|
She felt their presence,
sensed their thoughts and fears and knew they were riding through the
mist, searching for her and her kind. It was the way. They were the
prey while the warriors were the hunters – slaughtering witch-folk
under new skies.
Yes, the warriors were
out there in that frigid white land hunting for witches, claiming to
protect the small villages but in reality, to force the frightened
peasants into the bosom of the new kingdom. Swear allegiance to our
lord and we will protect you from evil, protect you from the
witch-folk!
People bred faster than
animals and were everywhere now. Although the humans did not live
long, they bore children quickly and claimed land, cutting down
forests, building their pitiful villages while witches lived in and
watched from the shadows.
It was the way of life
for the people of the craft; living alone and shadowing humans while
careful not to draw attention to themselves. If revealed, the witch
hunters would arrive, riding with a blood red dawn to find them, to
slaughter them. Warriors hunted witches for sport and for gold, hard
earned gold extorted from frightened peasants to rid them of the
presence of the craft.
Will it ever be
different someday in the future?
Through the chimney hole
of the small hut, she desolately watched the vague shapes of birds
flying across the clouds and envied their freedom. This is my time, I
have no choice. My life has been good but the lives of my children’s
children will be better!
The small stream that
wandered beside the village was beginning to run freely, the pale sun
reflected off the floating chunks of ice that floated in the centre,
jewels in a blue rush, speeding past and flowing away.
The soil was heavily
covered by snow and the bare branches of trees were outstretched with
small hints of greening buds, the first sign of the welcome warmer
weather. It was wintry and the villagers were wrapped in bearskins to
protect themselves from the biting morning cold, working feverishly to
gather their belongings. Every now and again, they would raise their
heads and stare worriedly across the stream towards the edge of the
forest. The hunters – witch hunters – were coming!
Staring into the red-hot
coals of the small fire in the hut, she wondered if there would ever
come a time when men did not hunt her kind. Instead of being feared,
they should be welcomed as sisters, even partners, on this earth.
However, that, she knew, was not meant to be – ever. Not in this time
or the next. The humans feared the unknown, thought they could control
everything and ignored the spirits of the earth. They had already
turned their backs on the animals, slaughtering them for sport as well
as need, their connection with the earth, the elements and the waiting
place for souls seemingly forgotten.
The wind lifted the skin
that hung over the opening of the small rough shelter. Through the
sudden gap, she saw the villagers had almost finished loading their
meagre possessions onto the small sleds, all the while uneasily
glancing at her hut and then back to the white horizon where the grey
sky met the relentless line of fir trees. The villagers were as
frightened of the coming warriors as they were of witches.
They come, I can feel
it, she said in her mind’s voice to her daughter.
Mother, we must run
then, flee while we can!
No, they will come for
me; they will hunt until they have me. But they do not know of you.
You must run.
The chieftain pushed
into the small tent and stood with hands on hips, staring down at the
woman wrapped in a hooded black cloak crouched next to the fire. The
witches’ eyes appeared to be far away but they quickly focused on him
and he shivered at the look.
‘We leave, witch,’ he
said, voice booming with false bravado. But he could not hide the fear
flickering in his eyes or the slight quiver in his voice.
‘Be gone,’ she said
disdainfully and he flinched when she rummaged in her skin bag. ‘Don’t
be afraid,’ she laughed bitterly, blue eyes flashing. ‘I am not as
powerful as you fear.’
Muttering, he pushed out
of the hut and signalled to the watching clan. Then he strode out and,
leading his villagers, they trudged alongside their sleds as they
escaped over the snow. The chieftain had sent for the warriors, his
fear had driven him to it, and now the fear of the warriors was making
the clan run to hide in the forest. They knew that once the warriors
had killed the witch, their eyes would turn to the women and the food
of the clan.
A young woman slipped
into the hut, also wrapped in a black cloak, pale blue eyes flickering
in the firelight and she calmly sat cross-legged next to the fire.
‘They have gone, Mama,’ she announced and her mother nodded.
‘I have seen. You must
leave now. Go south towards the warmer lands; keep to yourself until
you are safe. Do not reveal our craft until there are others, and walk
or run, but do not fly unless you are in peril.’
‘I cannot! I cannot
leave you!’
'We do not have enough
for two, only one can flee, we are still learning to harness this
gift.'
‘No!’
‘You must,’ she said
firmly. ‘You are our hope, Dobryna, the future.’
‘But, Mama…’
‘Hush! Do as I say, you
know this is the only way.’ A hunting horn sounded in the distance,
dark and foreboding in the icy air, and the women glanced anxiously at
each other. ‘Hurry!’
They embraced, tears
flowing strongly until the young woman wrapped her cloak around her
and stood silently, the fingers of one hand pressed against the
fingers of the other in their ancient sign of the circle, the power of
life.
'I will never forget
you, Mama.’
‘Nor I, you.’
‘I’ll tell your story, I
promise.’
‘I know, and I will be
close all your long days. I’ll be the wind in your hair, look for me
there.’
A moment, eyes locked
and then Dobryna turned, was gone, scurrying across the snow until she
vanished into the trees. Gone.
Her mother sighed, stood
silently, clasped her hands and concentrated, her eyes firmly closed
as she willed a small wind to breathe over the tracks of her daughter
until the snow was clean, no sign remaining of her escape.
And so you vanish into the future, my daughter. Run!
I will not forget you, Mother! I will avenge you!
Another sound of the horn and, without turning, she knew they were
upon her.
A line of men sat on
their horses next to the stream, vapour on the air from the horses’
breathing. Their lances were raised, swords gripped firmly as they
searched the empty village with their eyes. ‘She has gone,’ one said
to the leader, a big bear of a man in a leather breastplate and
bearskin. ‘We have wasted our time, the witch has vanished with her
evil magic,’ the man said nervously to the leader and the others,
eager to leave, to be far away from the witch’s lair, back to his fire
and the comfort of his new woman.
‘The villagers have
gone,’ another said, disgusted at the loss of fresh women and food to
plunder, ‘and the witch has gone with them.’
‘No,’ the leader said,
his voice nasal through a nose that had been broken long ago and never
healed, ‘there is a witch here, I feel it.’
One of the young men, a
man the chieftain knew would challenge him soon for the leadership
leaned forward and pointed at a hut across the river. ‘There is smoke
there; it is the only hut with a fire.’
‘I saw it,’ the
chieftain said angrily. Will they challenge me in the open, he
wondered, glancing at the young men of his troop, or stab me in my
sleep? He honestly didn’t know which he preferred and wondered if
that was a sign from the Gods that he was losing his courage.
A sudden gasp rippled
through the hunters as a woman stepped from the hut, her black hair
flowing freely as her hood fell back. Her arms outstretched and the
men cowered back in fear, muttering down the line, the horses
snorting, tramping in the snow.
‘Hold!’ the leader
screamed to his men and, fighting his own fear, unsheathed his sword.
‘Hold, I say!’ The young men were white faced as they watched the
woman twirl around and around in the snow, black hair fluttering like
a flag as she moved in a rhythm known only to her.
‘She dances the devil’s
dance,’ a man muttered and many made the sign of their own chosen god
for protection, others kissed talismans around their throats.
‘Witches die like any
other woman,’ a dark man on the left of the leader said calmly and the
leader glanced at him. He was a mercenary, a hunter from the east who
had joined the warriors and the leader had grown to admire his skills.
He also showed no interest in the leadership, and the leader had asked
the mercenary to kill the young man once he had become leader, once he
had killed the current leader. I won’t see it, the leader
thought, but it gave him satisfaction, to reach out from beyond the
funeral pyre.
The young man who had
first seen the smoke, the one who had openly told everybody that he
would challenge for the leadership of the tribe, broke from the line
and cantered towards the woman, hooves splashing through the icy
water, sword held high.
‘Young fool,’ the leader
cursed and again commanded his men to stay. ‘Hold the line,’ he
roared. ‘It is but a woman!’
They watched as the
young warrior galloped his horse towards the woman, bending low over
the horse’s mane, sword arm wheeling, and the blade glinted in the
weak sun. The woman stood her ground, her head back, black hair waving
in the wind against the snow, arms outstretched as if imploring the
sky to help.
‘Her head will soon
roll,’ one of the men said and chuckles mixed with fear ran through
the watching hunters.
Suddenly an explosive
crack rang through the air, echoing against the cliffs and the trees,
ringing in the ears of the watching warriors. The horse stopped and
reared as the rider seemingly burst into white flame, vanishing from
the earth as the woman slowly sank to her knees in the snow.
The watching men called
in fear, cursing and screaming. Some turned their horses and raced
away to the tree line, others stood uncertainly, their horses
nervously moving stiff legged in the snow as the riders stared across
the stream at the riderless horse and the woman kneeling exhausted on
the ground.
The mercenary turned his
slanted eyes to the leader and said calmly, ‘it seems the witch has
fulfilled my task.’ The leader nodded, his face a little pale as he
watched the empty horse cantering towards the forest.
Sadly, the leader saw it
all clearly and knew he had no choice. It was then he knew he would
prefer to die in bed next to his woman rather then explode in witches’
fire. But someone had to lead and this was the life he had chosen when
he had challenged the old man so long ago.
‘Be careful what you
wish for,’ the old man had said wisely when he was challenged. ‘It is
not as it seems.’ He didn’t know then what the old man had meant but
now he understood.
The leader spurred his
horse into the water, sword held high. ‘Witch! Die, witch!’ His scream
echoed through the land and the woman smiled grimly to herself as she
saw him coming. She was too exhausted to muster any further force, too
tired to live.
‘There is always one who
fights their fear,’ she murmured and muttering her final prayer, she
bent forward, the running breeze lifting her black hair speckled with
grey to bare her neck for the sword, ready to send her spirit on the
wind. |
