was out of the question and would hear no more on the subject. “Makeup? Whatever next,” she muttered.
His choice of ‘costume’ was born out of the discovery in the attic of a pair of knee-high platform boots in pink leather, some skin-tight satin jeans and a white satin blouse. The jeans were a bit on the tight side, crushing his whatsits into his groin, but after a few minutes, he kind of got used to it. After looking at himself in the mirror, he considered it was alright, or would have been with the application of makeup.
He was confused that she should have taken such a stance in light of what the party was about and all the grief she’d been giving him about going in costume. All in all, he felt quite dejected as he went back upstairs to change into everyday clothes.
Once he returned downstairs, he was sullen and unresponsive. Having taken so long to pluck up the courage to assemble a costume he was actually going to wear, he felt let down after his mother’s outburst. It must have shown as his mother took one look at him and gave him a stern talking to.
“You’d better not ruin this party or there’ll be hell to pay,” she said, gathering her bag and car keys. “I wasn’t sure about letting you come, but Lynne insisted. I don’t suppose she’ll be overly impressed with the fact that you haven’t gone in a costume.”
“But I had a perfectly good costume—” he began.
“—don’t even go there, young man,” she said gruffly.
She drove them in silence to the party where Lynne, the hostess, greeted them at the door. She too was dressed as a witch and thanks to her rather prominent nose and the green face paint, she looked really convincing too, though he thought his mother was probably the real thing—all things considered.
“Hi, come in … er, where’s your costume, Steve?”
“Sorry. I couldn’t get one in time …” he lied, giving his mother a look.
His mother rolled her eyes. “You know how teenagers are these days,” she said deprecatingly as the two of them followed Lynne into her house.
Inside, few had turned up, but Steve saw a girl on the sofa in the lounge. She caught his eye, but he didn’t have the confidence to talk to her. She was about his age and very pretty; dressed in a Little Red Riding Hood costume that made her look incredibly cute.
He sauntered over to a large table which had been piled high with snacks of one form or another, giving her a sideways glance en-route, but within milliseconds, his interest in the girl had been replaced with a sudden need to attempt the decimation of the entire spread as he grazed on the goodies before him.
“Hello,” she said, suddenly standing close.
Steve turned round sharply, his mouth full of crisps, nuts and some of those really nice bits of cheese and pineapple on cocktail sticks.
“’lo,” he managed, his hand flying up to his mouth as crumbs of salt and vinegar flavoured potato slivers fell from between his lips.
Fortunately, she just giggled and as they looked at one another, something passed between them, unspoken and yet almost palpable.
“Steve?” called his mother.
“Uh?” he replied, smiling at the girl, whose name he hadn’t even had time to ascertain.
“Come here.”
How embarrassing. There he was doing his level best to look cool—which probably would have been easier had he been wearing that really neat stuff he’d discovered in the loft—and might have been doing alright had he not nearly sprayed the poor girl with a mouthful of masticated savouries. If that wasn’t bad enough, his mother calling him over like some kind of child did nothing to improve his chances.
“You know you’ll have to pay a forfeit, don’t you?” said Lynne, with an evil glint in her eye.
“A forfeit?” he squeaked.
“Yes. That’s where the party pooper does something he or she doesn’t want to do, because he or she didn’t do something that he or she was supposed to do. In this case, it’s a costume—or lack thereof …”
“I know what a forfeit is,” Steve retorted, sullenly.
“Yes, well. Just in case there is any confusion, you’re the party pooper. Anyway, it’s nothing really,” Lynne admitted with a shrug. “Just a bit of fun.” Her face however, showed the disappointment at his not wearing any form of costume and his mother pointedly looked away from either of them.
Lynne led them downstairs into the cellar, which had been done out with little glow-in-the-dark skeletons, witches on broomsticks, coffins and skulls that hung from the walls and ceiling. At the foot of the stairs sat a circular table and on it, a purple silk scarf had been draped. On top of the scarf sat a small glass ball and a pack of cards the like of which, Steve had not seen before.
“What’re these?” he asked.
“Oh, they’re Tarot cards. I bought them at one of those old curiosity shops in town. They’re supposed to be antique, but you know what those traders are like, they’ll tell you anything to get a sale. The trader that sold those was actually only too pleased to get rid of them. He said there was something bad about them, some sort of story that went along with them, but I don’t believe in all that rubbish anyway. I thought they’d be perfect for tonight and they do lend some authenticity. Your forfeit—if you haven’t already guessed, will be to tell people’s fortunes.”
“But I don’t know anything about fortune telling. I’ve heard of Tarot, but I don’t know how to read them.”
“You don’t have to. There’s a crystal ball there too if you prefer … actually, it’s plastic, but it looks the part, doesn’t it? So, I don’t know, just make something up. Like I said, it’s only a bit of fun. Meanwhile, we need to get you ready.”
“Eh?” said a somewhat startled Steve.
A few minutes later and …
“Perfect!” said Lynn after she had applied some garish eye-makeup; lipstick and rouge to his face, draped a shawl around his shoulders and tied a scarf about his head. “At least you have some sort of costume now.” Standing back to see her work, with a grand gesture, she theatrically announced, “Welcome to Madame Mysterio’s Mystic Parlour.”
Steve did see the funny side; the irony in the fact that whilst his costume had been colourful, he would have been depicting a male celebrity, whereas here, he was playing the part of a woman. His mother’s face was a picture and she probably only went along with this charade as Lynne seemed to think nothing of dressing her son as a woman—at least his top half and especially his face.
***
Steve sat at the table, the cards packed in their box. He picked them up, turning the box over and over. They seemed perfectly alright—ordinary even … as far as Tarot cards could be. They were just an old box of cards. He’d had no experience with Tarot cards. He knew the card of ‘Death’—everyone knew that one and also ‘The Lovers’ as depicted in Live and Let Die; the old James Bond film.
“Good evening,” he said as a youngish woman approached, getting into character. “What can Madame Mysterio do for you on this most auspicious of nights?” His accent was appalling, probably based on half of Europe, flitting between French and Italian with a bit of Eastern European thrown in for good measure.