the magic garden where the red priest made his sorcery, alone.
These things I had heard, but vaguely, here and there — a word perhaps at Johnson Hall, a whisper at Fort Johnson, rumours discussed at Guy Park and Schenectady when I was young. But ever the same horror of it filled me, though I believed it not, knowing full well there were no witches, sorcerers, or warlocks in the world; yet, in my soul disturbed concerning what might pass deep in the shadows of that viewless Empire.
“Mayaro,” I said seriously, “do you go instantly to the fort and view those scalps.”
“Were the braids fastened at the roots with tree-cat claws?”
“Aye!”
“No need to view them, then, Loskiel.”