Soon, the wooden sign appeared, held aloft by a wooden pole, with crude painted letters: Goats Head, along with a small rendition for the name’s sake. John knew not who had painted the sign, nor did it matter – this was his pub of choice (most of the small pubs along this way were the same – the White Chapel area was not what one would call a fashionable part of town). He dismounted and tied Sadie’s reins to the post.
All seemed quiet along the cobblestone street, and in fact he saw no whores hanging out under the gas lamps, or leaning against the walls of the aged buildings, struggling or begging for a trick. Jack had all the dirty women spooked – regardless, the ones that only wanted a place to sleep for the night or a bit of food for their children would surely make an appearance.
They’ll be out soon enough, he thought.
John could hear the laughter from the Goat’s Head, and he hurried inside to join in with his friends.
“Well, if it isn’t John Claybourne!” Ian Masters called out, and all eyes settled on John, and they raised their mugs. “Evening, John!” They called out, intoxicated and happy to see him.
“Good evening all! And isn’t it nice to see ya’!”
“And it’s a pleasure to see you, John,” Barry Maynard cried out from a table in the corner of the room. His white beard and moustache covered most of his face, and he was probably the most recognizable regular at the Goat’s Head. After all, he looked as if he had just crawled out of a cave after thirty years or so, and had made the pub his new home.
“Nice to see ya, John,” Jean said from behind the bar. “Where’s the other half?
A nice warm fire was burning and licking up in the huge fireplace in the far wall, and John chose a seat there at a round roughen table among some friends he knew would surely accept him and they raised their drinks to him in welcome.
“How ‘bout an ale to warm up me bones?”
“Comin’ right up. Ya’ still didn’t answer my question.” The waitress said.
“Well, why don’t you come a little closer, and I’ll tell ya!”
The two other men at the table laughed heartedly – Ian Masters and Cory Tabor. “You must be a free man tonight, John!” Cory said. His fetid breath blew straight into John’s face, but it bothered John not – not this night, to be true!
John smiled widely. “I am a free man tonight!”
Jean came over with a full mug of ale for John, and he put an arm around her waist, nearly reaching around to her breast, which was nearly hanging out of her sheer white top.
She set the beer down on the table, and then sat on John’s lap. “Well, aren’t you the spry one tonight?” She pushed her breast against him, and he tried to pull her closer, only to have her jump up. “Got work to do, honey. Where’s Lillian?”
John took a long pull from his mug, and wiped the foam from his mouth. “Well, I’ll tell ya’. We had one hell of a spat, we did!”
“Did ya’ pound her, John?” Ian asked, a doubtful shadow crossing his features.
“No, I didn’t pound her, ya’ buffoon!” John called out, and scattered laughter from the pub ensued. “Aw, hush it all, would ya?”
Jean stood and put her hands on her hips. “Well, then where is that woman?”
He took another few swallows. “She left. She up and gathered her things and left! Ya’ believe it? Said she was goin’ back to her mother’s!”
“Her mother’s” Cory blurted out. “Ain’t that just like a woman?”
“You watch your tongue, man,” Jean said and hurried off toward the other tables and waiting patrons.
John leaned forward. “Yep, she left me free and clear. I told her not to come back. Enough was enough, and she said ‘agreed!’”
“Well, here’s to freedom!” Ian said, and lifted his mug. The three tapped their mugs together and then swallowed to complete the toast. Cory burped loudly, most obviously followed by a rancid taste. John smiled widely.
“I still can’t believe ya’ moved out to that piece of cursed property, anyway, John.” A gravelly voice said from behind him. John turned and saw Barry Maynard standing there, one eye cocked up with serious consideration.
“What are ya’ talkin’ about, ya’ silly old fool?” Cory and Ian chuckled and swigged beer.
“What I’m talkin’ ‘bout is that cemetery ya’ moved by, ya’ fool!
John leaned back and studied the old bearded mug; and thoughts of Lillian crossed his mind. “I think you’re talkin’ crazy, Barry. Maybe you should be driftin’ on home now.”
Instead, the old man snagged the edge of a chair and scraped it back across the wooded floor, and plopped his formidable figure down in it.
“Just what are ya’doin’, Barry? I told you to scat!”
“Just listen a moment, John, and I’ll be goin’.”
Cory and Ian suddenly had worried looks; they glanced at each other briefly, and then back to the old man.
“Back before you came to these parts, they, well, they had some trouble over in the next district. Not here, in White Chapel, but over a ways, in Morington. It was a witch hunt it was, and it turned ugly, I tell ya’”
“I heard about, ya’ old geezer – why in God’s name are ya’ tellin’ me?”
Cory and Ian remained silent – they already knew the truth that the bearded old man was about to reveal to John.
“Well, John, they discovered that some women were practicing the dark arts – the evil things, ya’ know. They went after every woman in Morington. Some they suspected. But, they weren’t given trials. They forced ‘em in front of the Magistrate, and some pleaded for their lives, and yet, they found books, and other odd things among their belongings. No trial, John. They hanged ‘em.”
“Well, maybe they were witches. What of it?”
“Others came before the Magistrate, and cursed the very ground he walked on. ‘Tis true. They burned ‘em alive while everyone watched. They cursed everyone as they burned, till their last breath! I saw with my own eyes, John!”
John tilted his head, irritated at this white haired man’s horrid stories. He lifted a hairy fist. “Ya’ better tell me why you’re tellin’ me these ungodly tales, old man, before I put you down right now!”
“I’m tellin ya’, before you came to these parts, your farm was empty. They needed a place to put all these cursed bodies, so they put ‘em out in those woods. Those woods near your farm, John. I’m only tellin’ ya’ for your own good. Some of the families went and put markers, others snuck out at night and put small markers there – probably other witches. I’ve seen it! They’re just buried straight into the ground – no casket, nothing’. They say some fled, and others carried on normal lives, so as not to draw attention. But I s’pose they decided they had done their work, and things went on, ya’ know”
John’s face went blank. He thought Lillian, buried in pieces in that very place. The book. Her ragged clothes and her growing, hateful attitude – the face split in two…
John’s countenance was already ugly, with his large, gnarled nose and pocked features, but an even uglier shadow of anger crossed his features as he stared at his friends. Cory and Ian could not make eye contact with the man. The obvious made it clear.
“And you two bums knew this?”
“We’re your friends, John,” Ian said. “We didn’t want to fill your head with idiot stories.”
“That’s right, John. Ya’ came here, got a nice little farm, and a wife even. We didn’t want to put a bad air to the place. You’re our mate!” Cory exclaimed.
John’s face calmed. “All right, so you’re my friends. Ya’ coulda’ told me.”
“We’re sorry, old mate. Really, we are,” Ian said, Cory nodding in agreement.
“All right, ya’ bunch a’ bloody rogues! I forgive ya’. A sorry lot you are!”
Friendly laughter filled the table, and John noticed Barry was even laughing.
“You, you get outta my site! You and your stories. Get on with ya’!”
The old man scooted his chair back, and stood. “I’ll get, John, but ya’ stay away from that place.”
Again, John raised a thick, hairy fist, and the old bearded man shambled away to his old haunt in the corner.
“Aye, I’ll even share more ale with ya’, scoundrels!” he said. “Jean, sweetheart, ‘ow about another round over here?”
“Comin’ right up,” she answered from behind the bar, over the scattered, indiscernible discourse occupying the pub.
“So,” Ian said, “the woman up and left ya’, huh?”
“Aye, Ian, but please, no more talk about Lillian right now. I came to maybe relax a little after the bloody spat we ‘ad. Are we agreed?”
“Agreed!” Ian proclaimed.
“Aye, agreed,” said Cory.
Jean appeared from behind John, and set three more mugs of beer on the scarred table. “’ere ya’ are, gentlemen. And just who’ll be payin’ up for this round?”
John dug into a pocket, and pulled out some coins. “Well, seein’ as how it’s a celebration of sorts, I’ll be springin’ for this one.”
“A free man, eh?” Jean said, shaking her head. She then winked at John and vanished into the din.
John shot the other two an evil eye: “And do you two heathens think you’re getting’ away with free drinks all night, so get ready to break out some coin!”
Again, his thoughts secretly drifted back to his farm and the only other horse he owned, still standing in the old stable; and untouched by Lillian.
At that moment, in a dark, forsaken burial ground in a small clearing in the woods near a farm own by a man name John Claybourne, others were just starting to have a celebration of their own.
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