Clasping the hood of her cloak tighter under her chin, Charity Fairweather trod warily through the banks of leaves piled high on either side of the dry river-bed whose course she followed. Leaving the last signs of the forest behind her, she followed the leaf-swollen track up onto the moorland: the gorse bushes scratching at her ankles; the brambles whipping back against her face; the cold, wet leaves a soft pulp beneath her bare feet.
She knew her way in the darkness. She had followed this track on every night of her life: as a baby in her mother's arms; as a child under her widowed father's reluctant guidance. And now, nineteen years into her life, she was making the journey alone. She now had no need for guidance, nor anyone to provide it. She was alone, but not afraid; young, and yet full of the Ancient Wisdom.
The seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, she had always been destined for the Ancient Religion. Her father had frowned upon it, but her mother – whom she barely remembered – had always planned that it would be so, and had introduced her at an early age to others who 'knew'. So many of those dear friends were gone now; so many old and learned women and men. They had taught her everything she would need to know to get herself started, and the rest – they assured her – would come naturally.
For three years now, since her father's death, she had been walking out onto the moor to play her part. She knew her duty, and would never be found unwilling to perform when necessary.
Her final destination lay ahead of her now. From out of the gloom she could faintly discern the distinctive, craggy, rock outcrops that constituted Hay Tor towering over her at the summit of the steep, fern-swathed hill.
She paused for a moment to gaze in wonder and awe at its majestic outline, and as she did so the Moon broke free from its nebulous bondage, and glittered forth from the sable sky, silhouetting the magnificence of the tor and casting into weird illumination the stray ponies and sheep which hung well back from the path on which Charity stood. Her lips moved in a silent prayer to the beautiful Moon-goddess before she hurried on up the hill.
The rain began again, and the wind had imperceptibly risen to a high, shrill whistle which, as the Moon once more became veiled in cloud, rose to a cold, biting snap and demonic howl. Suddenly, fear descended upon Charity. That sickly, unnameable terror which comes without warning to even the bravest of souls. That vague sense of impending doom which assails even the least superstitious of minds. She felt the air oppressing her. The wind and rain froze her hands and face and she remained motionless for a few minutes, her eyes riveted upon the mass of rock above her.
The sound of a sheep bleating, discarnate and eerie, cut through her contemplations and spurred her into action. Her faltering footsteps sent her stumbling to the ground once or twice but she scrambled to her feet and, with a frantic look of horror over her shoulder, sped on up the hill. On reaching the summit she paused for breath in a hollow between the rocks, a safe haven in which to calm her frayed nerves.
Gaining self-control once more she threw back the hood of her cloak to reveal a head of raven-black hair bound with a gold circlet in which was set a huge, fiery bloodstone which glittered between her almond-shaped black eyes. Her skin, perfectly moulded around her exquisite bone-structure, was of flawless ivory. Her mouth was a wide, soft arc of crimson red. Stepping forward out of the gloom, she smiled to see that the full Moon had reappeared once more. Her teeth were revealed – small, white and sharp – as she smiled.
Treading carefully through the rocks she found a small aperture which opened out into a broad, roughly-hewn passageway with a hard, dry floor strewn with twigs, grass and bracken. She cast a covert glance around her before entering the passageway. The slope ran deeply downhill and Charity put out her hands to steady herself. Within a few feet the subterranean path levelled out and Charity could see the flickering light of a flame ahead of her.
Passing the flaming torches she entered under a carved archway into a long, low-ceilinged room. She smiled in recognition at the familiar scene: the black drapes which hung from ceiling to floor around the room; the large altarstone with the golden chalice and ornamental dagger upon it; the cabalistic symbols upon the floor; the inverted crucifix; the tall candle sconces from which there wafted the sickly-sweet smell of incense.
Charity shrugged her cloak from her shoulders and laid it on the floor before the altar. She knelt on the warm fabric, the folds of her white gown settling about her. Buried in thought, she failed to perceive the entrance of another girl, eyes burning with hatred, until the girl was close behind her.
Charity scrambled to her feet and faced the girl. "Why, Faith, what do you here?" she asked in a soft, musical voice.
The other girl snarled an incomprehensible reply.
"Faith?"
"Lay on the altarstone," replied Faith tersely. "Do it."
"Faith, you know you need never bully me. I'm here for your pleasure, always. That was the vow I made." She lay down on the cold altarstone and smiled at her companion. "Come, Faith, come to me."
For a moment, Faith's golden-framed, hard-set face softened into a smile. She threw her cloak to the floor and climbed onto the altarstone beside Charity. With a casually superior gesture she straddled the other girl, trapping Charity between her bony knees.
"How long is it since we were alone together?" wondered Charity in a slightly husky voice.
"Too long," replied Faith sulkily. "I'd begun to think you had found someone else... a warlock perhaps."
"A man!" Oh Faith, never! Don't jest, please!" She smiled thinly up at the other girl, wondering what she knew. "How could you think such a thing of me?"
Suddenly the smile fell from Faith's face, replaced by a cruel, snarling malevolence. "There is a man." She spoke with conviction, malice in her cold blue eyes. "And not a warlock either. You've been consorting with worse than that. You've polluted our circle."
"Faith! Don't talk that way. I've not polluted the circle. It's true, I did have relations with a man, but I swear to you, he's only a warlock from Boscastle."
Faith laughed, a harsh, shrill, near-hysterical cackle. "A warlock! Boscastle! Charity, you fool – he's a priest."
"A pr... no! You're wrong. I won't listen to such nonsense." Charity covered her ears, refusing to listen to her companion's accusations. In fact, she had suspected the truth of the Cornishman's identity, but she had hoped to introduce him into the Dartmoor coven of the Ancient Religion. He had seemed interested in the things she had told him about their meetings, and she had had hopes of converting him to her beliefs.
"You knew, didn't you?" Faith's voice rose to a scream. "You told him about us, knowing what he was, didn't you? Didn't you?! You betrayed the whole coven for your stupid lust!"
A sudden look of fury gripped Charity's face. Her eyes were blazing with anger. "How dare you speak to me in such a way! I am a Princess of the Ancient Religion! I am sacred to the Supreme Goddess of the Moon!"
A sly look crept into Faith's eyes and she leaned forward so that her face was close to Charity's. Unknown to the dark-haired girl, Faith reached out one hand for the ornamental dagger at the head of the altarstone. "You know the penalty for betrayal," she replied with a smug smile. "Even a Princess must pay the price."
The scarlet anger drained from Charity's face as she saw the glint of gold and jewels in the wavering candlelight. "You... you can't be serious," she whispered, in a hoarse, terrified whisper, her black eyes open wide in horrified disbelief. "This joke has gone too far, Faith."
"It's no joke to see every other member of the coven burned alive for heresy." Her voice was low, level and maniacally calm. "It's no joke to discover that the woman you loved has betrayed you to the enemy, along with her friends and companions. That's no joke, Charity, and you must pay the price of your folly and betrayal."
Charity saw the murderous intent in her lover's eyes and blind panic descended upon her. Her lips opened in prayer but it was too late: not even the Supreme Goddess could protect her now.
Briefly she closed her eyes as though in resignation or fear, and as she opened them again she saw the dagger held high in Faith's tightly-clenched fist. For a moment she silently pleaded with Faith, and then the knife plunged down into her breast...
Father Simon Hope of Boscastle Priory came upon the horribly mutilated corpses the following morning. The sight stopped his breath for a moment, and he sank to his knees in prayer to his Christian God before the altar to the Ancient Deities, before commencing upon a closer examination of the remains.
Charity, who so innocently had shared her bed and her Pagan secrets with him, was barely recognisable as the beauty she had once been. The priest had never seen such terrible wounds and the thought of what she must have suffered before she died brought tears to his eyes. Oh, of course, she had been a heretic, and therefore deserved to die in the flames: but no-one merited a death as violent and bloody as this, surely?
With a brief prayer for her departed soul he turned to the girl who lay beside her. The dagger clutched in her bloodied hand spoke clearly of her part in Charity's murder, but it seemed impossible that she could have inflicted such brutalities upon herself, and yet she was torn and maimed in just the same ways as her victim. How was he to know that the Goddess had taken her revenge after all, avenged the death of her Princess with the death of another. Blood for blood, as in the Olden Times.
Shuddering at the gruesome scene, Father Simon turned away and left the bodies where they lay. He would return to the scene later and afford the girls a decent Christian burial. He had entertained some hopes of converting Charity and it was, after all, the least he could do after personally supervising the burnings of her older colleagues...
[11th November 1991]
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