Prologue - The Witch
The old woman of the woods did not have a name. Instead, she was known by the locals as The Witch of the Eastern Woods, or The Witch, for short. It was no surprise; she could often be found shouting at the owls that nested in the trees hanging over her hut as if in argument with some unruly neighbor, or haggling with the nearby village’s shop owners over the price of imported herbs. Rumor has it they were for the supposed “potions” she brewed in her house deep within the woods. Even then, sightings of this frenzied woman were rare --- the villagers made sure to steer clear as much as possible for fear of becoming cursed with The Witch’s wrath.
Despite the wary attitude that the villagers donned with the mere thought of The Witch, there were occasions that prompted interactions with the crazed woman. It was one such day where The Witch found herself bedridden from aching bones and uncontrollable wheezing -- signs of old age that the younger ones in the village loved to imitate. The Witch was muttering under her breath between hacking coughs when a loud rapping resonated throughout her single-roomed hut.
“Who the bloody hell is that,” she wheezed as she sat up on her bed. “Leave me alone, I don’t have anything to sell you!”
“I’m not here for your potions, Miss,” came the voice of what sounded like a young man from the front door. “My father sent me to check in on you after hearing that you’ve caught one of your aching spells again.”
“Bah! Who does that fool think he is, sending his brat to pester me? Begone, I tell you!”
There was a moment of silence at the door. And then, “Aunt Winnie, my father has sent me with a basket of your favorite chewing leaves.”
The Witch let out an exasperated grumble and managed to climb out of her cot to unlatch her front door. Without so much as a glance at the man who towered over her in the doorway, she snatched the aforementioned basket out of his arms and hobbled to a wooden table that stood before a lit fireplace. Rubbing her left knee with one hand, she pried a wad of small leaves from the basket and promptly began chewing on them, staring into the empty space before her while occasionally letting out a cough.
The young man took the opportunity to duck into her house, closing the door behind him. He glanced over at the room, noting that despite the woman’s reputation, she managed to keep her space much more tidy than any of the shops he had seen in his village. As he headed over to the corner where she kept her neatly stacked cookware and cabinet of spices, he picked up the faint aroma of lavender lingering in the air.
“I’ll brew a cup of tea for you, Aunt Winnie,” the young man said, seeking a jar of lemongrass in her cabinet. The Witch made no sign of acknowledgement and continued chewing in between wheezes.
After the water was boiled over the fireplace and the tea was steeped, the man set a steaming cup on the table before The Witch. He pulled up a chair and sat across from her, watching the the light of the fire flicker across her face and reflect in her watery eyes.
He sighed, and ran a calloused hand through his dark hair. “It’s been years since you started living out here on your own, Aunt Winnie. Father is always worrying... Won’t you ever come back to the village?”
The Witch’s chewing slowly came to a stop. She looked the young man in the eye, returning his even gaze -- and spit the chewed-up leaves in his face.
Somehow, the young man did not flinch, as if he had expected no less of the situation. He continued to gaze into the lined face of the recluse who had hidden herself away for the majority of his life. He watched as she wrapped both of her hands around the tea cup and slowly bring it to her lips, taking deep drinks of the brew. When she finally set the cup back down, it was nearly empty.
“Aren’t you going to pour yourself a cup as well, you brat?” she growled at the man. On that day, like many others, she would have no intention of answering his pleas for her return to the village.
The young man shook his head, and stood up from the table.
“I have to head back to the village; one of father’s men needs help with the oxen. Seems like they’re not in the mood to plow today.”
The Witch cursed under her breath, her eyes following the man as he saw himself out.
“Oh,” the young man gasped, a thought occurring to him. He looked over at the pathetic sight of the old woman’s small frame hunched in her seat. “Do you need help with any labor before I head out?”
“Leave me be!” she shouted at him. “And tell that old fool that I don’t want any more of his brats trampling about my home!”
The young man pursed his lips. Without a word, he walked out of the hut, closing the wooden door behind him.
Cursing, The Witch stood up from the table and returned to her cot, setting the basket of her favorite chewing leaves on the bedside table. After achingly lowering herself onto the sheets, she closed her eyes in the hopes that sleep would soon come for her and relieve her of her misery.
No sooner did she fall into slumber, the sounds of rapping were heard once more. The Witch’s eyes snapped open in the dimly lit room, lit only by the flames within her fireplace.
The sounds did not stop. She waited and waited, praying that they would eventually cease. But they never did. She eventually felt that the sounds were forever embedded into her very aching bones.
“Stupid brat, did I not tell you to leave me be!” she shouted in the direction of the doorway. She was suddenly overcome by a coughing fit and found herself needing to return to the fireplace to pour herself some hot water for her throat.
The knocking continued. Profanity spewed from her lips, and The Witch trudged over to the door and swung it open.
“What more do you want from me?!” she screamed at the faces of two hooded figures that stood on her doorstep.
By that point, night had already fallen. It was difficult to discern the features of the two individuals that faced the wrath of the The Witch of the Eastern Woods at her own doorstep. One was significantly taller than both its companion and the Witch; the other was barely an inch taller than The Witch herself. They were both cloaked in what seemed to be a dark, velvety material.
“I take it that you’re the so-called Witch of the Eastern Wood?” the taller one spoke in a bemused tone. The Witch tried to see into his hood, but could only catch a glimpse of lips curled into a smile.
“I don’t know who you think you are showing up on my grounds at this hour, but I demand that you leave at once,” The Witch hissed. She made an effort to shut the door in their faces, but was stopped by a slender, pale hand pushing the door against her. It belonged to the taller figure, who stepped closer to the doorframe.
“Our sincerest apologies for our rudeness and disturbing your night,” said the tall figure. “We have heard of your abilities from the villagers and are in great need of your assistance. My companion and I are on foot travelling to the next town, but on our way she slipped and twisted her ankle. Would you be so kind as to offer your hospitality and perhaps prepare an ointment for her injury? We shall return the favor with a great sum.”
The Witch grew more and more enraged with every word that came out of the stranger’s mouth. “I don’t have time for your troubles, I have my own problems to deal with! Go find a healer in the village, I’m sure they would love to have whatever nasty coin you have hidden in your robes!” With that, another coughing fit overcame the The Witch. Her grip on the door loosened as she doubled over wheezing and hacking. She cursed the spirits as her vision began to blacken around the edges.
“My my, you are not looking well at all,” remarked the taller figure. “I see that your troubles are indeed far greater than our own. We’ll certainly be out of your hands, but please, at least allow us to help you to your cot.”
The Witch did not have the breath to argue as phlegm flew from her mouth. She felt the strangely gentle touch of hands along her elbows and back guide her back into her hut and towards her cot. Once amongst her sheets, exhaustion overcame every inch of her body.
“I think you could do with a hot cup of tea,” said the same voice from a distance. “My companion here makes the best cup of lemongrass tea. Nothing compares to it!”
The Witch did not have the strength to voice her opposition to another blasted cup of lemongrass tea. She could only manage to twist her head so as to watch the two figures hover over the pot that hung over the fire. She watched as the smaller figure of the two tossed a variety of ingredients into the pot in preparation of the supposed lemongrass tea. The Witch closed her eyes, feeling as if a blanket of delirium was slowly layered over her.
She was nudged awake by the same tall figure who had been speaking to her. He sat at her bedside with a steaming cup in his left hand. With his other hand, he propped up The Witch to a sitting position.
“Tea to soothe your mind and quiet your soul,” the figure said quietly as he brought the cup to her lips. The Witch wanted to protest, but was not in the mood to have hot tea spilled all over her lap. She took long sips of the tea, eventually giving in to the refreshing aroma of lemongrass and something else that she surprisingly couldn’t quite place.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” the voice inquired when The Witch had finished her cup. The Witch watched, dazed, as the smaller figure appeared at his side and took the cup from him. She heard the faint sound of clay on wood as the cup was set on the table in the distance.
“Who the bloody hell are you,” The Witch gasped, feeling another wave of exhaustion roll over her. The taller figure removed his grasp from her, and she slumped back onto her cot. She felt her lips grow numb; her fingertips and eventually the rest of her limbs followed suit. She watched helplessly as the figure beside her pushed back the velvety hood from around his face, revealing a long, pale face with elvish features framed by long locks of light hair that glowed in the light of the fire. He had the ghost of a smile on his lips as he looked down on the progressively weakening form of the poor old recluse in what she faintly realized was her deathbed.
“Goodnight, Miss Winnie,” the stranger said, reaching out to stroke the white, straw-like hairs atop The Witch’s head. “I hope you lived a wholesome life without regrets.”
With that, the stranger replaced the dark hood over his head and left the Witch’s side. Unable to turn her neck in a state of paralysis, she could only listen to sounds of her killers’ footsteps across her floors and out of her home, with the shut of the wooden door following them. She silently watched the lights of the fire flicker across the ceiling of her thatched roof. She could feel the buildup of a cough deep in her chest, but she could not bring herself to cough. Weights were added onto her chest as her breathing slowed and her vision began to blacken once more.
In her last moments, The Witch of the Eastern Wood, also known as The Witch, or Aunt Winnie, brought up in the image of the young man’s face in her minds eye. She remembered the way he lovingly looked at her all these years as he had sat across from her at that same table by her fireplace.
My son, she thought somberly. My wretched son.
Soon, the flickering of light across her frame and the tears rolling down her still face were the only moving features of the old woman’s body. Her corpse would not be discovered until months later, when the young man would visit her once more to check in on her health and make her favorite cup of lemongrass tea.
[To be continued...]
