Ritual by David Pinner

this butterfly a funeral, Billy.’
    She blew it off her hand into a hedgerow. It seemed a broken snapdragon. Or a shrivelled yellow rose petal. It was a good funeral.
    Anna smelt the scent of death in her hand.
    ‘Children, we are going to have a Nature Ramble—with all that that implies!’
    The children cheered. They were not sure what ‘implies’ meant, but they understood the feeling. And they were excited.
    The wood was a flood of green. Anna thought how appropriately the trees reflected her eyes. She casually swung her hips and felt good.
    Mr. Spark put a sign up in the shop door and wandered to the Pub. The sign read; ‘Am in Pub. Spark’.
    Anna wanted something the children could not give her. A real Nature Ramble.

 
    6
     
    Cready stood up, breaking the circle.
    ‘You are being ridiculous, Mrs. Spark! You have just had sufficient proof that your daughter was not murdered. And now you are trying to stir things up again. I think you want her to be murdered!’
    ‘There is witchcraft in the village. You all know it. All of you! You know it’s true!’
    This was not a conversation for the sunlight. James, the labourer, hunched to his feet. His chair squeaked as he moved it back with his calf muscles.
    ‘Ain’t you talking nonsense? You are! You know you are! Witchcraft? Who’s the witch, then?’
    ‘Some of you in this room are involved,’ shouted Mrs. Spark.
    Everyone began to laugh, asking one another between chortles, ‘Whatever is she talking about? She’s becoming unhinged! Too much astral-wallowing!’
    ‘They know who they are!’
    Mrs. Spark stood up. The laughter stopped and hid itself in the ice shadows. They waited. The listeners waited. Revelation is at hand, saith the Lord.
    ‘Who killed my daughter? Who? Who killed my daughter?’
    Rowbottom sneered at her.
    ‘If there’s a witch in this village—it’s you, ain’t it? You tried to talk to the dead. You wanted the dead alive. The living dead. You! Not us!’
    ‘I am no witch and you know it!’
    ‘Do we? Do we?’ enquired Cready.
    The listeners thrust their questions at her. She knew she was triggering the fever in them. She knew what the fever would bring.
    ‘If I am a witch, what are you? If I probe the other dimensions to ease my pain, what do you do? What have you dragged yourselves to? You do not have to tell me, it is smeared on your faces!’
    ‘Perhaps,’ interrupted Cready, inserting a razor blade into his voice, ‘perhaps the butterfly was the reincarnation of your daughter. Yes, perhaps with your witchery, perhaps you have turned her...’ He tried to stop his eyes creasing with laughter, but he gave up and let the laughter come. ‘... perhaps you have turned her into that jolly little butterfly! Perhaps...’
    Mrs. Spark clawed towards Cready. Her mouth widened to show pin teeth. It was not a pleasant sight. Cready was reminded fleetingly of a vampire. But he was sure it was purely an illusion. Wasn’t it?
    ‘You like death, don’t you, Mr. Cready? You’re interested in the potentials of decomposition.’
    As she breathed in his face, he was certain she smelt of a summer graveyard.
    ‘Did you murder my daughter, Mr. Cready? Did you use her first with your sticky loins? Did you?’
    Cready smiled. The smile was definitely nasty. Then he pushed his hand firmly into her pink mouth. She bit him twice. He jerked his hand back, throwing her against the tea things on the side board. He went after her.
    Fortunately the Squire stepped in between the alsatian and the she-wolf. Cready controlled himself. He relaxed. The killing instinct hibernated again. He examined the grey fang marks on the heel of his hand. Luckily her teeth had not encouraged the blood into the light. He felt she would have been happier tasting his blood.
    She stared at him, realising what she had done. He needed her. She knew that. They all did. Even the Squire. They knew her power. She would have liked to have savoured his flesh against the roof