witches from the very Dutch country in which they lived had gathered there.
There were men at the Well who had been close to the Hexenkopf—so close that they could see the ominous lights on the lower slopes. They knew that magic herbs grew there and that trees were stunted and died young. And they knew that certain crones worshipped the devil there.
Their forefathers had come from the north of Germany to the New World in the cramped holds of tiny wooden ships. They had brought more than themselves and their worldly possessions. They had brought their centuries-old beliefs.
For them, evil was a terrible reality. They feared God, but they feared the devil more. Their faith in demons was as real as their bodies and their spirits. And in the strength of that faith they had moved a mountain. Their horror of that damnably infamous Blocksberg in’the Hartz was transferred, with their arrival, in the Pennsylvania Dutch country, to the gloomy Hexenkopf of the Delaware Valley.
So, by that same metaphysical process, they had transplanted the hunger rocks from their native Rhine to the Lehigh. And they knew for a certainty that when the flat white rocks were uncovered by receding waters, the year would be a year of famine.
Hexerei still flourished beneath the coating that the less discerning described as twentieth-century civilization. Heinrich Derhammer drove Pierre’s brand-new ninety-horsepower station wagon. But, when Freda was ill of a complaint, he was not averse to driving in that same station wagon fifteen miles over back roads to the farm shack of old Hans Ehlers, the hex doctor. There, for a dollar, Freda would buy a salve. In itself, she knew, the salve was not potent. Its potency was conceived by the immaterial ingredients which old Hans injected into it—the ingredients of conjuration.
And was there not the fine black stallion the Caldwells owned? Had it not come trotting down the road the day after August Haussler disappeared? The constable took it to the pound, but no owner was located. And finally, at auction, the Caldwells bought it.
“Queer piece,” they said at the Well. “Queer piece it turned up the day after Augie went away. And along the same road he was last seen. Hear tell it’s of high spirit, too.”
Nobody came out and said what each one secretly thought. In the code of those at the Well this was not done. A stating of ominous fact was sufficient. Not because one feared the jeers of his fellows, but because it was dangerous to name names and to place the finger too specifically on certain points that were better left alone.
That was why the experience of Nathan Messner and Heinrich Derhammer was received with the solemnity it deserved, and without comment.
It was four nights after the incident at Melton Crossing. Nate and Heinrich, armed with rifles, were tramping up the Neshaminy “to see what we might make out.” There had been a light snow in the afternoon and then the skies had cleared and the stars hung brightly low like the points of icicles.
They had left Pierre’s land and followed the path through the Trent place and into the small canyon through the hills back of the Caldwells. At the north mouth of the canyon the hills opened out, and there was more wood. And there was scrubby growth about under the trees. Suddenly Messner gripped Heinrich's arm, “Hear that?” he whispered.
They stood rigid, ears acute. To their left, away from the creek, they heard the soft crunching of a moving pressure upon the snow and the muffled crackle of leaves beneath the snow. The sound neared. Heinrich slowly raised his rifle.
Then, into the clearing not twenty feet away, a huge white beast trotted. It was sleek of form and long of snout and it white teeth shone. Behind it, but vaguer to the eye because the shadows of the shrubbery fell across it, a second animal drew up short.
Heinrich took aim. He fired. The white beast leaped into the
There were men at the Well who had been close to the Hexenkopf—so close that they could see the ominous lights on the lower slopes. They knew that magic herbs grew there and that trees were stunted and died young. And they knew that certain crones worshipped the devil there.
Their forefathers had come from the north of Germany to the New World in the cramped holds of tiny wooden ships. They had brought more than themselves and their worldly possessions. They had brought their centuries-old beliefs.
For them, evil was a terrible reality. They feared God, but they feared the devil more. Their faith in demons was as real as their bodies and their spirits. And in the strength of that faith they had moved a mountain. Their horror of that damnably infamous Blocksberg in’the Hartz was transferred, with their arrival, in the Pennsylvania Dutch country, to the gloomy Hexenkopf of the Delaware Valley.
So, by that same metaphysical process, they had transplanted the hunger rocks from their native Rhine to the Lehigh. And they knew for a certainty that when the flat white rocks were uncovered by receding waters, the year would be a year of famine.
Hexerei still flourished beneath the coating that the less discerning described as twentieth-century civilization. Heinrich Derhammer drove Pierre’s brand-new ninety-horsepower station wagon. But, when Freda was ill of a complaint, he was not averse to driving in that same station wagon fifteen miles over back roads to the farm shack of old Hans Ehlers, the hex doctor. There, for a dollar, Freda would buy a salve. In itself, she knew, the salve was not potent. Its potency was conceived by the immaterial ingredients which old Hans injected into it—the ingredients of conjuration.
And was there not the fine black stallion the Caldwells owned? Had it not come trotting down the road the day after August Haussler disappeared? The constable took it to the pound, but no owner was located. And finally, at auction, the Caldwells bought it.
“Queer piece,” they said at the Well. “Queer piece it turned up the day after Augie went away. And along the same road he was last seen. Hear tell it’s of high spirit, too.”
Nobody came out and said what each one secretly thought. In the code of those at the Well this was not done. A stating of ominous fact was sufficient. Not because one feared the jeers of his fellows, but because it was dangerous to name names and to place the finger too specifically on certain points that were better left alone.
That was why the experience of Nathan Messner and Heinrich Derhammer was received with the solemnity it deserved, and without comment.
It was four nights after the incident at Melton Crossing. Nate and Heinrich, armed with rifles, were tramping up the Neshaminy “to see what we might make out.” There had been a light snow in the afternoon and then the skies had cleared and the stars hung brightly low like the points of icicles.
They had left Pierre’s land and followed the path through the Trent place and into the small canyon through the hills back of the Caldwells. At the north mouth of the canyon the hills opened out, and there was more wood. And there was scrubby growth about under the trees. Suddenly Messner gripped Heinrich's arm, “Hear that?” he whispered.
They stood rigid, ears acute. To their left, away from the creek, they heard the soft crunching of a moving pressure upon the snow and the muffled crackle of leaves beneath the snow. The sound neared. Heinrich slowly raised his rifle.
Then, into the clearing not twenty feet away, a huge white beast trotted. It was sleek of form and long of snout and it white teeth shone. Behind it, but vaguer to the eye because the shadows of the shrubbery fell across it, a second animal drew up short.
Heinrich took aim. He fired. The white beast leaped into the
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