The Witch's Finger
The bitter east wind whipped up the sand and swept it across spiny grass dunes and the twisted, denuded limbs of the stunted shrubs that grimly clung to the shifting earth. Brother Stephen gathered the folds his robe and leaned into the gust. As he made his way across the uneven ground toward the sea, the dunes began to thin. A weak sun shone silver across the waters that seemed to retreat even as he approached. Without the defence of the dunes, the wind flayed at him still more cruelly and drew a salty tear from his narrow squint that stung as it dried on his cheek. The basket that he would fill with shellfish was an ineffective shield against the squall but better than nothing. Now the harsh screeching of gulls cut across the wind's droning whine and through his narrow field of vision he made out a flurry of movement at the seafront. It took a few moments for the clamour of wheeling and swooping to settle enough for him to se...