Story Fragment 12 June 2007

The witch woman comes.

The house is empty except for an impending doom. The hallway, the living room, the stairs that lead up and the stairs that lead down, and the view through the bay window to the outside world carry the weight of quiet anticipation. Disembodied voices float up from the basement: "Stop worrying out loud. We can hear you, we're trying to watch TV." Grandpa sleeps upstairs, the rustling beneath the covers an inaudible whisper.

There are no wise men left. His friends have gone into town, and out in the field, still some way off near the treeline, he sees her making her own path, picking her way closer, wrapped tightly in a blanket or dark cloak, and there's a creature padding behind her. Somehow he's been expecting her, but he doesn't know how he knows this, only that her coming is a portent. Of what? He doesn't know.

The sun has set; it's not quite dark, but the half light between day and night casts shadows on reality. It's the time-between-times when the worlds are thin, and anything--real or fantastical--may happen. It's been raining outside, and the smell of clay, grass, and ozone still linger in the air. Should he lock the door, look for a weapon, or simply wait for the inevitable? She is seeking him, he knows this, as much as he knows that running would be useless. She is bound to him and he to her. She would find him no matter where he went, and so he waits, drumming his fingers impatiently against his leg, and tries to slow his breathing. She brings the snake, a voice echoes again from below, the test of Pythias.

When she comes up the steps to the house, she opens the door as if it were her own home, matter of factly, and reaches a slender hand up to the hood of her mist covered cloak, pulls it back, and underneath is a much younger face than he expected, and thick jet black hair spills down over her shoulders and around her face. Although she is pale, she is incredibly beautiful, and her green eyes are piercingly unflinching, full of wisdom and secrets.

No introduction is needed, or expected. They step into the kitchen and pull up chairs around a table. A large gray moor cat has followed her in from outside and pads softly to her side, wraps itself around her feet, and immediately falls asleep. He doesn't see a snake, and looks at her questioningly.

"You know about the snake," she demurs in a voice that reminds him of dark earth and bells. "It's inside the cat. Stick your hand inside its throat and the snake will swallow your arm. If your conscience is clean you will have nothing to fear and can remove your arm unharmed."

"And if not?" he asks, his eyebrows arching mildly.

"Then you will die."

"What choice do I have?"

"You always have a choice." She looks down at her hands, inspecting her nails, and the moor cat awakens briefly, yawns, and closes its eyes once again.

"Okay, I'll do it," he says. There were no wise men left. He now realized the choice that stood before him. If he took the test and passed, he would have the knowledge of Ancients, his path would be lonely, but there may once again be hope to rekindle the fire needed for the coming storm. It was a dangerous gamble, but he had been waiting for this.

"Do you have any questions?"

"Yes. My conscience is clean in this world, but in the other one, I don't know. There's something still troubling me."

"Agreement first, and then questions?" A smile plays across her lips, but she doesn't say what she's thinking. "You have to let go of your guilt in both worlds, this world and the world you left behind. There is no difference between dream and reality. They're both the same. Forgive yourself. Seek forgiveness if possible, and then you will be ready for the trial."

He still carried guilt. He didn't know how it ended with her, but it had ended, and now he carried a painful reminder with him, tucked away from all but himself, an image of her to be mulled over when he had time to think about such things.

"Okay," he said. "I'm ready." He rolled up his sleeve. The moorcat, as if on signal, woke instantly, yellow eyes gleaming and turning to slits as it opened its mouth to reveal long, sharp fangs. He closed his eys and pushed his arm deep down its throat. There were no wise men left . . .