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anarchists-reject · 4 years

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A short story inspired by a Pinterest post(as shown below). If you know who the post belongs to, let me know so I can give them proper credit!

The Boy and the Witch

It was a day like any other. The wind sang as it passed through the trees, the birds setting the melody, the branches dancing to the rhythm. Small critters frolicked under the bushes and through the underbrush, rustling past bristling and fuzzy plants. A thin, pale hand gently pried a prickly stem from the stubborn ground. She couldn't help but cringe at the tough, dry soil, dusting a pinch of powder into the hole that once held the plant as she moved on.

Warmth spread through her hand from the black staff her fingers were wrapped around. A wicker basket hung on her opposite forearm and her tall, pointed hat blocked out the blazing sun as her eyes scanned the forest around her.

It smelled of sandalwood; a scent she followed, aware of her need to acquire it. Her feet were silent and imprint-less, hidden beneath the hem of her long black dress, only adding to her look. As she went deeper into the forest, the trees got thicker and much larger, blocking out the sun and the world along with it.

"Hey, witch!"

The woman calmly turned, her eyes finding the source of the small voice. Maybe five yards away, there was a man-made clearing. On a thick branch hung a thick piece of rope and dangling from the rope, caught around the ankles, was a child. He couldn't have been any older than eight and, judging by the clothing, he looked to be from the village nearby. His blond hair was knotted with sap and twigs, his pale skin stained with what looked like ash and mud. The only decent thing about the boy's appearance was his unusually bright blue eyes.

The witch couldn't help but recognize the passion behind those eyes, even if they were glossy and ringed with red.

She walked towards the boy, the crystal held in her staff pointing at him as her arms fell to her sides. "I'm caught in a trap," he said as if it weren't obvious, but the witch kept a straight face. "Get me down."

After a moment, she rose her staff, the orb glowing a deep green before the boy fell, stopping just short of the ground before coasting to rest gently on his back. The woman would have thought he'd have been more surprised or even angry that she'd used magic on him, but the boy only jumped to his feet after kicking the rope away.

The witch turned away, leaving the boy behind. She didn't spare him a glance as he chased after her.

"Hey, witch!" he called, a few paces behind her. "I'm not afraid of you! The Imperial Army is a hundred times scarier than you are." He huffed. "Wait up, witch, you're walking too fast."

The Imperial Army was scary indeed. She could admit that. Even considering the power she had, they were a great threat. A small smile curved her otherwise expressionless face. Without a word, the witch slowed her steps, allowing the boy to catch up.

After she'd reached her cottage, the boy had departed without saying a word. The witch didn't protest. Although, it did seem awfully quiet without him.

As the witch settled down late into the night, hanging her hat and putting away her staff, a knock came at the door. Before she had time to put down the bowl she held—which contained a crushed concoction of sorts—the door slowly opened.

She calmly turned around, only to see the boy struggling to drag in a bucket half his size through the door. He stopped just inside the doorway, wiping his forehead. He leaned on the bucket, his eyes cast down.

"My family and house were all burned to the ground. Not that it has anything to do with you, though," he said, his voice void of emotion but the witch caught the subtle tightening of his knuckles. "I picked some medical herbs for you—" he gestured to the bucket "—so is it okay if I stay with you tonight?"

The witch tilted her head as the boy rubbed his eyes a yawn distorting his next words. The witch stood up, setting down the bowl and lifting the bucket easily, and placing it in the closet, next to her staff, before pulling a couple of quilts from the drawers and laying them on the ground to create a temporary bed of sorts.

The boy's face lit up as she took her pillow and laid it on the ground with the blankets, before looking at him and gesturing to the sloppy bed.

"Thank you, witch!" he said as he leaped onto the covers, still dressed in his filthy clothing as he buried himself underneath them.

As his eyes quickly became more drowsy, she decided she'd not bother him about it.

One night morphed into a week and a week into a month, and so on. A pile of quilts on the ground turned into a mattress, which turned into a cot. The boy's hair grew, reaching his shoulders. And not only that but his height reached almost a foot above the witch's.

The boy would collect herbs for medicine and tea, and plant vegetables for the witch to guide in growing in the spring. In the winter, he chopped wood for the fire that the witch had taught him to keep alive and hunted so the witch wouldn't be forced to.

The boy was no longer a boy and the witch was no longer just a witch. He'd grown into a young man, going on eighteen this summer, and she'd somehow become a parent.

The witch wondered why he insisted on mastering the way of the sword. And the boy wondered why she never spoke.

One day—a day like any other—the witch heard the hooves thumping. She felt the warning in the soil.

Calm as ever, she set down the basket of herbs she had gathered and walked up the steps into her cottage. Her cold hand warmed as she gripped her staff gently. It wasn't long before the boy had returned, his hair sticking to his forehead and his chest heaving.

When he saw the witch, he realized the situation and hurried past her, unsheathing the sword that had been tucked underneath the floorboards.

As the boy ran outside to meet the horsemen, the witch placed her hat on her head, allowing her black hair to fall on her shoulders naturally.

She opened the door. A line of men in chainmail and helmets had advanced on the small cottage, carrying swords and shields, some even carried pitchforks and torches that blazed with fire. The witch wondered if they realized their mistake.

Standing in between the soldiers and the cottage was the boy. Even from behind, the witch knew his eyes were blazing, his sword pointed menacingly at the soldiers as they screamed for unjustified sacrifice.

"This is my home!" the boy yelled, his voice strong and unwavering. "I will not let you kill my family again, Imperial Army!"

The boy lunged forward and as blood spilled by cuts from his blade, staining the grass, the witch found out why he mastered the way of the sword. And the witch spread her arms wide and as flames erupted by words from her lips, scorching their skin, the boy found out why she never spoke.

But the witch knew what would happen. She knew the moment the sky began to weep that the boy would be left alone once again. So she poured her entire being into her last words and devasted the forest for miles, about as many miles as years they would speak about that dark day. They said the witch brainwashed the boy. They said they heard her beckoning in the night in that dead forest. They said she should have been burned, maybe then, the boy would be free of her hold.

And the boy lost his passion, his unnatural brightness. The boy lost his light.

But at least she made sure he no longer lived in fear. And maybe she did it so he wouldn't be bothered, or maybe she did it so he had no way to get revenge. Either way, when the castle burst up in flames and trapped the army inside, the boy couldn't help but smile because he'd been wrong.

The witch was a hundred times scarier than the Imperial Army.

This is also posted on Wattpad as The Boy and The Witch in my Short Stories book. My account is augie4realz so go check out that and plenty of my other work.

#short story #magick #my writing

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