Read Ebook: Color Blind by Stearns Charles A Wood Wallace Illustrator

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Ebook has 99 lines and 8105 words, and 2 pages

It was not many minutes before a light red tint crept up the feather's quill, spreading slowly outwards towards the fringed edges. Deeper and deeper grew the intensity of the color until it reached a pure blood red.

"Hurry outside," cried Peter. "You can see the goat in its last seconds of life."

Mirestone hurried after the Dutchman. Jerking at the halter the goat bleated in agony, prancing up and down frantically. Its eyes grew horribly bloodshot and finally closed. With a feeble, choking sigh, the animal dropped over on its side, its legs still twitching spasmodically. Mirestone bent over the hairy form and examined the head, now wet with perspiration.

"Nothing can be done for the beast?"

"No." Peter looked on with a touch of pity in his eyes, "Nothing can be done once the feather has turned red."

As if the death of the kid was their cue, masses of thick thunderheads turned over with a deep rumbling thunder. The sky became crystal clear, and a greenish glow could be seen working its way across the horizon. The sky darkened as the glistening thunderheads now taking on an ominous coloring warned the farmers of the impending storm.

It was later that evening. Rain drummed against the slate roof of Peter's house and reverberated through the rooms to where Mirestone and the Dutchman sat by the fire in silence. Mirestone broke the still atmosphere by putting forth a question that Peter somehow knew would be coming sooner or later.

"I wonder how the hex would react on a human being?"

Peter hoped to end the topic by answering him quickly and not beating around the bush trying to evade the question. "It would kill him eventually. Maybe not so quick as the goat, but it would kill him."

"What do you mean not as quickly as the goat--do you think it would take more time on a human?"

"Perhaps. I have heard of cases in which the hex, once it was started, dragged on for many days."

"I see." Mirestone sat back again thinking to himself.

Peter didn't like this. He wanted to get rid of Mirestone. "Well, you have your information. I showed you how the hex works. So, why not pay me and leave?"

Mirestone got up and laughed in the Dutchman's face. Crossing to the larder, he brought down a bottle, cracking the neck on the beam above, just as he had done the night before. A wave of apprehension overcame Peter as he realized the old flip attitude of Mirestone's was coming back. That meant definite trouble, and Peter began to fear the consequences.

"So, why not pay me and leave?" he again ventured. "Or do you want something else?" Peter knew that he didn't need to ask that last question, for already he realized the grim experiment that was playing about in Mirestone's head.

"Yes. I just told you what I wanted. I want to see the hex on a human before I go."

"Why? You have your information. Why do you want to see it work on a man?"

"My stupid, little peasant friend, do I look like a student of history?"

For the first time Peter actually looked at Mirestone and saw him for what he was. Of course, he couldn't be a student. No student would act as he did, or even look as he did. The words jammed in his throat as he was about to voice a reply.

"Ha--Martin G. Mirestone, student of history, student of German history. No my little oxen friend. I am no more a student of history than you are, but I need the hex for other reasons which do not concern you." Then as if he were contemplating a great new joke he continued. "But on the other hand, maybe the future of the white feather hex does concern you."

Mirestone's voice was drowned out by a heavy rumbling of thunder and the increased splashing of rain on the windows. But somehow Peter seemed not to notice.

Somewhat later Mirestone stepped quietly over to the sleeping form of his host. Peter had been over twenty-four hours now without sleep, and although the old Dutchman had tried desperately to fight off the drowsiness that overcame him, the recent excitement of the day had finally taken its toll. Lightning struck near by followed with an ear splitting blast that shook the house to its rocky foundations. Pieces of slate flew off the roof and were carried away into the night. The rain poured down in a great deluge, blurring the window, making it impossible to see in or out.

Mirestone held out a glistening white feather in his long spidery fingers. He placed it within a few inches of Peter's nose and watched the delicate edges riffle in the Dutchman's breath. Crossing to the table, he leaned over the white fluff and breathed the short German incantation over it. How it glistened in the firelight! He bent closer and closer as he whispered the magic words that Peter had taught him, his breath ruffling the feather, playing about in the fringed softness. He hung up the feather by a thread and watched it hop back and forth in the center of the room.

Peter awakened and saw Mirestone sitting by the fire noting every movement of the feather. "What are you doing, heh?"

Mirestone swung around and glared at the bleary eyed Dutchman. "Sit down," he commanded. "Sit down and watch the feather turn red."

Peter didn't need to be told that it was his feather. He knew by the merciless eyes of Mirestone that everything was over. "So, you were determined to find out what would happen if the hex were tried on a man?"

Peter was surprised at how easily he took his fate. There was no need of excitement--this was his end and there was no changing it.

"Yes, I had to know, for I can't leave until I have a complete record of all the results." Mirestone certainly was not cocky now. He looked almost ashamed of himself as he sat there nervously watching a man's fate swing by a silken thread. "I'm sorry, Peter, my friend, but that is how it must be. You are a stepping stone to a glorious reckoning that will soon take place. The hex of the white feather--I can hardly believe that I have at last tracked it down. And you, Peter, are the last witness, the last link in the chain of those who know the secret, and how can it better end than by your becoming a part of the secret?"

Peter realized that he had not much longer to live and nothing he could do to Mirestone would change his fate. Perhaps he could save others, though.

"What is this glorious reckoning you were speaking about?"

"As soon as I see how your case ends, I'll be able to go ahead and release my vengeance on those stupid, bungling fools who have thwarted my progress in the black arts. They claim to speak in the name of humanity, no less!"

"In that case," exclaimed Peter, "I won't let myself be a foothold for your damned work--it is of the devil and I'll have no part of it."

"Shut up, fool. You are a part of it already."

"Not if my body is destroyed before you can get hold of it."

Peter played his trump card. He quickly sprang back and slipped out the door into the storm. Mirestone jumped up after him, but it was too late. He peered out into the raging tempest making out the figure of Peter struggling with the hatch on the horse barn. He pulled his cloak about him and started towards Peter to stop him. The rain beat his face, blinding him momentarily, and before he could see clearly a dark mass pounded by, swift hoofs spattering mud all over him.

Down the road sped Peter on the horse--down the road and towards the foot-bridge. Mirestone ran a few steps and halted. He heard the hollow staccato of horse's hoofs on the planks for an instant, followed by a splintering crash that rumbled up from the gorge. A long, guttural cry pierced the black gloom as man and horse plunged down to the seething death awaiting them.

Cursing savagely, Milestone trudged back through the rain to the house. He slammed the door shut and threw his cloak on Peter's bed. There was one more bottle on the shelf; he smashed the neck and poured a glass. If one could see him bent over the table sending silent curses into his wine, he could readily imagine the feeling of defeat that had spread over Mirestone's countenance. The idiot of a Dutchman who had to play the hero's part and save other lives by ending his own made Mirestone fairly sick. However, all was not over. So the Dutchman had died; the hex had worked--a lot sooner than he had expected though. Now he certainly would be delayed in his progress, for he had counted on examining the body for any traces left that would suggest something out of the ordinary. One thing, however, he had learned was that the hex at least worked on humans. The mangled body that was being washed over the rocks would be enough proof on that score.

Mirestone poured another drink. He leaned back in the chair and placed the glass to his lips. He was tilted so far back that as he raised the wine to a drinking position, it blocked his view of the room. As he slowly sipped it, however, the room began to come into view--the ceiling first and slowly the wall. His eyes focused on a piece of thread hanging from the ceiling, and as the wine sank lower and lower in the glass, the thread grew longer and longer until in one last swallow he was able to see the end of the line.

Mirestone's hand went stiff as he looked at the thread, for on the end of it was a pure white feather.

In an instant Mirestone realized that the hex had not worked. Peter's death at the bridge had been a grotesque coincidence. Had the untimely plunge in the rapids been the result of the hex the feather would have long since been red, therefore, the tragedy was no more than an accident and Mirestone's hands were innocent of the Dutchman's blood. That realization, of course, didn't bother him, for he was not concerned whether or not he was responsible for Peter's death, but he was genuinely worried in the failure of the hex. He wondered if he had done something wrong. If he had, the last link, that could have corrected him was broken. From here on in he was on his own.

He calmed himself and began to think. He retraced everything that he had done to see if he couldn't have found some margin in which error could have crept in. He remembered how carefully he had bent over the feather reciting the exact words taught him by Peter. He especially remembered that part of the hex, for hadn't the feather been ruffled by his breath when he spoke....

Gradually the truth began to dawn on Mirestone. His own breath must have released Peter from the hex. The last person's breath that touched the feather would feel the sting of the power. Mirestone sat back dumbfounded. He was to be his own guinea pig. What ghastly horror was he in for? Would he die quickly like the goat or would his death be prolonged over a period of days like Peter had suggested. He gripped himself. It wouldn't do to lose control of his senses. There must be a way out of the predicament. But Peter said that as soon as the feather turned red there was no turning back. Ah--there's the answer. The feather is still white ... there's still a chance.

Mirestone grabbed his cloak and raced for the door. He must get an animal--another goat, perhaps, and expose the feather to its breath. He must hurry lest the spell will start working.

The slippery mud dragged him back and impeded his progress, but he struggled on through the blinding storm towards the barn. It was so black outside that he could hardly make out the buildings. All at once he saw the barn looming ahead of him. Which door? Every second counted; he would try the first one he came to. Wait--what's this holding his cloak? Mirestone turned and fumbled with some barbed wire fencing. It had snagged him in the dark, and he soon became hopelessly entangled in it. Crying and shrieking, he tore the cloak from his shoulders and ran on in his shirt sleeves. He wrenched open a door and sprawled in the barn head first. On his hands and knees he scurried across the mealy floor to the goat stall. The kids sprang in terror as he lurched in drunkenly, grabbing about in the dark for one of them. Catching one by the hind leg, he groped his way out again.

Thrusting his shoulders forward he slid through the gripping mud, tearing his way through the engulfing rain with his free hand. His leg left numb from the wound inflicted by the barbed wire, and a trickle of blood was running down his shins. Without thinking he reached down to rub the wound, but quickly yanked his hand up again. What was that horrible sensation he felt as he passed his hand over the fleshy sore? He couldn't see in the rain, but his leg told him that it was something hairy, almost bristly.

He ran on towards the house, stumbling in the treacherous mud. Once he fell completely down in the slime. Wiping the dripping earth from his face, he was told again that something was wrong. His cheeks verified his shin's story of a rough, jagged caress.

Holding his hand in front of his face he saw, amidst a flash of lightning, a curling, black claw, bristling with long, ragged hairs. Screaming hysterically he dropped the kid and fell forward into the door of the house. The latch gave way with his weight and he tumbled into the cottage.

Dancing madly on the end of a thread was a blood red feather.

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