» 02 – The Witch «
Meilin’s cheer at seeing another human being is tempered only by the trouble he seems to have brought with him. She’d heard him before she saw him, his frantic footsteps echoing across the moor with an accompaniment of howls. Now she held him down in a shallow hollow beneath a hill, hand over his mouth in a desperate plea to keep him from talking.
Pulling the young man against the hard dirt of the hollow, she senses something approaching, coming to a stop just overhead. She can’t see the creature from down here, but it casts what could almost be a canine’s shadow, if not for how innately wrong it looked, limbs ill-proportioned and crooked. Meilin had never seen a barrow geist in person for the same reason most people hadn’t—she was still alive.
Heavy, thick breathing above them fills the air with the fetid stench of the dead. Meilin feels the man trying not to gag, struggling to breathe normally beneath her hand, but she doesn’t dare make the movement to let go.
A low, guttural sound, like a shifting in the bowels of the earth, echoes across the moors. In response, the shadow pulls back from above them, the sounds and stench of the creature dissipating into the mist. Meilin silently counts to thirty, eyes scrunched shut, listening for any more sounds. Nothing reaches her ears, so she finally releases her grip.
The stranger splutters, breathing in laboured pants he struggles to keep as quiet as possible.
“You need better friends,” she tells the young man.
He looks up at her, panic and bewilderment alight in his blue eyes. He’d probably clean up to be handsome, she guesses, though it’s hard to tell through the sweat, dirt, and muck.
After a second he seems to finally register what she said and barks a laugh. “No shit.”
Meilin frowns, considers her foundling’s strange clothes.
“You’re from New Albion,” she tells him.
“You’re not?”
She shakes her head.
“Oh, that’s good.” He gives her an awkward, slightly manic smile. Given the preceding events, she doesn’t hold it against him.
“Really?” Meilin tilts her head.
“Yeah, yeah.” The stranger finally catches his breath. “It means you can tell me what on Earth is going on.”
“Not Earth,” she corrects him.
He blinks. “This isn’t Earth?”
“Of course not.” Mother had warned her offcomers tended to be a little slow. “You’re in the Marchlands.”
“And that’s not on Earth?”
She resists the urge to roll her eyes. “Obviously.”
“Obviously,” he echoes, leaning back to look up at the purple swirl of sky. “Cool.”
“It is a little chilly,” Meilin agrees, pulling her shawl a little tighter.
He laughs, looks back down at her again, offers a hand. “I’m Ewan, by the way.”
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She shakes it. “Meilin.”
“Thank you for saving me from…?”
“Barrow geists,” she finishes for him. “They’ve been unusually active as of late. But you’re welcome. I’m glad they didn’t rip your soul from your body.”
Ewan frowns. “Uh… yeah, me too.”
Certain enough time has passed, Meilin rises to her feet, dusts the dirt from her moss-coloured pants. She picks up the bundle of bell-shaped flowers she’d hastily dropped when Ewan arrived, then offers her other hand to him.
He smiles and lets her help him to his feet.
“You, ah, wouldn’t happen to know the way back to Earth, would you?” he asks sheepishly.
“Oh.”
How did he get here if he doesn’t even know the rules? Doesn’t Earth have a Hero to stop their kind winding up here accidentally?
Meilin considers her phrasing carefully, not wanting to play with him how a cat plays with a butterfly. “I can’t help you with that personally; it’s forbidden. But! I know someone who does—a wise woman.”
“Can you take me to them?” he asks. “If it’s, ah, not too much trouble.”
She smiles. Her mother had always said offcomers were impolite; Meilin counts her blessings the first one she’d encountered seems to be the exception.
“I’m heading in that direction anyway.” She hefts the bell-shaped flowers. “Got a delivery to make.”
Assured the coast is clear, the two set back out onto the moors again. Meilin leads, a step ahead of Ewan, weaving so they stay on firm ground; she didn’t want them surviving the barrow geists only to fall into a peat bog As they walk she can see Ewan’s eyes darting from side-to-side, but after five or so minutes he seems to loosen up enough to broach a quiet conversation.
“That’s not foxglove, is it?” he asks, his eyes tracking across the flowers.
“Good guess, but no.” Meilin laughs. “This is knitbone. They do look dangerously similar.”
“When you say knitbone, do you mean comfrey?” he clarifies, then adds, “Sorry, that’s what we call it on Earth.”
“Interesting. Do most men on Earth know so much about herbs and plants?”
Ewan shakes his head. “Nah. My Mum’s a florist—she sells flowers, I mean.”
He’s the son of a wise woman? Is that normal on Earth?
“Most Marchlanders can’t spot the difference between toxic foxglove and medicinal knitbone,” she tells him, “And those that do are usually smart enough not to come out here to collect it.”
“Are you calling yourself thick?” Ewan teases.
“Reckless, perhaps.” Meilin grins, nudges him with her elbow. “Luckily for you.”
“You know, it’s funny…” Ewan scratches the side of his head. “I almost feel like I’ve been here before, in a dream.”
“Was I in your dream?” Meilin asks, giving him a cheeky grin.
He returns it, though his is tinged with rue. “Wasn’t that nice a dream—”
A sound akin to rolling thunder reaches them from somewhere across the moor. Lights appear in the distance, and Meilin has to grab Ewan’s arm to stop him from starting.
“It’s not barrow geists,” she whispers. “They’re carrying torches.”
Not that something intelligent enough to carry fire wouldn’t still be dangerous. Meilin feels for the knife hidden beneath her tunic. Who would be out here? Some fools, perhaps, or brigands?
Her eyes take in their surroundings, but the undergrowth here is too low, not tall or thick enough to hide them. Instead, she pushes Ewan properly behind her again, stands straight-backed against the oncoming storm of hooves.
Mother always said the greatest tool of the cunning folk isn’t magic, but their tongue. Meilin repeats the lesson reassure herself, trying to ignore the fact that in the end, she’d failed her trials.
Men and women on horseback close in, keeping two abreast to stay on the hard ground. They’re dressed in light armour, any sign of allegiance hidden beneath thick cloaks. The group comes to a stop no more than ten feet away, though one rider—his black stallion clearly a breed above the rest—comes closer. As he does, his mount rears up, thick hooves threatening a power that could crush even a barrow geist’s skull.
Meilin keeps her composure, and the horse settles down, snorting hot breath into the frost-bitten air. The rider pulls back his hood to reveal a gaunt face with grey-streaked black hair. He leans casually on his thick sword, though he doesn’t pull it from its scabbard.
“Well, well, well,” the rider says, lips pulling into a rictus grin. “What do we have here?”
~***~