The White Feather Hex

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  The White Feather Hex

  _BY DON PETERSON_

  [Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales March 1951.Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyrighton this publication was renewed.]

  Heading by the Author

  You waited till the feather turned red.]

  It all started with a Dutchman, a Pennsylvania Dutchman named PeterScheinberger, who tilled a weather beaten farm back in the hills.

  A strong, wiry man he was--his arms were knotted sections of solidhickory forming themselves into gnarled hands and twisted stubs offingers. His furrowed brow, dried by the sun and cracked in a millionplaces by the wind was well irrigated by long rivulets of sweat. When hewent forth in the fields behind his horse and plow, it wasn't longbefore his hair was plastered down firmly to his scalp. The salty waterpoured out of the deep rings in his ruddy neck and ran down his darkbrown back. As he grew older the skin peeled and grew loose. It hung onhim in folds like the brittle hide of a rhino.

  It seemed that the more years he spent in his fields behind the plowhorse, the more he slipped back into the timeless tradition of hisforefathers. He was a proud descendant of a long line of staunch Germansettlers commonly known as the Pennsylvania Dutch. He grew up in hisfundamental, religious sect having never known any other environment. Hewas exposed to the sun, soil, and wind from the early days of hischildhood, and along with the elements he also was exposed to the evilsof the _hexerei_. The _hexerei_, or witchcraft, was something that wasnever doubted or scoffed at by his people. Then why should he, a goodPennsylvania Dutchman, doubt or scoff at such tradition?

  Perhaps, had he moved away from his ancestral lands and had beencultured in modern communities, been educated and raised in otherschools, he might have matured. But having no time for any otherdiversions than might be found on his rustic homestead, he grew upbehind the plow horse, tramping in the dark, stony pasture land, ekingout his meager existence from the black fields of Pennsylvania.

  Now, Peter's life could have gone on unnoticed among these forgottenhills, except for the strange visit of Martin G. Mirestone, student ofGerman history.

  It was a cold night when Peter met Mirestone. Peter had been sitting uprather late pondering over an old, yellowed book by the light of akerosene lamp. The pale flame flickered about the walls sending shadowsscurrying back and forth creating all types of weird shapes and designs.Peter huddled over the withered pages, every now and then glancing up atthe walls to watch the fantastic games that light and dark were playing.Then putting his book aside for the night he prepared to go to bed.

  He went over to the window to draw the shutters, stopping for an instantto peer out into the gloom along the stony path that ran from his houseto an old foot-bridge about fifty feet away. Curling up from the gorge,mist seemed to play among the rotted planks; it rose and fell in greatbillowing blankets, sometimes concealing the structure from view.

  * * * * *

  Peter was about to latch the shutter and leave when his attention wasfocused upon a figure that seemed to emerge from the fog--sort of fadingin from nowhere. It made its way across the narrow span like someghostly apparition. The mist enveloped his legs and clouded hisfeatures. Peter drew back in terror, for the mere appearance of the mancoming out of the darkness was enough to fill his infant brain withvisions of death and _hexerei_.

  As the figure drew closer Peter saw that it was wearing a cloak. All themore ghostly it appeared with the cloak sailing behind him in the windlike some devil's banner. Peter just stood transfixed as he watched thestranger come up the winding road to his house.

  Slamming the shutter he hurriedly fastened it and then turned to thedoor to bolt that also. Too late. The door was thrown open revealing atall man clothed in black. His face was wreathed in a wide grin--a grinthat seemed to make fun of the grayish pallor of his face and theominous appearance of his wild garb. Before the man stepped inside,Peter made a mental image of the scene, for it was to be firmly imbeddedin his mind so that he would never forget the slightest detail for therest of his life--the wind blowing about the fierce visage, tossing upthe long strands of hair; the massive, veined hand that clutched thewrought iron thumb-latch, and the way that the lamp struck his face,highlighting the thin, ridged nose and high cheekbones.

  "Peter Scheinberger, heh?" the man spoke in perfect German. "PeterScheinberger, the last of your clan here in America."

  It was several seconds before Peter could muster up enough courage toanswer him. Drawing back slowly he braced himself against the table, andin a thick, guttural German asked, "Who are you?"

  The stranger shut the door and drew the bolt. He crossed the room and,with an air of one who was accustomed to having his own way wherever hewent, scanned the shelves of Peter's larder with a practiced eye.

  Peter watched him closely as he drew down a bottle of wine, broke theneck against a beam above him, and settled down in Peter's easy chair.He poured a glass full and shoved it across the table towards theanxious Peter, and then poured another glass for himself.

  "Mirestone," the stranger finally answered, "Martin G. Mirestone." Then,draining his glass, he added, "Student of German history."

  All this was beyond Peter's comprehension. No one ever had the audacityto walk into his house and help himself to whatever he wanted--he wasindeed unheard of in his tiny social world.

  "Well, what are you staring at?" Mirestone boomed out. "Take my cloak,please, then be seated. We'll talk."

  Taking the cloak and draping it over a wooden peg in the wall, Petermoved cautiously around the foreboding character that monopolized hissmall house. Carefully seating himself opposite the man, he moved thetable so that it set between them as a protective barrier.

  "I'll make myself clear to you," Mirestone explained, "For I want mystay to be as brief as possible."

  He poured himself another glass of wine, then settled back in the chair,half closing his eyes. "You see, I am a student, you might say, ofGerman history or folklore. I am in the process of writing a collectivehistory of the Pennsylvania Dutch folk, their habits, beliefs, and--" hebroke off for an instant as he leaned forward across the table, staringinto the frightened eyes of Peter "--and their superstitions."

  Shifting his chair around in order to get benefit from the heat of thefireplace, Mirestone went on. "Now I want facts, Scheinberger, authenticfacts. I am prepared to pay you well for your trouble, but I insist oninformation that is backed up with sound, accurate truth."

  Peter became more relaxed but still slightly uneasy. He didn't like theattitude of this man, Mirestone. He was too sure of himself--altogethertoo cocky. But then on the other hand he had said there would be afinancial gain from any business that he could transact with him. Moneywas something that Peter knew he needed in order to keep his farm going,and any income, however small it may be, would be welcomed gratefully.Yes, he decided that he had better endure the rudeness of this man.

  For a few seconds, however, the tall stranger seemed to lose all of hiscockiness, and a somber look crept over his jovial features. "Have youever heard of the hex of the white feather?"

  Peter thought a moment before he replied. "Yes. I have heard of it."Then nervously he fingered his glass of wine that he had not as yettouched. Raising it up to his lips he sipped it slowly as he stared atMirestone over the rim of the glass. "Yes. I have heard of it," herepeated.

  "Good, good. You have heard of it. Now, you will tell me about it, ofcourse. I want to know all about it--how it is practiced, the results,and so forth."

  "Is that why you came here? Only to learn of the white fea
ther hex?"

  * * * * *

  Mirestone climbed to his feet and paced the room. "Yes," he said. Peternoted a sad tone in his voice, and he waited for him to say more.

  "Yes," Mirestone continued. "I have, like you, heard of the hex of thewhite feather. I have traced it down to several families, but none couldtell me anything about it that was factual. Half of the stupid foolsmade up stories as they went along--some concocting the biggest bunch ofasinine tales that I've ever heard. But you, Peter, are a descendant ofthe Scheinbergers. I know for a fact that Otto Scheinberger practicedthe white feather hex and passed the power on down to your father. Fromthere it stopped. However, there must be some record of it in yourfamily. You are in possession of the books of your grandfather, aren'tyou?"

  "I have several of his books. Some of them I have read."

  "Well," Mirestone waited. "Did you come across anything about the hex?"

  "Yes," answered Peter. "I read about that which you mention."

  "Splendid, now we are getting somewhere. Can you find me the book thattells of it?"

  Peter finished drinking his wine and setting the glass upon the table,he slowly rose and faced Mirestone with a look of superiority playingabout his rustic features. "No, I am afraid not. You see, I have burnedthe book."

  Mirestone's face went white. "You burned it?"

  "Yes," said Peter. "I don't wish to have anything to do with such blackmagic. It is better burned."

  "But you must remember the hex. Although the book is destroyed you stillhave the information in your head, _nein_?"

  "I could never forget it if I wanted to," replied Peter reluctantly. "IfI could burn my memory also it would be better."

  Mirestone went back to the fireplace and placed several chunks of woodon the blaze. A bright orange glow leaped out from the hearth and dancedmockingly over his pallid brow, hiding his lank jowls in the shadowscast by the cheekbones. Like some grim spectre he rose up, toweringabove the little Dutchman. Peter had only to look into his eyes to seethe imperative request that lingered behind the hollowed sockets.

  * * * * *

  Throughout the remainder of the night Peter, almost in spite of himself,wracked his brain to bring back to mind everything that was mentioned inthe book about the hex of the white feather. The idea was clear enough,but the minute details, the infinite possibilities for mistake, and theexacting specifications concerning the experiment were blurred in hismemory. He knew that with time he could bring back everything that hehad read, but it would take deep concentration and, perhaps, many daysof trial and error to determine the right path that they must follow inorder to have success.

  Mirestone, realizing that any distraction would break Peter's train ofthought, sat quietly in the corner finishing off the Dutchman's supplyof wine. He watched Peter closely through his slitted eyes, and itseemed that his compelling stare was the only force that could drive thefrightened Peter on. Every so often Peter would glance up and seeMirestone leaning back in the corner half concealed by the deepshadows--only his partially opened eyes could be seen flickering in thefiery glow of the hearth. Then he would cover his face with his large,knotted hands, work the twisted fingers through his hair, and try tobring back to mind the evil recipe.

  The glow from the fireplace gradually died down to make room for thestreams of morning dawn. Peter blinked sleepily and got up to stretch abit. Outside the dull morning light worked its way over Peter'sfarm--clouds of mist still poured up from the gorge, circling the bridgeand creeping up the bank across the fields. Peter unlatched the heavyoaken door and went outside to the outbuildings.

  Meanwhile, Mirestone had started a fire in the stove and was placingslabs of bacon in the pan. "Nothing like a good old-fashioned peasant'sbreakfast," he laughed as Peter came in the door several minutes later."So, you brought a goat, heh?" he noticed. "Are you figuring on startingin soon?"

  Peter set a small kid on the floor and watched it scamper about theroom, looking for an exit. "Yes, we might as well. I don't like thisbusiness at all. I wish to get it over with as soon as possible,and----" Peter eyed Mirestone squarely. "I expect to be paid well for mytrouble." He was trying to make himself believe that that was his onlyreason for complying with Mirestone's demands. Actually he was not sosure....

  * * * * *

  As the heat of the noon day sun blasted down on their backs, Mirestonewatched Peter pass a feather, freshly plucked from a white Leghorn,under the nose of the bleating kid. Mirestone listened carefully to whatPeter was telling him. The breath of the victim had to be spread overthe feather before anything further could be done.

  "Tie him," commanded Peter. Mirestone held the goat by the scruff of hisneck and fastened a halter about him. The other end was secured to astake allowing the kid to run about in a circle of ten feet or so indiameter.

  "We will leave him for awhile," said Peter as he walked back to thekitchen.

  Mirestone followed in the Dutchman's footsteps, and when they wereinside, he listened intently as Peter recited a monosyllabic chant overthe feather. "The chant is easy enough to learn," Peter assured him."You will master it quickly."

  "I understand so far," Mirestone said.

  "Then that is all," Peter finished, "except that you can hang thefeather up and watch it grow red."

  "Red?"

  "Yes," Peter explained, "That is the only way you can tell if the hexhas worked."

  Peter went to a chest at the foot of his bed and drew out a small box ofsewing utensils. He broke off a piece of black thread and replaced thebox in the chest. "Now I'll show you what I mean," Peter spoke wearilyas he tied the feather with the thread and suspended it from one of therafters in the room. "Just sit and watch."

  It was not many minutes before a light red tint crept up the feather'squill, spreading slowly outwards towards the fringed edges. Deeper anddeeper grew the intensity of the color until it reached a pure bloodred.

  "Hurry outside," cried Peter. "You can see the goat in its last secondsof life."

  Mirestone hurried after the Dutchman. Jerking at the halter the goatbleated in agony, prancing up and down frantically. Its eyes grewhorribly bloodshot and finally closed. With a feeble, choking sigh, theanimal dropped over on its side, its legs still twitching spasmodically.Mirestone bent over the hairy form and examined the head, now wet withperspiration.

  "Nothing can be done for the beast?"

  "No." Peter looked on with a touch of pity in his eyes, "Nothing can bedone once the feather has turned red."

  As if the death of the kid was their cue, masses of thick thunderheadsturned over with a deep rumbling thunder. The sky became crystal clear,and a greenish glow could be seen working its way across the horizon.The sky darkened as the glistening thunderheads now taking on an ominouscoloring warned the farmers of the impending storm.

  It was later that evening. Rain drummed against the slate roof ofPeter's house and reverberated through the rooms to where Mirestone andthe Dutchman sat by the fire in silence. Mirestone broke the stillatmosphere by putting forth a question that Peter somehow knew would becoming sooner or later.

  "I wonder how the hex would react on a human being?"

  Peter hoped to end the topic by answering him quickly and not beatingaround the bush trying to evade the question. "It would kill himeventually. Maybe not so quick as the goat, but it would kill him."

  "What do you mean not as quickly as the goat--do you think it would takemore time on a human?"

  "Perhaps. I have heard of cases in which the hex, once it was started,dragged on for many days."

  "I see." Mirestone sat back again thinking to himself.

  Peter didn't like this. He wanted to get rid of Mirestone. "Well, youhave your information. I showed you how the hex works. So, why not payme and leave?"

  Mirestone got up and laughed in the Dutchman's face. Crossing to thelarder, he brought down a bottle, cracking the neck on the beam above,just a
s he had done the night before. A wave of apprehension overcamePeter as he realized the old flip attitude of Mirestone's was comingback. That meant definite trouble, and Peter began to fear theconsequences.

  "So, why not pay me and leave?" he again ventured. "Or do you wantsomething else?" Peter knew that he didn't need to ask that lastquestion, for already he realized the grim experiment that was playingabout in Mirestone's head.

  "Yes. I just told you what I wanted. I want to see the hex on a humanbefore I go."

  "Why? You have your information. Why do you want to see it work on aman?"

  "My stupid, little peasant friend, do I look like a student of history?"

  For the first time Peter actually looked at Mirestone and saw him forwhat he was. Of course, he couldn't be a student. No student would actas he did, or even look as he did. The words jammed in his throat as hewas about to voice a reply.

  "Ha--Martin G. Mirestone, student of history, student of German history.No my little oxen friend. I am no more a student of history than youare, but I need the hex for other reasons which do not concern you."Then as if he were contemplating a great new joke he continued. "But onthe other hand, maybe the future of the white feather hex does concernyou."

  Mirestone's voice was drowned out by a heavy rumbling of thunder and theincreased splashing of rain on the windows. But somehow Peter seemed notto notice.

  * * * * *

  Somewhat later Mirestone stepped quietly over to the