In which the witch curses the boys.

Just then Bunel walked in holding two glowing lamps. He handed one to Gustave.

"You all right?" Bunel whispered. “You look green.” He cackled.

"We’ll take this one," Gustave pointed to the keyboard.  “Can you carry it? Let’s go.”

But Bunel did not reply. He had turned towards the interior doorway of the barn.

"Gustave!" he hissed. "Look!"           

It was the tall witch. Thorel Felix. He stood quite still, his bearded face obscured by a hood, the rest of him covered in a grey-black cloak with a yellow sheepskin mantle, in the shadows at the entrance to the stalls.

“Holy Mother, pray for us,” Gustave clutched Bunel’s sleeve and buried his face in it. “Now and . . . “

“Stop touching me,” Bunel shook him off.  Then he raised his voice. “I can smell you,” he said to the witch, whose eyes flickered.

 “Thorel Felix, are you?” Bunel took a step forward.  “Stop staring. What do you want?”

“Don’t ask him that!” Gustave gasped.

The witch said in a low thick voice, “You are the priest’s boys?”

“You know we are.”

Felix reached a hand up to the curling yellow nap of the sheepskin on his shoulders and stroked it, five times, six. They heard a crackle. Then he dropped his hand and began to walk across the barn towards them.

 “Stop,” Bunel said unsteadily. 

Felix stretched out his hands. "Animate, awake and stun your host with justice,” he said sonorously, his voice echoing in the barn. "Fear the closed doors and cloistered windows in which he suffocates, let his victim seek the open air. Anamis contro apta Malatrou Sabaoth misen. Fuge adolaripe ordina Gosselin, Uriel, Kirioni et Maxora." 

 “Gustave, what’s he saying?”

Gustave did not reply.  As Felix’s outstretched finger moved closer to his shoulder, he croaked, “God save me!” A blue CRACK of electricity shot between the witch’s finger and Gustave’s shoulder.  The boy shrieked and fell into the instruments, which crashed and clanged to the floor.

 

“Boys!” Father Lariat stood in the barn doorway.  “What in heaven’s name is going on?” 

 

The witch’s arm disappeared beneath his cloak.  Lariat tried to take in the scene in front of him. It was the tall black-haired one, he realized. The one who at Gosselin’s sentencing had said to him something about enjoying a quiet life.

 “He cursed us,” Bunel pointed at Felix.  “He said, it was about stunning your host with justice, but he . . . “

“Father, he electrocuted me,” Gustave pulled at his lapel.  “See? He rubbed that sheepskin and made a curse.”

Lariat turned from the boys to Felix, who had retreated to the stable doorway. 

“What do you have to say for yourself?” he demanded.

“Free Gosselin,” Felix hissed.

“Free a charlatan, you say?” Lariat forced a laugh. “Gosselin is where he belongs.” He held out his hand.  “Let me see your sheepskin, witch. Come now.”

Felix slowly slid the yellow mantle off his shoulders. 

“It won’t take a moment.” Bunel, handling it as if it were hot, took the skin from the witch and gave it to Lariat.

“Thank you.” Lariat folded the skin and tucked it under his arm.  “I will be keeping this, Thorel Felix,” he said.

“But I . . .” the witch began.

“You shouldn’t frighten children with it. Gustave, come with me to the cart.  Good day, Thorel Felix.”

“Free Gosselin.”

  “Bunel, bring the keyboard home.  Here is the money you boys forgot. And get Alex a new axe blade; he needs one for chopping wood.” 

“I’ll need more,” Bunel said, but Lariat ignored him.

 “As for you, Thorel Felix, Gosselin will remain in jail where he belongs.  Your weapon, such as it is, has been confiscated. From now on leave these boys alone.”

Thorel Felix said nothing.  He turned and disappeared into the stalls.  Lariat took Gustave by the arm and led him through the cacophonous machines down the path and out the gate. 

 

Bunel watched the cart and its occupants trot away down the road.  Then he wandered over to the food table, swiped one of the wedges of game pie and shoved it in his pocket.  “He should have given me more money,” he muttered.

Thorel Felix was still in the mayor’s yard, standing by a trestle table next to the house.  Bunel walked slowly towards him, pulling chunks of the pie out of his pocket and pushing them in his mouth.

When he arrived at the table, Bunel saw it was covered with measuring instruments: stiff rulers, tape measures, height sticks and barometers. As he came close he saw Thorel Felix wave his flat palm over a dozen compasses. All the needles under the witch’s hand, in one direction, veered off North.