Swords & Heroes Story #12

“The Widow Ayers” by B. Harlan Crawford

Oct 29, 2024

Halloween is just around the corner, and this tricky tale from Ben Crawford is just what the Great Pumpkin ordered. It’s another Lovecraftian pirate adventure with a witchy twist featuring the notorious ‘Mad’ Morwenna Jones from Story #1, “A Hiss from the Mound.” Those of you who backed our Lovecraftian-Sherlockian mashup, Sherlock & Friends: Eldritch Investigations, will remember this as a bonus PDF chapbook. For most this will be new. Either way, if you’re familiar with any of Crawford’s works (or not), you’re in for a treat! + Ed.

When Widow Ayers is taken for a witch, there comes to her defense a surprising advocate and a reluctant clerk. It doesn’t take them long to realize there’s more to her story than mere hints of witchcraft…

The Widow Ayers by B. Harlan Crawford

“But the devils cannot interfere with the stars.” ― Heinrich Kramer, Malleus Maleficarum

— I —

I will own that even now in my dotage, I am neither wise nor of particularly strong character, but after bearing witness to the events I am about to relate to you, I came to the conclusion there is naught on God’s earth that can frighten me again. One does not look upon the face of primal, naked horror and come away unchanged.

It was in the summer of the Year of our Lord sixteen-hundred and seventy-five that our village of Farnam’s Green was plagued by a series of unpleasant events ranging from crop failures to the mutilation of livestock, culminating with the disappearance of no less than five of the village children.

As to not belabor this account, I will leave off the tortuous series of events the led to Goody Quincy stating her child was last seen upon the property of the Widow Ayers, and the particulars of the Widow Ayers’ arrest and questioning. Suffice it to say the widow was suspected of being in a league with Satan and a witch. It was determined she should be compelled to confess as much for the good of the community and for the redemption of her immortal soul.

Widow Ayers was a remarkable looking woman to say the least. She was of middle years, pale and gaunt, with a grim countenance and steely gray eyes. But her most striking feature was a complete absence of hair from her entire body. She concealed this with a bonnet or a hooded cloak.

After the death of Goodman Ayers (a peculiar gentleman in his own right), she kept to herself more often than not. She attended church services regularly, to be sure, but did not partake in the fellowship of the congregation. This, among other peculiarities, convinced Elder Goodman Checketts, that the Widow Ayers was in fact a witch.

Here I must pause to mention the other accused witch that was apprehended that same week. Widow Ayers was arrested on a Saturday. ’Twas on the evening of the following Monday that a strange woman arrived on foot at the house of Goodman Worby, giving him the name Mary Purlee, and asking if she might shelter in his barn for the night, offering him a piece of Spanish silver by way of payment.

This woman was also of remarkable appearance. Dark of hair and eye, with a skin bronzed by the sun. She was dressed as a man in outlandish finery: red silk breeches, high leather boots, a coat of Spanish make in black and yellow. Her billowing white silken blouse was left open to the navel, exposing Goodman Worby to a scandalous amount of womanly flesh. This also allowed him to note that the flesh about her neck was marred by thick scars, as though from a hangman’s noose. Perhaps more alarmingly, she carried a heavy cutlass from a leathern baldric, and a brace of pistols thrust into the green sash wound about her hips. Another green silk scarf was tied about her head and was topped by a wide-brimmed and beplumed black felt hat.

This Mary Purlee was not unlovely despite her scars and gaudy attire, but Goodman Worby was horrified by her general lack of decorum, for as she spoke with him she chewed upon a great wad of tobacco, punctuating her sentences by spitting copiously upon his yard. Further, her speech was laced with the foulest of profanities, so severe as to set alight the ears of a God-fearing man like Goodman Worby. Worby also noted that Mary Purlee was filthy and smelled abominably.

The next morning, Worby came to the home of Goodman Checketts and related to him an account of Mary Purlee’s arrival. He further stated that he had occasion to visit his barn sometime after midnight and witnessed Mary Purlee in communion with a black goat, and she both cavorted with it and spoke with it in tongues. Goodman Checketts ordered Mary Purlee’s immediate arrest, suggesting it likely she was part of a coven with the Widow Ayers.

Purlee was easily apprehended, as she lay insensate beside an empty rum bottle. Goodman Rideout, who often conducted business that took him to Plymouth, stated that Mary Purlee matched the description of one ‘Mad’ Morwenna Jones, a somewhat notorious she-pirate wanted by The Crown. Jones was disarmed and locked in the corncrib under the watchful eye of Goodman Stubbs, who had armed himself with a peculiar flintlock pistol/axe combination he had from a Polish trader. The decision was made to extract a confession for the Widow Ayers first, as nothing could be gained from Morwenna Jones while she lay in a drunken stupor.

The widow was taken to Goodman Checketts barn for questioning. I will not go into the full details of the methods applied to the Widow Ayers, suffice it to say they were unpleasant. I was a callow, ignorant youth at the time and had beheld aught of the womanly mysteries nor of violence. I was exposed to both that day in such a manner that it did scar my soul for the rest of my days. It is perhaps the reason that all my life I have remained both unmarried and chaste. Aye that, and another reason I will share later.

For now, I will relate only the details needed to properly inform you of what occurred. Goodman Checketts, aided by Goodman Tillerson, were to extract the confession from the widow Ayers. I was told to act as clerk, and record all that transpired should the authorities in Plymouth question our actions. The widow was stripped naked and secured to a pair of sawhorses. Checketts and Tillerson worked on her all day. A great many torments were inflicted upon her, she wailed in pain, but would not answer any question put to her, nor confess to any congress with Satan.

Midnight came and went, and Goodman Checketts was probing the widow Ayres with long sharp needles, seeking areas that when pierced, produced no outcry from her. These would be the places the devil had touched her. He also pointed out to me peculiar markings and superfluous details of the widow’s body, these I was forced to record in my ledger.

At length Checketts grew thirsty and weary from his labors.

“Tillerson!” said he. “Get thee to the well and fetch me water, this is thirsty work.”

Tillerson nodded and went to the small door on the side of the barn; I was watching him, as I sought to look at any sight save Widow Ayers tied so vulgarly to the sawhorses. As he swung the door open, the whole of Tillerson’s head exploded in a cloud of scarlet. Checketts and I were sprayed with his blood and pelted with bits of his skull and brains.

Morwenna Jones leapt through the doorway into our midst, wild-eyed and baring her teeth like a cornered wolf. She’d been stripped of all her begrimed finery save for blouse, breeches, and boots. In her hands she held Stubbs’ Polish flintlock axe, its barrel smoking.

Checketts, for lack of any other weapon, brandished one of the needles he’d been using to torment the widow Ayers. “Foul witch! Get thee—”

Whatever Checketts had to say was cut short. Morwenna closed the distance between them and slashed him savagely across the belly. There was a shower of blood, and Checketts fell forward writhing in the tangle of his entrails. He had scarcely met the ground when Morwenna swung the axe down upon his head, dashing his brains out upon the dusty barn floor.

Her eyes then fell upon me.

So fast had the events unfolded, and so deeply had they shocked me, I still sat dumbly upon the milking-stool with quill and ledger in hand. Dropping those, I fumbled for the matchlock leaning against the wall nearby, but the she-pirate was upon me. She forced me to the ground and straddled me, raising the axe. To my shame, I offered little resistance saves to cover my face and whimper. I was neither a strong lad, nor brave.

Morwenna’s maniacal glare faded as she looked upon me, replaced by a sardonic grin spreading across her face. Twice she jerked her arms as though to drop the axe on my skull, and twice did I squeal and flinch. Laughing, she seized me by the ear and pulled me up.

“On your feet, ye baldpated little toad!” said she.

(It was my misfortune that my shock of red hair did fall away near completely by the time I was eighteen, and my height never reached more than five feet.)

Morwenna gestured at the trussed up Widow Ayres and Goodman Checketts. Then commanded me in a thick Cornish accent, “Cut her loose! And throw that dog’s cloak about her!”

I did as I was bid while the she-pirate took up the matchlock and went to the door, no doubt to watch for the arrival of anyone who might investigate the gunshot. I cut the widow’s bonds and helped her to the milking stool. She moaned slightly as I guided her, her flesh was cold, slick with blood and sweat. I went to remove the cloak from Goodman Checketts, but balked when my hands came in contact with his pulped skull. This further enraged Morwenna Jones. She turned upon me, eyes ablaze and the scars about her neck livid.

“Damn yer eyes! Move sharply, baldpate! And where be the balance of me property!”

Nervously I pointed to the main house. “There! Goodman Checketts placed your things in his house to secure them before bringing the widow here.”

“Aye! Secure them, did he? A very conscientious man, this Checketts. See here, baldpate! I’ll be going to yon house to secure me property. You get yerself and yon lady ready to travel. Cross me and by God ye’ll make a feast of yer own liver!”

I feared for the safety of Checketts’ wife and children who slumbered in yon house. But such was my cowardice, I only did as I was bid and aided the Widow Ayers. Her clothing was nearby and I helped her dress. Slowly she came to herself again. She said nothing, but looked upon me with venomous hate, and, I fancied, disappointment.

She regarded me thus from the milking stool while I stood about fidgeting uselessly. Such was the state Morwenna Jones found us in when she returned to the barn. She had outfitted herself once more in her full attire and accoutrements, save for her wide hat. She also carried a laden sack over her shoulder, this she cast to the ground.

“Ye spoke true, baldpate! All me property lie in the anteroom. Save me hat, oh, and me gold ear-hoops, and three silver chains, and the wee purse of Spanish silver I carried. I wonder where those could have got to?”

“I don’t know of any such items!” I stammered.

Morwenna sneered and knelt by the corpse of Goodman Checketts. She rifled through his garments. To my surprise she produced from his waistcoat the purse in question.

“Ah! The noble Goodman Checketts. I see he gave special consideration to me more valuable possessions! What’s this then? It seems, in an effort to further safeguard me property, he‘s placed me silver chains about his own neck!”

Morwenna tugged and pulled upon the three silver necklaces, struggling to work them around the ruined mass of Goodman Checketts’ head. Her efforts caused more of his gray matter to tumble out on the ground along with one of his eyeballs. My stomach churned and I felt I would retch.

She rose and, working a quid of tobacco about in her mouth, spat full in the ruined face of Goodman Checketts.

“His wife, children…” I uttered.

Morwenna turned to me with an arched eyebrow, fitting a gold hoop into her earlobe. “Smothered them in their beds, I did, baldpate! Children first, of course, they struggle less!”

I nearly swooned. “You’re a monster!” I groaned.

The she-pirate guffawed and grinned at me with stained teeth.

“I but jest with ye, toad! They sleep safe and sound. I’m as quiet as a cat when I’ve a mind for it! And I’m no child killer, nor a wife killer. I never killed no-one what wasn’t like to kill me in turn! True, his family will be much grieved by his passing, but I warrant they be better off without such a blackguard as head of their household!”

“How did you escape the corncrib? How did you get past Stubbs?”

“Was that the oaf’s name? I shewed yer Stubbs about a hand’s breadth of the flesh of me bosom. He fairly fell over himself unlocking the door and joining me in yon corncrib. Then I put about a hand’s breadth of the dirk I had hid in me boot in the dog’s heart. Always take a prisoner’s boots from them, baldpate.”

Rage filled me. “Murderess!” I spat. “Truly thou art a minion of the Devil! Goodman Worby was right to name you a witch!”

“Witch? So that’s what this is! That explains your treatment of yon spinster! Worby named me a witch, did he?”

“Aye! He saw you in communion with the Devil in the form of a black goat!”

“He saw me in communion with this purse of Spanish silver more likely! It’s lighter than it was. Checketts must have give him his share ere coming hither! Had I more time I’d visit that scurvy dog and crop his ears rightly!”

“What do you intend?” I asked.

“Beat it out of here forthwith. I can’t bring me self to leave yon spinster in the hands of you lot, so she comes with me. I’ve no wish to carry her though. Since you had a part in putting her in the state she’s in, you can help her along. Carry yon sack as well! In it is vittles I procured from Checketts’ larder.”

Mechanically, I obeyed. Shouldering the sack and helping the widow Ayers to her feet. “Where would you go?” I asked.

The Widow Ayers spoke up, her voice a hoarse croak. “I have…family…a day’s march from here. They will receive us.”

Mad Morwenna Jones shouldered the matchlock and spat once more upon the corpse of Goodman Checketts.

“There ye have it, baldpate! Now step lively ere we wake any more of yer neighbors!”

— II —

We stole out of Farnam’s Green under cover of darkness. That no one in the village awoke to challenge us I at the time chalked up to an enchantment laid on them by one of the witches. My suspicions of diabolical influence seemed further reinforced when, following directions croaked to her by the Widow Ayers, whom I supported as we traveled, Morwenna Jones led us through the benighted forest without lantern or torch. She scoffed when I mentioned this seeming wonder.

“Me livelihood depends on a keen eye, baldpate! You Puritans dull your eyesight too much poring over scripture by candlelight!”

“We are likely to run afoul of the natives, blundering about like this,” said I.

“I doubt they’d receive me any worse than your people did, baldpate! So I fear them not. Besides, I’ve had dealings with more than a few red men since I was put ashore in Saint Augustine, I can handle them.”

“Put ashore?” I asked.

“Aye! Me crew decided they’d had their fill of being captained by a woman, and handed me over to the Spaniards for the reward! Bloody ingrates! They’d amassed more booty under my command than they had in all their bloody lives, yet still they’d put me head in the noose and be captained by some dullard who had the fortune to be born with a cock a-dangle twixt his legs! A pox on the lot of them!”

“The Spaniards wanted to hang you? Is that how your neck…”

“Nay, I got the scars when I slipped a noose in Jamaica. That be another tale. I told the Spaniards that I was with child, that stalled them long enough for me to escape. I’ve been making me way north since. A damned slog it’s been too! Naught but wilderness filled with savages, wild beasts, and worse! Then I survive all this to fall afoul of witch hunters not a day’s ride from Plymouth! A witch! Were I a witch, baldpate, I’d climb on me broomstick and fly back to Port Royal!”

“Pullens,” said I.

“Eh?”

“My name is Jeremiah Pullens, not Baldpate.”

“Ha! Starting to come into some balls are ye! So be it, young master Pullens! Tell me, how came you to be so bald at such a tender age.”

“I know not. ’Tis God’s will.”

“Well said! Tell me Pullens, do ye still think me a witch?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“And the spinster there…?”

“She’s not a spinster. She’s a widow. The Widow Ayers.”

The Widow Ayers took a deep gasping breath, and spoke. Her voice was a bit stronger now. “Mercy Ayers. My husband’s name was Uriah Ayers. I am no witch! The charges against me were lies.”

“But the Quincy girl was last seen at your farm, and Goody Proctor stated she saw a great crow light upon your porch and speak in your ear!” said I.

“More lies! I am no witch.”

“But your appearance. Your hairlessness.”

“An affliction. I cannot help it. You are quite bald for a young lad, Pullens, are you in league with Satan?”

“Riddle me this, Master Pullens,” said Morwenna. “To whom goes Goody Ayers’ property should she be hanged as a witch?”

“That would have been up to Goodman Checketts and the Elders to decide.”

“And there it is! Surely you’ve some brains in that outsized noggin, Pullens! Use ’em. It’s the same racket the Spaniards and Old Hopkins got up to on the Continent. And they’d hang me for piracy! Ha! I’ll retire to Bethlem!”

Not having a suitable retort, I lapsed into silence. We trudged onward. It grew hotter, more humid. I found the occasional contact with the skin of the widow Ayers cooling, and enjoyed it. This made me uncomfortable. After a space, she whispered to me.

“Who are your parents, boy?”

“Wilbur and Silence Pullens. They died of the fever that struck four years agone. I have been ward of Goodman Checketts since.”

“Wilbur and Silence,” she repeated, then spoke up for Morwenna to hear. “Not far now! My people are just beyond yon hill. There’s a valley behind it.”

The trees thinned as we began ascending the hill. It was steep and the going was rough. I would have paused to rest but I wished to show no further weakness to Mad Morwenna Jones. She showed no signs of fatigue, marching straight up the incline without pause. Only when we reached the summit did she stop. I eased the Widow Ayers to the ground and stooped, wheezing.

Morwenna spat out her quid of tobacco and began digging a fresh one out of the bag of the stuff she kept in her coat.

The sky was growing brighter with the promise of coming dawn and we could make out a lushly forested valley below. The Widow Ayers staggered forward and gestured.

“There, in the fork formed by the trees, see the smoke?”

Indeed we did. There was a thin blue line writhing up from the canopy.

“Let’s be going then,” said Morwenna. “I’m for leaving you off with your people and making me way to Plymouth. Time I felt a deck pitch beneath me feet again. You be free to do as you like, young master Pullens, once we put Mercy here in the hands of her people. We’ll keep quiet about your part in her trial. Agreed, Mercy?”

“Aye. I hold no grudge against Goodman Pullens.”

I was somewhat relieved, but there was something in the manner in which the Widow Ayers pronounced ‘Goodman’ that made me uneasy.

— III —

The trek down the hill and into the valley was arduous but uneventful. It was midday when we arrived at our destination.

I will say I found it most unsettling when we found ourselves not before a village, or house, or even a rude cottage of roughhewn timbers. But a black cave mouth, framed by gnarled tree roots, gaping in the side of a moss covered hill. Blue gray smoke billowed out of it and into the leafy canopy.

Morwenna spat, and shifted the matchlock off of her shoulder. She slowly turned to face the widow and me, casually blowing on the lit end of the match, it glowed brightly in the shaded wood.

“So this is it then, Mercy? The home of your people?”

“It is.”

Mercy Ayers lifted herself from my supporting shoulder and strode gracefully toward the cave mouth. Morwenna watched her pass, and came to me. The she-pirate grinned and pressed the matchlock into my arms.

“Ready yourself, young master Pullens,” she whispered. “Now comes yer chance for redemption.”

Mercy Ayers dropped the cloak from her shoulders and tore the linen bonnet from her head. Its hairless globe seemed to glow palely in the dim light of the forest. She turned to us and smiled, stretching out her arms as though seeking an embrace.

“This is the home of my people! Welcome! They will soon come forth to great you! A feast will be held in your honor! Oh, but it will be festive!”

Morwenna spat another dark stream upon the leaf-carpeted ground. She stood with her legs braced wide, her hands resting on the butts of the flintlocks in her sash. “I suppose not attending said feast be out of the question?”

“Indeed,” stated Mercy Ayers. “In fact, the feast cannot occur without the both of you in attendance!”

“No doubt owing to the fact that we be the main course, am I right, Mercy?”

Mercy Ayers inclined her bulbous head slightly. “You are a sharp one, Morwenna Jones. When did you know?”

“I told you I had a keen eye, Mercy. I suspected something was amiss when you said you had people living less than a day’s march from Farnam’s Green. Any white man’s settlement or household would be known and spoke of locally. That was not the case. Nor were you overly concerned with encountering the red Indians. Even if the white men here were on good terms with the local tribes, one still doesn’t stamp about in their woods at night without challenge. That meant to me the red man shuns this area. But I dismissed all that as the jaded suspicions of a villainous pirate. Yet, when I started seeing wee human bones, ill-concealed along the trail as we entered the vale, I was assured we’d walked into a trap.”

My heart sank and my stomach churned. God help me! My worst fears were realized. I raised the matchlock.

“So it was true! Thou art a witch, Mercy Ayers! Eater of children! Jesus Christ preserve me!”

Mercy Ayers turned and leered at me with a diabolical grin.

“Again with the witchcraft! Superstitious fool! I and my kind are no more supernatural than yon pine tree or yon moss, or you upstart apes! My ancestors sailed the frigid gulfs of blackness between the stars and established our place on this world when your kind were but the playthings of Na’aga-Ka and the Serpent Folk! From our spires and minarets we knew power and glory! But then the red-handed barbarian kings of forgotten Valusia and Aquilonia, Acheron and Commoria, drove us from our strongholds! Robbed us of our cosmic wings and divine instrumentality!

“We fled across the Western Ocean, but our numbers had grown few. We hid below the earth. We became stunted, deformed. Some few of us who were born less twisted would go forth among men. Influencing. Waiting. Some of your kind we brought here. Those who were strong and well-formed we bred with, mixing our noble blood with your filth, but it was necessary to save us from extinction. Those who for whatever reason were unsuitable we ate! Thus it shall be until we are once more ready to reclaim our rightful place in the sun! Hark! My people come forth! Soon they will greet you!”

“Nay!” I wailed. “This cannot be! You speak nonsense! Verily thou art the tool of the Deceiver!”

Mercy Ayers scoffed at my wailings.

“You were deceived ere you came to know me, Jeremiah Pullens! Look at yourself! Stunted, near hairless! Do you take after thy sire or thy mother? I tell you boy, you would have done better in life to have set aside the scrawlings of the Hebrews and looked to more ancient knowledge. The Book of Skelos perhaps, or the dread Necro—”

A loud crack interrupted Mercy Ayers, and she stumbled backward. A dark stain spread rapidly upon her breast. She looked up at me with a confused expression on her gaunt face, then fell backwards into the cave mouth. The acrid smell of gun smoke assailed my nostrils. I turned to see Morwenna Jones hastily reloading one of her pistols.

“The bitch was getting long-winded, young master Pullens. I thought it best to dispense with any further pontification. Ready that matchlock! Ye won’t have time to reload, so use it as a bludgeon when it’s spent.”

I could hear, from the cave mouth, wailing. Howling. Gibbering.

“We should flee!” I said. “Take to our heels and flee for our lives!”

“And have them take us down at their leisure in the wood? Nay. They can only come at us a few at a time from the cave mouth. We close the distance and fight them as they emerge. We kill them until they stop coming out of the hole. Stand fast, Pullens! To flee is certain death!”

We took six or eight paces forward until we were nearly within the cave mouth. I raised the matchlock and sighted down the barrel into the darkness. The Lord’s Prayer came unbidden to my lips.

I heard them! Christ preserve me, I heard them chatter in the darkness in their own infernal tongue! Words that should not have been familiar fell upon my ears and I knew them! Shub-Niggurath. Yuggoth. Kozouhept. Jhebbal Sag. Dread Ibak. All the while Mad Morwenna Jones laughed, a pistol in each hand.

“Come out, ye scurvy bastards! Come and show us your mettle!”

When the first pale, spectral outlines formed in the dark, Morwenna discharged both her pistols. There was a chorus of yelps and screams, and two figures leapt and were still. I pointed my matchlock at a pale mass close to me and fired. I know not to what effect. The recoil near felled me, and I was blinded by the smoke. Our fire gave them pause, and Morwenna took the time to drop her pistols and draw her cutlass and dirk. I changed my grip on the heavy matchlock so I might wield it like a club.

The kin of Mercy Ayers crept forward, and I was cursed to behold their aspect.

Not one approached five feet tall. All were stooped and crooked to some degree. Their flesh was a pale gelid white with peculiar growths and mottling. In their bald melon-like heads were set tiny black eyes and a slavering rictus of a mouth filled with irregular peg-like teeth. Their ears ranged from large and fox-like to nonexistent. Most were naked save for a breechclout, and male and female alike took part in the battle. They were armed with varied swords, pikes and axes of strange archaic design.

Living up to her sobriquet, it was Morwenna who struck first, leaping among the things and striking the head from one with a blow from her cutlass. The troglodytes surged forward and battle was joined.

I laid about with the matchlock and crushed the skull of an attacker. I was never a strong fighter, but that day the Lord blessed me with a mad fury that lent the strength of a lunatic to my limbs. Verily, I howled and gibbered just as my foes did. I defended myself as best I could, but often my flesh was pierced or slashed by their odd blades. By the grace of God, they were unable to wound me mortally.

Soon the matchlock was shattered, and I dropped the useless scrap and took up an ax dropped by one of the pasty goblins. This act gave them time to swarm over me. I wailed and screeched, hewing about and belaboring them with the ax. I gave no regard to the sex of my foes. He and she-beast alike fell before my blade. I tasted their blood in my mouth and to my horror felt a surge of hellish joy sweep over me. At that moment it seemed that only when face to face with death was I truly alive!

My savage counterattack caused the things to stand aback for a heartbeat and I was able to spare a glance to see how Morwenna fared. The pirate queen fought with a savage abandon that I had only known from wild tales and myths of battle. The scarf had been torn from her head and her long black mane whipped wildly about as she fairly danced among the horde of goblinoid troglodytes. She wove a web of steel with her cutlass and dirk, confounding the creatures and nullifying their crude attacks. Her dark eyes flashed wildly, and a mad grin was fixed on her face. About her feet were piled severed limbs and ruined bodies, and the earth was sodden with gore. She seemed to mine eyes to be the avatar of some heathen death-goddess.

Another wave of the things surged forward, as if in one final effort to overwhelm us. I stumbled, my feet entangled in the arms of a dying cave creature. As I sought to free myself I was dealt a savage blow to the back of my head that pitched me face first to the ground. I was stunned, and slow to recover. I felt the weight of the foul things press upon me as they piled on. Their blades stung as they sought my vitals.

There was a tumult of inhuman cries and human curses, and I felt the weight lifted from me. Morwenna had come to mine aid and repulsed my tormenters. Grasping my collar, she dragged me upright. I saw the subterranean nightmares fleeing back down the tunnel. Rather than rejoice, I strove to break Morwenna’s grip and give pursuit. I had not yet had my fill of killing. The she-pirate held me fast, dragging me back to the woods.

“Heave to, ye mad fool. We’ve won the day, or as close to winning as we are likely to get. Heave to, damn your eyes.”

She turned be about and slapped my face resoundingly, with such force that stars flashed in my eyes. This had the desired effect and I was myself again.

“Make haste, master Pullens. No rest ’til we’re on the backside of that hill!”

The journey back through the wood and over the hill was a blur to me. I was no doubt dazed by the blow to my head, as well as overwhelmed by the shock and strangeness of all that transpired. In troth, I have no clear recollection of anything that occurred for some time. My next clear memory is of sitting in an inn along the road to Plymouth. Sore and covered in bandages, I was sipping ale at a table with Morwenna Jones. She regarded me from behind the remains of a roast chicken, picking her teeth with a wing bone and swigging rum from the bottle.

“Since your Goodman Rideout recognized me on a placard in Plymouth, I may push north to Quebec and…procure passage there. I don’t think the French want to hang me. What of ye, young master Pullens?”

“I do not think it wise to return to Farnam’s Green,” said I. “I will seek work in Plymouth until I can earn passage back to England. This ‘New World’ does not suit my temperament.”

Morwenna looked pensive for a few heartbeats, and then slammed the rum bottle down on the table. She pulled one of the silver chains from around her neck. It tangled in her long black hair and she had a brief struggle to free it. This accomplished, she tossed it on the battered tabletop before me.

“Take that and sell it. It should bring enough to get ye back home. Nay! Protest not! Ye accounted for yourself well enough at the cave, but ye be too timid for the rugged life, best get ye back to the Old Country.”

I accepted the gift, for I had aught but the filthy, bloodstained clothes on my back. It was a kingly gift, a fine chain of braided Spanish silver. I hid my revulsion that it was still clotted with what I took to be the dried blood of Goodman Checketts.

“What were those things?” I asked. “Did Mercy Ayers speak true? Have they been upon the earth that long, and do some of their number walk among God fearing men unnoticed?”

Morwenna shrugged. “I seen with me own eyes many a strange sight. Places and beings that most would say cannot exist. The balance of those were said to be tottering with age! I think it best not to dwell overmuch on such matters. I seen a witch doctor in Africa gnaw his own fingers off after reading some old clay tablets. If that’s the price of knowledge I’ll happily remain ignorant! Look at it this way, Pullens; all that Mercy said was at odds with what is writ in the Good Book. Best ye ignore it! Better yet, dismiss it as witchery. Mercy Ayers was as damn close to a witch as any I seen before. May she rot in hell!”

Morwenna spoke little after that, preferring to swill rum until she passed out. With much effort, I carried her up to her room at the inn and put her to bed. She briefly awoke as I lay her down, and strove to pull me into bed with her, stating she would ensure I would know the touch of a woman in my life, as I was ugly and like to not have another such opportunity. I will not lie and say I was not tempted, for the sight of her body when she tore open her blouse was most arousing. But I had resolved to remain chaste, and called upon our Lord to grant me the strength to resist Morwenna’s charms. My resolve was also aided by the she-pirate’s general aversion to cleanliness and bathing.

I left the inn shortly thereafter. I pawned the silver necklace and booked passage on the next ship to England. I have not ventured from the country since. I became a minister and a theologian, immersing myself in the study of the word of God. In this way I sought to drive out the memory of the affair of the Widow Ayers. But it has been difficult.

I have not married, nor have I sired children. I allow no mirrors in my home, nor do I tarry near glazed windows or still waters, for as I age, I can scarcely abide my reflection. For when I am unfortunate enough to behold mine own aspect, I cannot help but see the smooth, bulbous skull, the gaunt, stone gray face, and the small, dark eyes that grow beadier with each passing year. All so similar in aspect to the foul, inhuman kin of Mercy Ayers.

The Widow Ayers © 2018 by B. Harlan Crawford. (6000 words) All rights reserved. You may restack this story via Substack but please do not republish elsewhere. Banner and sword illustrations by Gilead; flying broom illustration by StarGladeVintage via Pixabay, used by permission.

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