Black Ceremonies by Charles Black, David A. Riley Read Free Book Online

a big man, but he felt sluggish and weak.
    He was unable to struggle free. “You put something in my beer!”
    “Bring him,” commanded the vicar.
    The farmers hauled the American out of the pub. The rest of the regulars following.
    “Come on, you don’t seriously believe in this witchcraft crap, surely? This is the twenty-first century.”
    “Witchcraft is an evil that must be stamped out, Mr Buchowski, wherever and whenever it is discovered,” the vicar answered.
    Outside more villagers had gathered. In desperation, Buchowski looked from face to face in the hope that there was someone to whom he could appeal to for aid. But instead, all he saw were expressions of open hostility.
    “You guys are crazy!”
    Reverend Dobson continued, “However, we are not barbarians, Mr Buchowski. We shall not condemn you out of hand. We shall give you the chance to prove you are free of the taint of the witch blood. There is a tried and trusted method for proving whether one is a witch. If you are as innocent as you proclaim, you will willingly undergo our test.”
    Still struggling, Buchowski was brought to the edge of the pond. “Where do you guys think you are? This isn’t Salem.”
    “Bring the rope. Tie left foot to right hand; and right foot to left hand.”
    “Look! I’ve heard of living history, but this is taking things too far. There’s no way I’m agreeing to that,” the American protested. “You think I’m crazy? Hell, even I know that that’s a no win situation. If I float I’m a witch, and if I don’t I drown anyhow.”
    “On your knees, witch,” snarled one of the farmers who held him captive – a ginger-bearded, shaggy-haired fellow.
    Buchowski drew on all his reserves of strength. He stamped on the foot of the ginger-bearded farmer, and an elbow in the stomach, winded the other.
    And before anyone else could react, Buchowski threw himself into the pond.
    Villagers were running around the side of the pond with the intention of surrounding it and him. But the tourist reached the other side before the locals could trap him. He emerged from the pond, wet and slimy. He had lost a sandal, and his camera would be ruined.
    Breathing heavily, Buchowski ran as fast as he could, pursued by a baying mob.
    He hadn’t run as fast since Vietnam. Ahead he could see his hire car – a silver Ford Mondeo. Heart pounding, gasping for breath, Buchowski risked a glance over his shoulder. The villagers were still pursuing him, but he would reach his car before they got to him. He laughed in relief. He was going to make it.
     
     
    For an agonising moment he thought he had lost the key, but then he found it, and had started the engine. Buchowski started to accelerate just as the fastest of the pursuing villagers threw himself onto the bonnet of the car. The local managed to hang on for mere seconds before losing his precarious grip. Buchowski sped out of the village, whooping in exhilaration, adrenaline pumping.
    The American was driving far too recklessly for such a narrow country road. He was fortunate that he met no other traffic coming in the opposite direction.
    His luck ran out whilst he was glancing in the rear-view mirror looking for pursuers. He saw the stray sheep that was in the middle of the road at the last moment. Instinctively he swerved to avoid it. Losing control of the car, the Mondeo went off the road and head-on into a tree. The front of the car crumpled, and Buchowski thanked God for the invention of airbags.
    He clambered out of the car. Shaken by the crash and unsteady on his feet. The sheep seemed unperturbed, and was busy grazing the grass verge.
    Buchowski swore at the animal. “Damn stupid creature, you’re lucky not to be lamb chops!” It must have escaped from the field to the left that contained a flock of Suffolks.
    The American wasn’t far enough away from the village to be safe; he could see some of the villagers running along the road. And as he watched, a Land Rover sped past them.