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

If he stayed on the road, there was no way he could escape. But if he sought refuge in the wood that grew alongside, well, he just might be able to evade his pursuers.
    Yet even as entered the trees he could hear the barking of dogs.
    Nettles stung his legs, and thorny briars scratched the American as he pressed deeper into the trees. Buckthorn, hawthorn, rowan and ash made up the bulk of the wood.
    Buchowski staggered, wheezing from his exertions. He’d let himself go, and was out of shape. He hated to admit it, but he was fat not fit. He was an old man in an English wood, not the young soldier he had been in the jungles of Vietnam. An old man who ate, drank and smoked too much, and exercised too little.
    The adrenaline rush had worn off. He was getting chest pains, and he’d drunk too much beer too quickly; and he suspected that last pint had been drugged.
    Despite his discomfort he kept going. He had to get away. He struggled on, only to trip over a fallen branch. Buchowski landed awkwardly with a cry of pain. He had twisted his ankle.
    He tried but hadn’t the energy to get up again. “You damn fat old fool,” Buchowski swore at himself. And at the villagers, “Bunch of crazy bastards!” What the hell was going on here? Were these people serious? Had he stumbled upon the British equivalent of some inbred, hillbilly rednecks? Or was it one big joke at his expense?
    He was afraid, but he wasn’t sure which worried him more: the fact that all this might be for real, or that he might be being played for a fool.
    He could hear them getting closer, villagers shouting, dogs barking wildly. It wouldn’t be long before they found him.
    A young woman reached him first, Buchowski realised he recognised her pretty face. She was the barmaid from the pub. She knelt down by the American, and said, “We’re not all superstitious yokels, Mr Buchowski. We don’t all believe in witchcraft.”
    Then she was up and away.
    Buchowski called, “Hey, don’t leave me. Where are you going?” He hoped she had gone to fetch help.
    He forced himself up, using the branch to help him rise. But it was too late. The villagers had found him.
    “Hey, come on, you guys. You’ve had your fun. Just let me go and I promise I won’t report this to the authorities. I’ll forget all this ever happened. And that I ever came to Hexhill.”
    Reverend Dobson smiled. “I’m sorry, Mr Buchowski, but you have condemned yourself by refusing to take the test.”
    Buchowski changed his grip on the branch, and held it two-handed, to use it as a club. “In that case you leave me no choice.” He swung the branch threateningly. “I’m not afraid to use this.”
    “And I’m not afraid to use this either.” The farmer that Buchowski had earlier elbowed in the stomach was armed with a shotgun, and it was aimed at the American.
    “Put the branch down, Mr Buchowski.” Reverend Dobson ordered, stepping closer to the tourist, “There can be no escape.”
    Buchowski’s grin was humourless. “Maybe I should go down fighting, Reverend.”
    The vicar shrugged. “It’s your choice.”
    With a sigh, Buchowski chose to drop the branch; pinning his hopes on the barmaid fetching help. Hell, he wasn’t John Wayne. It was unlikely he would even have been able to land one blow, before the farmer shot him.
    “A wise decision, Mr Buchowski.”
    “I hope so,” muttered the American.
    “I say I should just shoot him anyway.” The farmer wasn’t so convinced.
    “No, Ted, this must be done properly.” The vicar exerted his authority.
    “Then let’s get on with it, Reverend,” Ted conceded. “There’s harvesting I should be getting on with.” Several others murmured agreement.
    “Come on, witch.” George, the ginger-bearded farmer shoved the American.
    “And you can carry this yourself.” Benton, the pub landlord, thrust a bundle of wood into the tourist’s arms.
    “Dear God! You cannot be serious.” Buchowski realised what the villagers had in