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The White Feather Hex

_BY DON PETERSON_

[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales March 1951. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright
on this publication was renewed.] Heading by the Author

[Illustration: You waited till the feather turned red.] It all started with a Dutchman, a Pennsylvania Dutchman named Peter
Scheinberger, who tilled a weather beaten farm back in the hills. A strong, wiry man he was--his arms were knotted sections of solid
hickory forming themselves into gnarled hands and twisted stubs of
fingers. His furrowed brow, dried by the sun and cracked in a million
places by the wind was well irrigated by long rivulets of sweat. When he
went forth in the fields behind his horse and plow, it wasn't long
before his hair was plastered down firmly to his scalp. The salty water
poured out of the deep rings in his ruddy neck and ran down his dark
brown back. As he grew older the skin peeled and grew loose. It hung on
him in folds like the brittle hide of a rhino. It seemed that the more years he spent in his fields behind the plow
horse, the more he slipped back into the timeless tradition of his
forefathers. He was a proud descendant of a long line of staunch German
settlers commonly known as the Pennsylvania Dutch. He grew up in his
fundamental, religious sect having never known any other environment. He
was exposed to the sun, soil, and wind from the early days of his
childhood, and along with the elements he also was exposed to the evils
of the _hexerei_. The _hexerei_, or witchcraft, was something that was
never doubted or scoffed at by his people. Then why should he, a good
Pennsylvania Dutchman, doubt or scoff at such tradition? Perhaps, had he moved away from his ancestral lands and had been
cultured in modern communities, been educated and raised in other
schools, he might have matured. But having no time for any other
diversions than might be found on his rustic homestead, he grew up
behind the plow horse, tramping in the dark, stony pasture land, eking
out his meager existence from the black fields of Pennsylvania. Now, Peter's life could have gone on unnoticed among these forgotten
hills, except for the strange visit of Martin G. Mirestone, student of
German history. It was a cold night when Peter met Mirestone. Peter had been sitting up
rather late pondering over an old, yellowed book by the light of a
kerosene lamp. The pale flame flickered about the walls sending shadows
scurrying back and forth creating all types of weird shapes and designs. Peter huddled over the withered pages, every now and then glancing up at
the walls to watch the fantastic games that light and dark were playing. Then putting his book aside for the night he prepared to go to bed. He went over to the window to draw the shutters, stopping for an instant
to peer out into the gloom along the stony path that ran from his house
to an old foot-bridge about fifty feet away. Curling up from the gorge,
mist seemed to play among the rotted planks; it rose and fell in great
billowing blankets, sometimes concealing the structure from view. *       *       *       *       *

Peter was about to latch the shutter and leave when his attention was
focused upon a figure that seemed to emerge from the fog--sort of fading
in from nowhere. It made its way across the narrow span like some
ghostly apparition. The mist enveloped his legs and clouded his
features. Peter drew back in terror, for the mere appearance of the man
coming out of the darkness was enough to fill his infant brain with
visions of death and _hexerei_. As the figure drew closer Peter saw that it was wearing a cloak. All the
more ghostly it appeared with the cloak sailing behind him in the wind
like some devil's banner. Peter just stood transfixed as he watched the
stranger come up the winding road to his house. Slamming the shutter he hurriedly fastened it and then turned to the
door to bolt that also. Too late. The door was thrown open revealing a
tall man clothed in black. His face was wreathed in a wide grin--a grin
that seemed to make fun of the grayish pallor of his face and the
ominous appearance of his wild garb. Before the man stepped inside,
Peter made a mental image of the scene, for it was to be firmly imbedded
in his mind so that he would never forget the slightest detail for the
rest of his life--the wind blowing about the fierce visage, tossing up
the long strands of hair; the massive, veined hand that clutched the
wrought iron thumb-latch, and the way that the lamp struck his face,
highlighting the thin, ridged nose and high cheekbones. "Peter Scheinberger, heh?" the man spoke in perfect German. "Peter
Scheinberger, the last of your clan here in America." It was several seconds before Peter could muster up enough courage to
answer him. Drawing back slowly he braced himself against the table, and
in a thick, guttural German asked, "Who are you?" The stranger shut the door and drew the bolt. He crossed the room and,
with an air of one who was accustomed to having his own way wherever he
went, scanned the shelves of Peter's larder with a practiced eye. Peter watched him closely as he drew down a bottle of wine, broke the
neck against a beam above him, and settled down in Peter's easy chair. He poured a glass full and shoved it across the table towards the
anxious Peter, and then poured another glass for himself. "Mirestone," the stranger finally answered, "Martin G. Mirestone." Then,
draining his glass, he added, "Student of German history." All this was beyond Peter's comprehension. No one ever had the audacity
to walk into his house and help himself to whatever he wanted--he was
indeed unheard of in his tiny social world. "Well, what are you staring at?" Mirestone boomed out. "Take my cloak,
please, then be seated. We'll talk." Taking the cloak and draping it over a wooden peg in the wall, Peter
moved cautiously around the foreboding character that monopolized his
small house. Carefully seating himself opposite the man, he moved the
table so that it set between them as a protective barrier. "I'll make myself clear to you," Mirestone explained, "For I want my
stay to be as brief as possible." He poured himself another glass of wine, then settled back in the chair,
half closing his eyes. "You see, I am a student, you might say, of
German history or folklore. I am in the process of writing a collective
history of the Pennsylvania Dutch folk, their habits, beliefs, and--" he
broke off for an instant as he leaned forward across the table, staring
into the frightened eyes of Peter "--and their superstitions." Shifting his chair around in order to get benefit from the heat of the
fireplace, Mirestone went on. "Now I want facts, Scheinberger, authentic
facts.