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

mind for him.
    “Get a move on.” Villagers crowded around the American, pushing and shoving, and the limping prisoner was escorted back to the village.
     
     
    On Hexhill village green, more of the locals had built a bonfire, at the heart of which stood a wooden stake. A man stood ready with a length of rope.
    The villagers weren’t going to let Buchowski escape again, and they soon had him bound and tied to the stake.
    The American clung desperately to the hope that this was some sort of crazy British idea of re-enacting traditional historical events to give tourists a taste of Ye Olde England. Or was some kind of elaborate practical joke being played on him?
    Perhaps he had been set up by one of those television programmes, and at the climactic moment the grinning TV host would reveal himself, calling proceedings to a halt.
    Whatever it was, it was in very bad taste, and he somehow doubted if he would see the funny side afterwards. In fact, it was entirely possible he would be consulting his lawyer about the situation. But that was what it had to be, they couldn’t really intend to burn him at the stake. Could they? Hell, he just didn’t know what to think.
    Reverend Dobson stepped forward and surveyed the crowd. Then he began to speak, “Does not the Bible say—”
    “Wait!” somebody shouted. “Let me through.”
    Buchowski uttered a prayer of thanks; at last someone had come to put a stop to this madness.
    A young woman pushed her way to the front of the crowd. Buchowski heaved a sigh of relief; it was the woman who had whispered to him in the wood – the barmaid. “Oh, thank the Lord. You don’t know how glad I am to see you.”
    The barmaid smiled at Buchowski.
    The relief was evident on the American’s face. “Ha,” he cried, “the police are on their way. You crazy bastards, the police will have you all locked up. You can’t treat an American this way and expect to get away with it.” A doubt suddenly crossed his mind: surely he should be hearing sirens as the police raced to his rescue. Why wasn’t he hearing sirens? “You did get the police? Didn’t you?”
    In response, she stepped closer to the pyre and spat in his face – much to his shock and the amusement of many in the crowd.
    The vicar wasn’t one of them. “Really, Miss Benton, there is no need for that sort of behaviour.”
    “Please carry on, Reverend Dobson,” she said, winking at the vicar.
    Reverend Dobson coughed, then began his speech again. “Does not the Bible say; ‘Thou shall not suffer a witch to live?’ ” he asked, his gaze lingering disapprovingly on Abi Benton.
    The villagers responded with cries of “Yes!” that were soon followed by shouts of, “Burn the witch!”
    Dobson turned to the American. “Therefore, Mr Buchowski, you must meet the same just fate that befell your kin.”
    The crowd parted again and Fred Benton came forward carrying a burning brand.
    Buchowski struggled frantically, but his efforts were useless. The ropes had been tied securely. “For God’s sake, you can’t mean to go through with this.”
    Again the American looked from face to face in the desperate hope there was someone who would stop this madness. But the faces of the villagers were countenances of hostility and hatred, mingled with expressions of excitement. Buchowski’s worst fears were confirmed. These people were not acting. There was to be no rescue. No television show presenter was going to suddenly emerge from the crowd and stop things in the nick of time. However improbable it seemed: this was for real.
    “Reverend Dobson, please have mercy. I’m begging you, please don’t do this.”
    The vicar nodded to the Mockingbird’s landlord. Benton hesitated a moment, mumbling an apology to the vicar for his daughter’s behaviour. Then he set the torch to the brushwood at the bottom of the bonfire. The wood was dry and quickly took flame.
    The American was weeping now, shaking with fear.
    “Oh, God in Heaven, help