Truth never gets in the way of a good story.
And what didn’t help matters was the one spread by a swineherd about the strains of a strange, wordless song that had reached his ears as it was carried through the trees on the wind. He claimed that it was as if he’d fallen under a spell, and hadn’t been able to resist this siren song. Inexplicably drawn to its source, he’d eventually come face-to-face with Damaris who was barely clothed as she danced wildly around a fire, whereupon he had no memory of what had happened next. Except that he’d woken up at dawn with a thunderous headache and a stiff back from spending the night on the floor of the forest.
Those who knew him well scoffed at his story, putting it down to a bellyful of ale. But the town was a small place, and unusual tales – however tall they might be – tended to gather credence with each telling.
It was unfortunate that Hopkins’ lieutenant chanced across the swineherd during his inquiries. Having already been told of Damaris’s solitary life in the woods and the infernal looking effigies she made, this story was music to the lieutenant’s ears. When the swineherd had finished his faltering account of the incident, the lieutenant merely closed his eyes as a satisfied smile wormed across his lips. Then he whispered what sounded like a prayer of gratitude.
And now, as the elder escorts Hopkins and his company to where the miller lives by the river, he has the opportunity to observe the Witchfinder’s men at close hand. Listening to their rather rudimentary exchanges, it strikes him that they are very far from men of the cloth. Under their Puritans’ clothes they are little more than farm laborers. Yet they carry long oak staves as if they are only too ready to use them, and he can see that they are physically strong like soldiers. No, the elder doesn’t delude himself that these aren’t dangerous and violent men.
He has seen some things in his long life and, at this moment, with every fiber in his body, he knows.
He knows that this day isn’t going to turn out well.
‘So, Sam, here we are again,’ the operator says, speaking into her microphone as she checks the small monitor beside the main screen, which is filled with the boy’s face. His expression remains vacant and he doesn’t make any effort to answer.
An oppressive humming sound dominates the room, but from where she’s sitting at her workstation, the operator can also hear the constant burble of conversation between the boy’s mother, Mrs White, and the pediatric consultant. The two are talking as they look through the plate window into the adjoining room where only the boy’s feet are visible. It’s rather a sad sight, his pale and thin ankles protruding from the end of the large white MRI scanner.
The operator sighs to herself. Given the choice, she’d prefer not to have the distraction of other people in the room with her while she’s working, but she understands why they’d want to be present. It’s a young boy, after all. Taking a breath, she turns her full attention to the task in hand.
‘Hope you’re not too uncomfortable in there, Sam?’ she asks, trying again to engage him.
After the usual rigmarole of removing anything metallic and donning a hospital gown of blue cotton, he has been slid into the middle of the hunk of electronic equipment on a narrow gantry.
‘I’m fine, yes,’ he replies indifferently, closing his eyes in the claustrophobic confines of the machine and wishing he were anywhere else right then. Although the scan is painless, it isn’t how you’d choose to spend your time.
‘Are you sure?’ the operator says, concerned.
The advice Sam’s father gave comes back to him, about how he should always make an effort to be courteous to hospital staff. ‘Just fine, thank you,’ he says with more enthusiasm. But he doesn’t feel very enthusiastic.
Being seriously ill means that your body is not yours any longer.
It’s given over to be prodded and probed and examined like a biological specimen. Like a piece of suspect meat on a tray.
And this is just another examination in a whole series of examinations that have punctuated the years since Sam can remember.
‘C-o-o-l,’ the operator says. The emphasis she places on the word doesn’t sound quite right coming from her, but she always makes an effort to use what she considers to be kids’ lingo to put the younger patients at ease. And she’s familiar with Sam’s disfigurement because she has dealt with him before on one of her shifts, and it’s distressing to see how far he’s gone downhill.
Nevertheless she smiles, attempting to maintain some sort of rapport with her patient. ‘You know the ropes by now, don’t you? You’re an old hand at this.’
‘Old hand, yes,’ Sam repeats flatly.
‘Quite right.’ The operator’s tone becomes more businesslike. ‘You know the drill, so nice regular breaths from now on, Sam, and please … no sudden movements … just chillax in there … and …’ She fine tunes a level using her mouse and glances at the readout on the main screen in front of her. ‘... and we’re all set for a take,’ she announces.
The vibrations and the noise from the scanner both intensify. It sounds similar to the drum of a powerful washing machine spinning at speed with a single training shoe knocking around in it. The knocking isn’t regular, and it’s also rather alarming for anyone actually inside the scanner.
‘Sam, magnets building to warp speed,’ the operator announces playfully, which isn’t quite true because the full field is already being generated. Her eyes are on the main screen in front of her, which is blank at the moment except for the readout along the bottom. MRI or Magnetic Resonance Imaging works by exciting the hydrogen atoms in human tissue with powerful electromagnets. The signals emitted are recorded in sections through the particular area of body being investigated, which in this case is Sam White’s deformed skull. The doctors will then have a very accurate picture of what’s going on inside his cranium.
The operator is on the point of starting the recording with the first slice through the top of Sam’s head when the inexplicable happens.
Suddenly there’s no noise from the scanner. The humming has abruptly stopped.
A swirl of digital noise sweeps over the screen, as if autumn leaves have blown across a sidewalk.
Then the screen is filled with what at first glance appear to be dithering pixels. But it’s more than that. There’s something that the operator can’t and wouldn’t ever be able to explain. And afterwards never once spoke of for fear of ridicule.
Where there should have been a white circle of bone from the top of Sam’s cranium, a grainy picture materializes.
It resembles a very old photograph of an area of countryside. It may be a little murky and ill-defined, but nevertheless it’s indisputable.
And it turns out to be more than just a photograph.
As if it’s in real time, the view seems to be moving down the side of a hill or a valley, passing trees and shrubs on the way. Shifting clouds are even visible in the sky.
The odds of the pixels being randomly jumbled on the screen to give just such an image are so many millions to one that it’s simply not feasible.
And the operator knows this.
She gasps and moves back so sharply that her chair scrapes on the floor.
‘But …’ she begins, her voice failing her.
Mrs White and the consultant immediately stop talking, both of them turning toward her. ‘Is there a problem with the equipment?’ the consultant asks.
The operator is staring at the screen, mouth gaping open. As abruptly as it had ceased, the sound of the machine resumes again, and the inexplicable image vanishes. ‘No … no … it’s all going tickety-boo,’ she replies, pulling herself together as everything seems to be back to normal again. ‘Sam … Sam, are you all right in there?’ she says into the microphone, her voice slightly elevated because she’s unnerved.
He yawns, taking a moment to answer. ‘Um … yes. Feeling a bit sleepy.’
‘So everything’s okay?’ the consultant asks, because he’s picking up on the way the operator is acting.
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She clears her throat awkwardly. ‘Absolutely. And I’ll make sure the scan is processed right away so you can have it early this afternoon,’ she adds, knowing that she’s just offered to work through her lunch hour.
‘That’s remarkably quick,’ the consultant says, smiling as he relaxes. ‘Thank you. Much appreciated.’
The operator murmurs, ‘You’re welcome.’ Her eyes are glued to the screen where, one by one, cross-sections of Sam’s skull are being recorded. She’s seeing the images she expects now. What came on the screen before was unthinkable, unless a television or similar transmission had somehow found its way in. But she knows that is unprecedented and could never happen due to the shielding in the room. Even more strange, the scanner appeared to have completely shut down while the image was present. That in itself just didn’t make sense.
And she begins to seriously question whether she really saw anything in the first place.
The water wheel at the mill isn’t turning today because the miller has been expecting the Witchfinder General. It’s evident that the miller was standing watch at his window because as soon as the party swings into sight around the corner in the lane, he hurries out to meet Hopkins, most likely in a bid to plead for his daughter’s innocence.
But the miller is tongue-tied and unable to utter a word as he stands before Hopkins. The Witchfinder General studies the miller’s face through suspicious, slitted eyes, then barks, ‘Your girl in the woods – are there any marks on her? Are there any on your other children?’
The miller goes white as a sheet. Rumor has it the Witchfinder General has put around three hundred women to death, and that he isn’t averse to burning whole families at the stake if he thinks the devil’s touch has spread. The miller shoots a look back at the house where his wife and children are standing just inside the doorway, and he is stuttering so much that his answer is incomprehensible.
Handed a King James Bible by his lieutenant, Hopkins seizes the gibbering man by the arm and presses the book to his forehead. ‘Take strength, man. The Godly have no need to fear. Has your girl any marks or symbols on her? The numbers? Or paps? Does she have paps?’
‘Paps?’ the miller croaks, his stricken eyes staring at Hopkins from under the Bible.
‘Yes, rows of paps. On which imps or familiars suckle.’
‘No, nothing like that. She’s just our l—’ He lets out a small cry of shock as the Witchfinder General pushes the Bible even harder against his forehead, so hard that the smaller man staggers back a step. All the time Hopkins is throwing glances over his shoulder at the people who are gathering to watch. It’s obvious that he enjoys making a public spectacle of the proceedings.
‘Imps steal in at night for communin’. They are fleet and not easy to spot. They suckle on the blood of a witch,’ he proclaims loudly, pausing to measure the reaction from the growing crowd as they murmur in horror. Then he frowns and takes the Bible from the miller’s forehead. ‘We will now inspect you and your family for the signs.’
The miller tries to object but the lieutenant and the other men frogmarch him over to his house and push him roughly inside. Hopkins, the elder and the priest all remain where they are, waiting in silence, except that after a while Hopkins begins to hum what might be a hymn to himself. When there is a muffled scream from inside the house Hopkins stops for a second to listen, then resumes again.
His men appear at the doorway some ten minutes later, the miller again between them, looking flustered and red-faced. He’s pushed in the direction of the elder and the priest, while the lieutenant and the other two men go into a huddle with Hopkins.
Finally Hopkins turns to everyone. ‘No signs. The rest of the family appear untouched,’ he announces, with a disappointed nod at the priest, who has noticed that the miller’s shirt is hanging loosely outside his pants. It’s clear that the whole family has been subjected to physical inspections, even the miller himself. And as the miller tries to catch the priest’s eye, the priest is so ashamed to be part of this awful travesty that he can’t meet his gaze.
Hopkins takes several paces toward the crowd, who now number some thirty of the townfolk. He sighs theatrically. ‘There is only one thing to be done – we need to apprehend the witch. Has anyone had sight of her recently? Can any of you tell us where she is?’
There’s a stony silence from the crowd.
‘Then we’ll begin our search,’ Hopkins says. He warns the townfolk not to follow as he and his men take the track beside the river with the miller showing them the way. The miller seems to be being surprisingly helpful but that is because he’s terrified for the rest of his family. To refuse to cooperate with Hopkins might bring them back into the equation. The party crosses the river on the rickety footbridge to reach the flat stone on the opposite bank where Damaris always leaves her finished items.
There is a single basket woven from goat willow waiting on the stone, which Hopkins snatches up. It is a beautifully crafted item resembling a large teardrop in shape, with perfectly precise waves running around its circumference.
‘How many years is this girl?’ Hopkins asks.
The miller has to think for a second. ‘One score and five,’ he replies anxiously.
Holding the basket out at arm’s length as if it’s tainted, Hopkins examines her handiwork. ‘No. This is not your daughter’s craft. This is the skill of Old Hob.’ This last word is spoken with so much vehemence and disgust that Hopkins sounds as if he’s hawking up a massive frog from his throat and about to spit it out. ‘Satan has bestowed this gift upon her, for her favors.’
He suddenly brings the basket down squarely on the flat stone, swinging it with all his might. The blow does nothing because the basket is so well made, and Hopkins grows more and more angry as he tries again to inflict damage to it. On the fifth attempt, slamming it down each time with all his strength, all he manages to do is loosen the handle on one side.
Realizing he’s beginning to lose face in front of his audience, Hopkins gives up, flinging the basket into the river. As he watches it sink slowly into the brown waters, he speaks almost in a whisper. ‘Satan’s ways are seductive and full of temptation,’ he says. ‘We have to remain vigilant.’ With a frenetic vigor he rubs his palms on his pants as if he’s ridding them of dirt, then stops to inspect them. Everyone is forced to wait while he compulsively repeats this several times over, and only when he’s satisfied that they’re clean does he start toward the hill, a look of determination on his face.
As they come closer to the woodman’s hut, it’s impossible to miss the signs Damaris has left. The low-hanging branches of a beech by the side of the path have been plaited together to form an elaborate geometric design. And in another place, she has weaved reeds between saplings still rooted in the ground to make a miniature replica of the mill and the house in which she’d been raised. The miller is so moved that he holds a hand to his mouth to stifle a sob. It’s as if Damaris has been attempting to communicate the only way she knows how, and he wishes that he’d seen it earlier.
Then there is nothing for a stretch until they come across corn sculptures of the sun and a crescent moon suspended from the branches of a walnut tree. Both these celestial bodies are around a yard across, and have faces on them – the smiling faces of the miller and his wife. The likenesses are uncanny.
The miller is stopped dead in his tracks. He can’t take his eyes from them. Had he deserted his daughter when there’d been a way to help her? You never give up on your children whatever they’ve done or whatever they are.
But the miller had, and perhaps he could have averted this present, nightmarish situation. He’s overcome by guilt and regret and can’t keep back the tears. He turns away from the others in the party as he tries to hide his emotion. The elder and the priest don’t notice anyway, because they are staring at the sculptures with undisguised admiration. But Hopkins and his men react in a very different way, sucking in their breaths with disapproval. ‘T’is a perversion ... false image
s ... verily, a perversion,’ they grumble to one other, as if this is the final piece of evidence they require against the girl.
As they ascend farther, they find that the vegetation along the margins of the narrow trail has been trained and interlaced together. Dyssynchronous green waves border the way, as if Damaris is attempting to recreate the sea forty miles away that she’s never laid eyes on but has only been told about. The green breakers, flecked here and there with sun-bleached straw, sometimes swirl and join together to become overlapping circles of varying circumferences from one foot to five or more across. Damaris has continued these circular motifs high up into the canopies of the trees themselves. The physical effort and the ingenuity it must have taken to achieve something so extensive and to reach such great heights defies comprehension. No one in the party speaks as they tip back their heads to take in the dizzying display.
But Hopkins isn’t in the least impressed by the incredible artistry, shielding his eyes from it. ‘Look not upon the devil’s works,’ he orders, shivering dramatically. ‘The Beast’s hand is in this abomination, no mistake.’
Finally, with more of the green waves to show them the way, they reach the woodman’s hut. The foliage and the tree canopies around it have again been woven together, making a backdrop of green orbs like oversized Christmas baubles. On the ground around the hut mats are spread – it’s clearly where Damaris does her work. And although there are numerous sheaths of reeds and strips of bark drying on wooden racks beside a smoldering fire, Damaris isn’t anywhere to be seen.
‘She ’eard us on the way up. The witch ’as flown,’ the lieutenant says.
Nevertheless Hopkins instructs his men to conduct a thorough search of the hut and the surrounding area. In the hut they discover food that the miller’s children had left for Damaris the day before, and a bundle of clean clothes his wife had provided for her. Finding nothing else, they set light to the hut, the party standing back to watch as it is razed to the ground. Hopkins’ men are throwing all the dried reeds and the lengths of corn onto the fire, and smashing apart the tree sculptures they’re able to reach with their long staves.