I am prepared to pay you well for your trouble, but I insist on
information that is backed up with sound, accurate truth." Peter became more relaxed but still slightly uneasy. He didn't like the
attitude of this man, Mirestone. He was too sure of himself--altogether
too cocky. But then on the other hand he had said there would be a
financial gain from any business that he could transact with him. Money
was 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 his
cockiness, and a somber look crept over his jovial features. "Have you
ever 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 yet
touched. Raising it up to his lips he sipped it slowly as he stared at
Mirestone over the rim of the glass. "Yes. I have heard of it," he
repeated. "Good, good. You have heard of it. Now, you will tell me about it, of
course. 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 feather hex?" *       *       *       *       *

Mirestone climbed to his feet and paced the room. "Yes," he said. Peter
noted 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 the
white feather. I have traced it down to several families, but none could
tell me anything about it that was factual. Half of the stupid fools
made up stories as they went along--some concocting the biggest bunch of
asinine tales that I've ever heard. But you, Peter, are a descendant of
the Scheinbergers. I know for a fact that Otto Scheinberger practiced
the white feather hex and passed the power on down to your father. From
there it stopped. However, there must be some record of it in your
family. You are in possession of the books of your grandfather, aren't
you?" "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 that
tells 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 playing
about his rustic features. "No, I am afraid not. You see, I have burned
the book." Mirestone's face went white. "You burned it?" "Yes," said Peter. "I don't wish to have anything to do with such black
magic. It is better burned." "But you must remember the hex. Although the book is destroyed you still
have the information in your head, _nein_?" "I could never forget it if I wanted to," replied Peter reluctantly. "If
I could burn my memory also it would be better." Mirestone went back to the fireplace and placed several chunks of wood
on the blaze. A bright orange glow leaped out from the hearth and danced
mockingly over his pallid brow, hiding his lank jowls in the shadows
cast by the cheekbones. Like some grim spectre he rose up, towering
above the little Dutchman. Peter had only to look into his eyes to see
the 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 in
the book about the hex of the white feather. The idea was clear enough,
but the minute details, the infinite possibilities for mistake, and the
exacting specifications concerning the experiment were blurred in his
memory. He knew that with time he could bring back everything that he
had read, but it would take deep concentration and, perhaps, many days
of trial and error to determine the right path that they must follow in
order to have success. Mirestone, realizing that any distraction would break Peter's train of
thought, sat quietly in the corner finishing off the Dutchman's supply
of wine. He watched Peter closely through his slitted eyes, and it
seemed that his compelling stare was the only force that could drive the
frightened Peter on. Every so often Peter would glance up and see
Mirestone leaning back in the corner half concealed by the deep
shadows--only his partially opened eyes could be seen flickering in the
fiery glow of the hearth. Then he would cover his face with his large,
knotted hands, work the twisted fingers through his hair, and try to
bring back to mind the evil recipe. The glow from the fireplace gradually died down to make room for the
streams of morning dawn. Peter blinked sleepily and got up to stretch a
bit. Outside the dull morning light worked its way over Peter's
farm--clouds of mist still poured up from the gorge, circling the bridge
and creeping up the bank across the fields. Peter unlatched the heavy
oaken door and went outside to the outbuildings. Meanwhile, Mirestone had started a fire in the stove and was placing
slabs of bacon in the pan. "Nothing like a good old-fashioned peasant's
breakfast," he laughed as Peter came in the door several minutes later. "So, you brought a goat, heh?" he noticed. "Are you figuring on starting
in soon?" Peter set a small kid on the floor and watched it scamper about the
room, looking for an exit. "Yes, we might as well. I don't like this
business 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 my
trouble." He was trying to make himself believe that that was his only
reason for complying with Mirestone's demands. Actually he was not so
sure....

       *       *       *       *       *

As the heat of the noon day sun blasted down on their backs, Mirestone
watched Peter pass a feather, freshly plucked from a white Leghorn,
under the nose of the bleating kid. Mirestone listened carefully to what
Peter was telling him. The breath of the victim had to be spread over
the feather before anything further could be done. "Tie him," commanded Peter. Mirestone held the goat by the scruff of his
neck and fastened a halter about him. The other end was secured to a
stake allowing the kid to run about in a circle of ten feet or so in
diameter. "We will leave him for awhile," said Peter as he walked back to the
kitchen. Mirestone followed in the Dutchman's footsteps, and when they were
inside, he listened intently as Peter recited a monosyllabic chant over
the 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 the
feather up and watch it grow red." "Red?" "Yes," Peter explained, "That is the only way you can tell if the hex
has worked."