Page:Weird Tales volume 11 number 02.pdf/49

192 HE life of the scattered community went on peacefully for several days. Arie Ver Veelen's child was buried in the little plot of ground which the settlers had set off for a cemetery. Hes Brummel's half-wit son continued to roam aimlessly around, but the old woman did not show herself. Along the creek Polhemus' grist-mill clattered daily, and the sound of the great wooden hammer beating cloth in Pye's fulling-mill could be heard for some distance. Oxen and carts passed on the rutty road.

One drab morning when the sun was overcast, Roelof Pye came running breathlessly up the slope to Arie Ver Veelen's house. Grietje, Ver Veelen's wife, was busy in the kitchen with the midday meal. Roelof clattered through the house and confronted her, his breath coming fast and his face pale.

"Your little Katrina!" he gasped. "She was playing in the mill and she fell under the hammer—under the big, heavy hammer that beats the cloth. She was crushed, and she lies there now, all bloody"

The woman fell to the floor in a heap, sobbing.

"My little Katrina! Mijn schoon lammetje! First was Joris, and now Katrina. Mijn liefste kind!" She rocked back and forth in agony.

Pye lingered for a moment, and then, seeing that he could do nothing further, walked slowly back toward his mill. On the way he met two of his men carrying the little girl's body, crushed beyond recognition, back to her home. The woman's wailing could still be heard.

The news spread quickly over the settlement. Daily tasks were abandoned and men and women gathered in little groups, looking ominously toward Hes Brummel's shack. Today, however, no smoke issued from its chimney. Hendrick had not been seen all morning. They wondered if the old witch had not departed, now that her work of revenge was done. The murmuring grew louder as the handfuls of settlers merged into one large group moving toward the unpainted wooden building in the hollow.

They gathered around the door, but no one had the courage to be first to enter. Nothing could be heard from within. Suddenly Arie Ver Veelen, a wild look in his eyes, dashed toward the door and shattered the latch. He stood for a moment blinking in the semi-darkness of the hut. Other men followed and looked over his shoulder.

As their eyes became accustomed to the dimly lighted interior they saw, huddled in the ashes of the fireplace, in a pool of blood, the recumbent figure of Hes Brummel with the parrot perched jauntily on her head. An open red wound from ear to ear showed where her throat had been cut. On the opposite side of the room, crouched in a corner, Hendrick laughed softly and insanely, caressing a gleaming knife.

Ver Veelen turned to run from the horrible scene, and stumbled into the men behind him. He was panting with fright.

"The curse of Alabad and Ghinu and Aratza be upon thee!" shrieked the parrot from the mangled body of its mistress. "The curse of Alabad and Ghinu"

The bird's chattering sank to a muffled croaking as it preened its feathers. Not one of the crowd had remained within earshot.