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Updated: May 19, 2025
Peter realized that he had not much longer to live and nothing he could do to Mirestone would change his fate. Perhaps he could save others, though. "What is this glorious reckoning you were speaking about?" "As soon as I see how your case ends, I'll be able to go ahead and release my vengeance on those stupid, bungling fools who have thwarted my progress in the black arts.
"My stupid, little peasant friend, do I look like a student of history?" For the first time Peter actually looked at Mirestone and saw him for what he was. Of course, he couldn't be a student. No student would act as he did, or even look as he did. The words jammed in his throat as he was about to voice a reply. "Ha Martin G. Mirestone, student of history, student of German history.
Outside the dull morning light worked its way over Peter's farm clouds of mist still poured up from the gorge, circling the bridge and creeping up the bank across the fields. Peter unlatched the heavy oaken door and went outside to the outbuildings. Meanwhile, Mirestone had started a fire in the stove and was placing slabs of bacon in the pan.
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.
Jerking at the halter the goat bleated in agony, prancing up and down frantically. Its eyes grew horribly bloodshot and finally closed. With a feeble, choking sigh, the animal dropped over on its side, its legs still twitching spasmodically. Mirestone bent over the hairy form and examined the head, now wet with perspiration. "Nothing can be done for the beast?" "No."
Mirestone followed in the Dutchman's footsteps, and when they were inside, he listened intently as Peter recited a monosyllabic chant over the feather. "The chant is easy enough to learn," Peter assured him. "You will master it quickly." "I understand so far," Mirestone said. "Then that is all," Peter finished, "except that you can hang the feather up and watch it grow red." "Red?"
Mirestone jumped up after him, but it was too late. He peered out into the raging tempest making out the figure of Peter struggling with the hatch on the horse barn. He pulled his cloak about him and started towards Peter to stop him. The rain beat his face, blinding him momentarily, and before he could see clearly a dark mass pounded by, swift hoofs spattering mud all over him.
Peter was surprised at how easily he took his fate. There was no need of excitement this was his end and there was no changing it. "Yes, I had to know, for I can't leave until I have a complete record of all the results." Mirestone certainly was not cocky now. He looked almost ashamed of himself as he sat there nervously watching a man's fate swing by a silken thread.
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.
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.
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