Chapter 13

The Witchfynder general finds that his god can even intervene through social media

Skreebleton in the south west. Father Bennett, the Witchfynder general was quickly on to his connections in the police force and other government departments and he was close to locating his man. He’d been seen in the small town of Frome, mixing with the kind of scum his pagan sort was prone to. Sat behind the wheel of his black jaguar with young brother Tobin at his side he felt confident that he would soon find his man and following the ‘interview’ he had planned for the shaman would soon be onto the other shaman Lipton and the fraudulent apostate who was calling himself Christ. Bennett had spent his whole life in the various parts of the church and knew more about Jesus than anyone he had ever met. The messiah would one day return but he would not be mixing with the destitute, the street people and travellers, the prostitutes and sinners. No! He would make himself known to the pope and the Vatican and the world through the Catholic Church. Once he had this pretender a few questions on scripture would reveal him as a charlatan and one who would require subjecting to the tests and rituals of the Witchfynders who had rid the world of the cancer that the devil himself spread. Bennett gripped the steering wheel tighter, felt a stirring in his trousers as he thought of the punishment he would soon be dealing out. His right hand slipped into his pocket, the old trick father Erasmus had taught him, through the hole in his trouser pocket where he rapped a tuft of pubic hair around his thumb and finger be plucking his tuft of hair. The pain brought him back to earth. He pressed the button that lowered his window from where he threw the small bunch of hair.

“What was that Father Bennett” brother Tobin asked as he caught a glimpse of the small black nest of hair as it left the window and was ripped away by the speed of the car.

“Oh, just a little trick I was taught by the Witchfynder who was my mentor. Perhaps I’ll induct you into the small ritual one day.”

Brother Tobin knew not to enquire further and focused on the road ahead for a moment before asking his master a question he had always been curious about.

“I heard that you had studied your craft under father Erasmus. He is a legend to us younger Witchfynders. We hear tell he sent over three score demons and some hundred witches to boot.”

“Young brother Tobin. It is not by numbers alone that we can measure a man’s achievements. Erasmus taught me a great deal. I witnessed him as he applied his craft with an elegance that few could ever hope to match. You know the lances in the chapel?”

Tobin nodded. He had thought they were mere decoration.

“We’d discovered a cluster of harlots, heavily under Satans influence. Each was cleansed with those lances. Sharpened by my own hand. Eight feet in length they stand. Erasmus lay each strumpet down across the altar and smite them clean. Entering by the very orifice they had made their trade to sell. Full of the lords strength he rammed them clean of sin until the sharpened tips protruded a clear twelve inches through the top of their skulls. I was a young Witchfynder back then, much like you are now and I confess that the devil found me squeamish and I vomitted on to the chapel floor. Erasmus instructed me to clean up after his holy work was done. I learned a lesson that day. They were but a small coven of witches though all confessed to being in the employ of Satan before devil was driven out of them.”

Tobin swallowed. He wondered if he was up to the job. Of course father Bennett was testing the young lad, to make sure he was committed to the lord’s work and not just another who succumbed to the romance of the profession. He would need Tobin to be up to speed when it came to tackling the two shaman, both pagans and witches and the charlatan who called himself Christ. Father Bennett knew he had struck a chord with his young apprentice. Best reassure the lad.

“But Erasmus was old school. Weve moved on now. In the boot of my car I have two pump action shotguns. Both have been blessed by the pope himself. Last night while you were out for fast food. Yes! I saw you.”

Brother Tobin blushed. He thought he had got away with it. Nevertheless the Witchfynder general appeared to be in good spirits and did not admonish the boy.

“While you were soiling your body with saturated fats I emptied twenty cartridges, replacing the lead shot with silver shot and each I dipped in holy water. In the unlikely event that these fail us there is my trusty crossbow. The bolts I use are also engineered from silver. Should we be forced to engage in hand to hand combat I also have a pair of silver bladed knives one of which I suggest we conceal in our boots. You must follow my lead. Do as I say and our mission will undoubtedly be successful. It is crucial that we get confessions from all three of our targets. We will be working as a team and I’m hoping to catch them on the hop. As far as we’ve been able to establish the charlatan and the shaman known as Lipton are already back together. Lipton has recently been released from a mental hospital but don’t succumb to any complacency. He has been dabbling in witchcraft his entire adult life and may well have a few tricks up his sleeve. Skree may as yet be unaware that his partner in the dark arts survived their pagan mission that I told you to read up on. As for the fake Christ he could well be under the complete delusion of his identity.

So master Tobin! Do you feel up to the task ahead? Follow my lead and we should come out of this unscathed. Our names will go down in the history of our secret craft.”

Tobin felt a wave of honour spread throughout his body. Beginning in the soles of his feet and working its way through his legs, into his torso and deep into his heart and out through his head.

“Father Bennett. I am honoured to be chosen as your assistant on this mission. I grasp the magnitude and understand the responsibility being placed upon me. My whole life has been training for this day and the days ahead. It will be an honour to serve the lord god, our father. And to be a small part in the history of the Witchfynder. Long may our branch of the church continue to be the sword with which the father cuts down the devil’s ungodly work.”

Father Bennett felt proud. He had been right to place his trust in the young Witchfynder. He knew that brother Tobin was ready and would not let him down.

Once their conversation died down and the focus returned to the road Bennett considered the information he had gleaned from his many sources. A Mr Skreebletton had been pulled over by a police car three days ago near Frome in Somerset. The two coppers began to look through his details but were called away to a domestic violence incident before they had chance to study his details. It later proved to be a false name and a fake license. Skreebleton was the name that Rupert Bunsen had come to know his saviour as. His stay had been short following the disaster that saw the deaths of many of the most wealthy people on the planet. Glancing over at his assistant Bennett saw Tobin had returned to scrolling through his phone. Daylight was by now fading and it seemed likely they would have to find a hotel for the night.

Tobin had gradually slumped down into the jaguars leather seat but something he had seen on his phone brought him upright and focused.

“Father Bennett! Look at this!”

“Brother Tobin! You know how I feel about this socialist media!”

“No look! It’s them! I was just checking through my instagram followers. I have this troll who mocks me for my religious piety yet continues to follow! He’s called Magno! I just took a look at his instagram feed. There’s a short he’s posted! Only fifteen seconds but it has to be two of the pagans we’re looking for!”

Tobin replayed the video. It was of a camp fire. One guy dressed in dirty black clothes laughed as another guy spoke to the small group. AI had translated what the speaker was saying. A filthy looking man with longish hair and a beard. A chunk of his face was missing revealing a rictus grin of exposed teeth. “Anyway, I don’t know if you’ve ever eaten a whole quarter of Lebanese hashish but I tell you, I was well tripped out. This Pompous Pillock, Pontias Pilote, the highest ranking Roman of the occupying army. ‘Are you the son of god’ he asks. I got the giggles really badly and couldn’t help taking the piss. ‘What do you think? If you think I am the son of god then I guess I must be.”

A black teenager in designer sportswear laughed along with the pirate like character who was taking a deep pull on a glass crack pipe. “Do you claim to be the king of the Jews too?”

Here the short video looped and began again.

Bennett pulled the jaguar to a standstill in a lay-by behind a lorry.

“Play it again Tobin.”

The two Witchfynders sat through the video fifteen times. Pausing it occasionally to comment on background details. After a while Bennett sat back. God is pointing us towards them.

He knew Lipton had not long been released from a mental hospital close to Minehead. Opening a large road atlas Bennett took his fountain pen from his inside pocket. He drew a cross where Skreebleton had been pulled and another roughly where he knew the nut house to be. Using a strip of card torn from the atlases cover as a straight edge drew a line between the two.

“I can hear passing traffic.”

“They’re camped on a roundabout! We’ve got the bastards!” Tobin enthused.

Bennett looked him deep in the eyes.

“We’re not far off! Let the hunt begin.”

Sent from my iPhone