Chapter 6
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A Witch
Darkness enveloped the marsh. Mist moved glacially in the low lying wetland and clouds obscured the stars far above. Muddy water bubbled as gas rose from the depths. The only light were the green flames of willow wisps who tempted lost travelers into a murky grave.
The only light that was, safe for a small campfire deep in Hoofstuck Marsh. Warm orange light danced and sparked as it happily chewed through the dry winter wood that had been fed to it. This bastion of light marked a haven in the deadly bog. Sheltering in its protection were three figures.
The first was a proud ram with a full and luscious fleece who, at that moment, was not acting at all prideful. He pretended to sleep whilst he kept an eye on the other two.
The second was a young man, only just turned seventeen, who’s curly blond hair flapped about, his new flat cap doing little to prevent the movement. His piercing green eyes examined the newly awakened third person; ensuring he was doing everything he could to aid the sickly figure.
This third and final person was new to the group and the reason Reithe the ram’s weary eyes were wary. The pair had found this newcomer, dressed in thin, black clothes, unconscious in the middle of the bog with no one else around for miles.
Reithe had thought it suspicious but Eoin the blond jumped straight in to help. He gave this other black-haired young man his blanket so that he may warm. He started a fire so that he wouldn’t freeze. He even spoon fed the unconscious man the spiced wine that had been gifted to him for his birthday.
Despite all this, Eoin was no saint. He was startled to find that this stranger in black had consumed half of the valuable bottle whilst Eoin thought the man unconscious. He was angry, and barely stopped himself from striking the presumptive invalid. Instead, he settled for snatching back his bottle and replacing it with a water-skin.
Once the other man realised what he had done, he apologised profusely. He explained that he awoke with a deadly thirst and the wine was the only thing to hand. When Eoin heard the dryness in the man’s voice he stopped downing the rest of the drink out of spite; he could tell that this man was being truthful and it made Eoin feel guilty, vis-à-vis the anger he had felt.
“My name is Dorcha,” the black haired man introduced once he had swallowed enough water to repair his voice. Dorcha sat up as much as he could whilst swaddled in Eoin’s blanket and offered the man a hand to shake.
Eoin didn’t hesitate, feeling ashamed of himself for not being the one to offer an introduction, he shook vigorously and proclaimed, “Eoin.”
Dorcha’s hand wasn’t as soft as Eoin expected. Based on the exceptionally pale skin and the fine but unsuitable back shirt, trousers, and tailcoat, Eoin had assumed that this man came from money; the sort of person who had never done a hard day’s work. But the calluses told a story of shoveling, raking, and even shearing.
“You’re a Shepard!” Eoin blurted without thinking. Dorcha’s silky black eyebrows shot up in surprise. A complicated mix of emotion flickered across his face. There were so many and they changed so quickly that neither Eoin nor Reithe, who was still spying on the conversation, could tell quite what the statement had dug up in the man.
After a moment of silence, in which Dorcha was clearly debating what to say, he cracked.
“I owe you for saving my life, I would have frozen to death if not for your intervention, to say nothing of the wine.” Dorcha took a hesitant breath then continued, “My great grandfather was a Shepard, My father was a Shepard, I… I am not.”
There was a pause and, not fully understanding the gravity of the man’s words, Eoin pressed, “You’re not?”
“No.” Dorcha responded rather firmly and with bitterness behind his words. He took a couple of breaths, then softened his tone, “I don’t mean to be rude, but this is a very raw wound.”
“That’s fine,” Eoin responded, raising his hands and backing up, “I don’t need to know.” Though his mouth said one thing, his eyes said another. Dorcha saw the curious hunger that lay behind them.
“I at least owe you an explanation,” Dorcha replied, his eyebrows furrowed, “Just… just, give me a moment.”
Eoin sat and waited for the other man to compose himself and appeared to be perfectly content to wait until the cows came home but Reithe knew otherwise. The slight clicking of the nails and the overfast blinking of the eyes were the steam rising from the boiling kettle of questions that was Eoin’s mind.
A few more seconds passed as the other man thought about where to start.
“I was born on a sheep farm. My father was a Shepard. My mother was a seamstress. We were happy.” Dorcha began, his sentence abrupt and to the point, as if it pained him to recall.
Another pause ensued and Eoin strained to keep hold of all the questions straining to escape him:
* How many ewes and rams did your farm have?
* How long had the farm been established?
* Why do you speak of your parents and your happiness in the past tense?
* Earlier you corrected the stitch I was trying to do, did your mother teach you how to sew?
* Why are you out here alone?
* Why are you dressed like that?
* Why aren’t you continuing?
* …
Despite Eoin’s best efforts, one question did manage to slip out. Well, it was less of a question and more of an encouragement to continue speaking.
“And?” Eoin asked/prompted.
“It all started a year ago,” Dorcha finally opened up, “We lived near a village on the warp river, near the end of the wooly mountains. One day, a plague struck. At first it was the animals.
The sheep were throwing up from both ends, they couldn’t keep anything down. They wasted away and there was nothing we could do to stop it. Before a week was through, the whole flock were little more than thin carcasses left on the mountain side; food for the birds.”
Dorcha’s words slowed Eoin’s whirling mind. As the son of a Shepherd, he knew just how bad this was. He could imagine how he would feel if this were to happen to his flock. Or rather, he couldn’t. It was just too horrible. But that wasn’t the end of it.
“That wasn’t the end of it,” Dorcha went on, “if that had been everything, we would have recovered. Animals are expensive but farming Caorah sheep is profitable, we had enough set aside to start over.”
Eoin nodded along with Dorcha’s words. Although the thought of what he was describing turned the young man’s blood cold, Eoin knew that his family would similarly be able to bounce back with enough time. The land was what mattered after all; the sheep much preferred living on the mountains and the fleeces of such sheep were always of a higher quality.
“....Like I said, the animals were only the start,” the man in black continued, “The first person to get sick was Peshek, the miller. No one thought too much of it. He was known for his deplorable behaviour and his getting illnesses was deemed his own fault.
‘It would never happen to us,’ they said.
It did happen to us. Next to go was the Priest of Homos, shortly followed by many of the village's children and elderly. The weak were taken first. Word was sent to Yarnmouth for aid.
My father isolated us in our farm. We had our own food and we drew our own water from the river and never met with anyone from the village. It didn’t matter, my father became sick all the same.
My mother and I were desperate; my father would only have a few days to live. When a magician came to the village, attached to a dispatchment sent by Mr Ewing, we thought we were saved. We weren’t. His services were not free and even with all we had saved it wasn’t enough for his potions.
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My father was stubborn, and even as he lay dying, he insisted he was fine and not to worry about him. That was until my mother fell ill. He sent me to fetch the magician. So, I did.
Whilst bedridden, my father talked to the magic doer. I wasn’t privy to the negotiations, all I know is the result. He signed away our farm for one vial of the cure. He didn’t tell me this and when the magician left with his white cloak swishing behind him, I assumed all had been solved - by the look on my parent’s faces.
They made me drink the vial, saying they had already had theirs and it would just take a day or two to have its effects. I sat beside them in their bed, tending to them the whole while and waiting for the pair to recover. Within three days they were dead.”
Another silence swept through the camp and this time it remained unbroken until Dorcha picked back up with far more weight and conviction in his voice:
“Anger rose inside me, and I stormed off to confront the Magician. I assumed his cure had failed. When I marched into the village chief’s hut that Ewing’s men had been using as a base for their work I was immediately knocked down by an armed and armoured man.
As I sprawled on the ground, I could see but not do anything about the sword that was headed straight towards me. Just before this knight could cut me down, his arm was stopped by the very man I had come to kill.
With a single word from the Magician, the man-at-arms stood down. I was at a loss for what to think. Before my anger could work its way back to the surface, the Magician - an older and kind looking man than I remembered - seemed to recognise me.
He made me follow him and, dumbly, I did. He showed me the next room. It was filled with beds. Tens of villagers were there, and all were dying. This Magician was tending to each of them, not with magic but by hand.
This was at odds with the image of the man which I had built up in my mind. Dumbfounded, I asked:
‘If you wish to help these people, why don’t you use potions?’ To which, he produced the contract on which my father made his mark. I can’t read so when I asked, he read it out. That was when I learned of the price he had paid and that it was in return for only one potion.
The Magician went on to explain that he had made no money from the arrangement, that was simply how deer the ingredients were. He explained that this plague likely had magical origins which made it more powerful but also meant it would be short lived.
I listened to very little of the man’s explanations. With no target for my anger, it simmered down and the world fell out from beneath me.
I don’t remember much of the following days. The plague ended. The Magician left and several days later I received a message from one of Mr Ewing’s runners saying that he had bought the deed to what used to be my farm.
Not even that could stir anything in my empty heart. In truth, Mr Ewing behaved admirably. He let me keep my family home, even though the land was his. He even went so far as to arrange a funeral for all those who died in the village.
It was at that somber ceremony that the cause of the plague was uncovered. While drunk, the village chief revealed that three weeks before any of it, he had received a caller. A starving and elderly woman, covered in warts. She asked for food, for water, for money. She begged on hands and knees but he refused to give her a thing.
She then dissolved into dust and cursed the man saying, he should head deep into Hoofstuck marsh and repent for his lack of charity by severing his ear or, she promised, he would regret his decision.
Naturally, he was strung up on the hanging tree by an angry mob. But, when I asked, with newfound fire, whether any of the villagers would join me in seeking vengeance on this crone, they all hesitated.
Furious, I cursed them all before leaving alone, without even a second to prepare. And, to cut a long story short, that is why I am here, still dressed in the clothes of that day.”
✯
“A Witch! She’s a Witch!” Eoin exclaimed with fear and a healthy dose of respect for the black-haired man. Witches and Magicians were only things that made it to shearford via story. Until this moment, Eoin wasn’t even sure that they existed. That said, if they did there was one thing that was commonly known about Witches, they were evil.
Whether it be boiling baby soup, cursing cripples, or sucking out souls; Witches were the enemy in every story.
Eoin and Docha continued talking but Reithe wasn’t listening. Something about this whole situation felt off to him, though he couldn’t place his hoof on what. When the ram returned to listening in on the conversation, to his horror he found that Eoin had already vowed to help this man on his quest for justice.
Eoin had told the other man of his own, very similar, upbringing and the pair became fast friends. They chatted long into the night, planning out how to vanquish this evil witch whilst Reithe spent his night fretting about the trouble his human friend was needlessly getting them into.
At some point, sleep swept through the camp and the silence of the night was restored. Since the guest, Dorcha, was using Eoin’s blanket he snuggled up next to Reithe for warmth.
The next morning came quickly and, as usual, the ram was the first to wake. Instead of his normal means of waking Eoin, he chose to gently nuzzle the man to consciousness because he wanted a moment to confer in private.
Reithe expressed his unease. He couldn’t put it together in a coherent manner, but there was something wrong with gallivanting off after a Witch at the word of a stranger. Despite his warnings, Eoin was convinced helping this stranger was the right thing to do. His mind was set and nothing could be done to change it.
Reithe resigned himself to his fate. Dorcha woke soon after and his condition was much improved. The only thing that had been ailing him was the cold and, now that that had been treated, he was back in tip top shape.
While they were breaking camp, the pale man noticed Eoin’s sword and reacted in the way all lads of that age seemed to when seeing a proper weapon; with admiration and excitement. When Eoin revealed that it was a gift for his coming of age a strange mood came over the lad.
When pressed, he revealed that he had forgotten his own seventeenth birthday. It had come and gone in the days leading up to the funeral and he had completely missed it. Feeling bad, Eoin gifted the other boy what little wine that remained, to try and help with the slight headache the night before had caused.
He refused at first but when Eoin revealed he had a cure for such ailments he relented. Pinching his nose, Eoin opened the jar his father had given him and with a single drop of the nasty fluid, felt as right as rain.
Eoin, being a generous young man, also allowed Dorcha to keep his blanket and use it as a cloak. In return, Dorcha, being the son of a seamstress, helped Eoin finish the repairs to his coat. Reithe, despite his doubts, had to admit that part of the story was no doubt true. When he was done, no marks were left from what had been a nasty tear.
Dorcha seemed surprise by Reithe. He hadn’t thought much on it last night as other things occupied his mind. Caorah sheep were more intelligent than other breeds and some people did choose to keep one as a pet, much like a dog.
That said, Reithe seemed particularly smart. It unnerved Dorcha that his saviour’s pet listened to every word that was said and acted as though he understood them. The man in black never saw Eoin issue any commands but when he complained of thirst, a waterskin smacked him in the face and Reithe seemed to laugh at the look of indignation his owner shot him.
When the camp was well and truly broken and everything was packed up, they set off once more. The mist had passed and the swamp could be seen. It was far less spookey when one could see the source of sound, be that a ribbiting toad or a babbling brook.
They followed the cairns for several miles and talked about their shared experience as Shepherds. Dorcha grew more open and his glower mood seemed to rise.
After a few miles of snowy bog, they made it to a small, dead tree and Dorcha stepped off the path without a second thought. Before Eoin could follow behind, also without thinking, Reithe bit onto his coat and held the man back. It took Eoin a moment to understand what Reithe wanted.
“How do you know this is the right way to go to find this Witch?” Eoin said, asking Reithe’s question.
Dorcha looked at the ram strangely before answering.
“On my way there I stopped by Hoofstuck village. They had heard of the Witch and some of the washerwomen told me that they came here seeking love potions,” he explained in answer.
This seemed to satisfy Eoin and he continued on, asking the next benign question that had come to him - as was his way. It wasn’t sufficient for Reithe however. The way he walked along the unmarked path with confidence was, to him, suspicious.
Looking ahead, Reithe could see the faint outline of footprints covered by last night's snow and an idea began to form. When Dorcha jumped straight to the only section of solid ground in a patch of completely snowed over mud, talking with Eoin all the while, it only added to Reithe’s conclusions.
Before long, they came around a thicket of dead and spiky bushes that could be seen straight through and somehow found a cottage on the other side, complete with herb garden. Eoin exclaimed in surprise but Dorch did not. Resolve firmed his features and he took a step towards the house.
Before he got too close, the door was slammed open with such force that the smoke puffing out of the chimney was stymied for a moment.
There, standing in the doorway, was a beautiful middle aged woman with dark, greying hair, and a working dress whose sleeves were rolled up to reveal strong forearms.
It wasn’t what Eoin had expected from a Witch but that wouldn’t stop him from vanquishing the evil that killed an entire village. Whilst Dorcha stopped and gulped, Eoin drew his sword and charged.
The woman looked at him with derision and pulled back a hand. Reithe, appalled by his friend’s recklessness, started charging after him.
Eoin expected a fireball, or blast of wind, or a lightning bolt, or another hundred things that the stories of witches had included. Reithe expected much the same and rushed even faster to stop his friend. All the while, Dorcha stood back, frozen.
The woman closed her fist, likely some part of the spell. Eoin continued his charge, ready to cut the Witch in two. He was ten paces from her. Seven. Five. Three. He blinked.
Out of nowhere, a fist appeared right in front of his face. Before he could react he was punched so hard that he was sent reeling. Reithe, who couldn’t halt his charge, collided with Eoin and sent him spinning three times before hitting the floor.
He looked up through stars to see that his sword was gone. He turned to the Witch who had just recklessly stabbed the weapon into the ground. Eoin then realised that not once had she truly looked at him. Even now, she was staring at the frozen Dorcha with an odd expression twisting her face.
Seeing Eoin sprawled out on the ground, Dorcha finally stepped forward. Ready to confront his family’s killer.