As the mayhem multiplied around him, Alexis strained to touch the book held safe inside his shoulder satchel. All he needed was a momentary connection with its weathered surface. But this was easier said than done, as his right hand struggled to work its way under the flap on the opposite side of his body. And his left hand…well, his left hand was already spoken for.

The pumpkin that had swallowed his fist clamped down more fiercely. The young traveler was surprised at just how strong an animated squash could be. The only other openings in the writhing Jack O’Lantern were in the face itself; Alexis tentatively explored these exits with his fingers, yanking them quickly back again when the misshapen teeth bit them.

“Had I known you would use them against me,” he admitted, “I would not have given you quite so many teeth. Now where’s that knife?”

That knife was in the shaking fists of the pumpkin farmer. She backed slowly away from the frightening spectacle, her blade quickly splitting the air whenever a shambling squash ventured too near. The skills she’d gained from chopping chickens and portioning produce were reaping quite the harvest today.

“Give me the…” Alexis paused, then renewed his entreaty. “May I please borrow that knife, for a moment?”

The woman’s wide fearful eyes and quick shake of the head assured Alexis that she would not. The petulant pumpkin clenched tighter on his hand, and he winced. He was beginning to lose feeling in his digits.

Two of the able-bodied men had pushed their families behind them, stomping on each hissing Jack O’Lanterns that crawled towards them. Intent as they were on demolishing the vegetative vermin, they did not see the looming column of fire until it was too late, and their face and hair were swallowed by the flames. One dropped to the ground and rolled, his back and hair smoking and smoldering. The other made the questionable choice to run into the night, lighting the dark with his burning head and shoulders.

“So that’s the ploy,” Alexis breathed. The animated pumpkins were only the distraction. The whirling fire was the true threat.

“Hee-yah!” a feminine voice screamed. Rock-in-Water, her furry coat glowing golden by the fierce firelight, kicked an advancing pumpkin into the heat itself. There was a brief hiss and a pop.

“Come here you little cretin!” the catfolk yelled again. This time, her talons pressed into the space around a stem. With a quick yank, she ripped the squash apart into two halves, as if it were a moldy loaf of bread. “I haven’t had this much fun since I found that nest of baby squirrels!”

“Keep away from the fire!” Alexis warned her. Sure enough, she darted back just as a sparking spiral lashed out in her direction. Rock hissed in anger at the trickery, but she knew enough to keep her distance. Her fur would blaze like tinder.

“First,” said Alexis to the pumpkin that had claimed his left hand, “it’s time to be rid of you.” He curled his fingers and bashed his foe against anything solid he could find: first his other fist, then the table, then the ground.

A small bowl of flowers, candy, and a candle had fallen onto the dirt. One of Alexis’s arcs brought his nemesis directly down on top of the scattered trinkets. As soon as the pumpkin’s skin touched the jumble, it gave a shrill screech of agony. To Alexis’s astonishment, the vegetable shriveled and rotted, its flesh soon hanging in tatters from his fingers.

He quickly brushed the remaining strands of pumpkin from his fingers, the corner of his mouth twisting in distaste. “Delightful.”

Though the villagers of Bayn o’Boon had wisely retreated from the living bonfire, it seemed the inferno was not finished with them. It stretched and grew, the edges of its outline leaping towards the nearest shrubs and bushes. Should it manage to set those alight as well, Alexis guessed, its wrath would spread unimpeded, exhausting itself only when not only Bayn o’Boon, but the entire Gray Forest itself, had been reduced to a hot ashen landscape.

“Hey, witch!” he called out, striding purposefully towards the conflagration. He was the only one to do so; around him in the darkness, glinting eyes reflected the fury of the flames with trepidation and terror.

Something in the bonfire seemed to turn, and two cyclones of spiraling air gazed back at him. Whatever it was, it had paused in its growth, and that was all the hesitation Alexis needed. His left hand had found its way beneath the flap of his shoulder pouch. His fingers now brushed against the fraying strands of an old canvas cover.

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“My master,” Alexis intoned, “sends his regards.”

A crackle of eldritch energy danced between the tips of the outstretched fingers on his right hand. With a snap, a bolt of purple lightning lanced out, connecting him and the center of the pillar of fire. The column twisted and contorted in response. Alexis snapped his fingers again, and a second bolt pierced the air. This time, the animated fire released out a hot gush of air, a scream of pain.

“Whether you are the incarnated form of the witch herself,” Alexis hissed, closing the distance to his quarry with every attack, “or simply her servant granted life, know this. You are not welcome here.”

The fire grew smaller with each unrelenting strike. Gusts of flame died in the air, glowing embers spilled from the coals, and a choking cloud of smoke grew over the crossroads.

When Alexis was finally finished, there was nothing left of the fiery threat but a wide scattering of cooling coals spaced across the dark expanse of dirt, as if itself a quiet reflection of the starry night above. A low murmur passed among the villagers in the dark—a collective gasp of relief.

“Seventeen strikes,” muttered the spellcaster to himself, having kept count. “Slow…but effective.”

* * *

The danger now passed, the residents of Bayn o’Boon gathered to attend to the wounded. There were several deep lacerations from the pumpkins, and burns from those graced by the fire. The man who’d run into the night was the most badly wounded, and a makeshift stretcher was quickly crafted from an upended table. This coming night would be the worst for him. Should he survive the next eight hours, his strength would undoubtedly return…but there was little to be done for his lasting disfigurement.

“Tell us!” Rock was yelling. She was towering over one of the elderly women, who flinched at every squawked syllable. “You knew that witch! I saw your face when she spoke! Tell us how you knew her, or…” Here Rock’s eyes roved, questing, across the confusion around her. “Tell us, or I’ll take all your candy!”

“I do not believe this situation requires the use of threats—” Alexis began, but the aging woman’s husband soon took her side.

“No, no, it’s all right,” the elder said, soothing friend and stranger alike. “Ye deserve to know the tale, after how ye helped us tonight. I know what’s brought down these fell tidings, we all do. It was our own blind stubbornness and cruelty.”

He put a finger on his wife’s lips before he continued. “Now now, Yrtle, I’ve always said this night would come, didn’t I? The sins o’ the past must be accounted fer. And fer ten years we’ve been sitting, silent, on our shame.”

The elder raised his voice again, to address Alexis and Rock directly. “Aye, ten years ago, it was. There was yet another member of the town—an old lady, a very very old crone, who lived over some hills yonder, in a forgotten mill to the west. ‘Mad’ Maub they called her. She ne’er harmed us nor our livestock, and she kept to herself; but she was an odd sorts, and the children liked playing their cruelest tricks on her.”

Two of the nearest men shifted their weight in the shadows, folding their arms across their chests and tightening their jaws. The fire that had so recently been extinguished found new purchase in their stares.

“One fall night,” continued the elder, “we found all our milk sour. The next, a mare had a foal with two heads. Some o’ the same youths in the town somehow got it in their minds that this old lady was a witch, and…well, they ‘took care’ o’ her.”

One of the male bystanders turned and strode away, an unnatural quickness to every step. In the darkness, he looked to be perhaps the same age as Alexis. How old had he been during these events? Twelve, thirteen?

The elder hung his head in shame. “The rest o’ us didn’t learn their plans until the next morning, when the smoke could be seen in the sky, but…we could have known, if we’d paid more attention. If we’d cared. But the old lady had made no true enemies; likewise, she’d made no true friends. And none o’ us thought to raise a finger till it was far far too late.”

The man cupped his aging wife’s hand in an embrace. “Go now, strangers. Depart this place. Leave us to our shame.” The two set off slowly into the night, accepting whatever short future still remained for their village.

The townsfolk still present began packing the remainders of their tables and wares. There would be no more festival tonight, and perhaps no more festival ever again. Rock bounced to where Alexis rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“So, where to now, stranger? Wait, I forgot, we’re not strangers anymore. There’s the sea to the south of us, but honestly, I hate water. There’s mountains to the north, but I’m also kinda lazy—”

“I feel ill at ease simply leaving this village to its fate,” Alexis admitted. “And while I know that we hold no ties here to the land or its people…”

The scribe caressed the surface of his favored tome once more. Easing it gently from its carrying case into the moonlight, he ran his fingers across the cover. “What say you to…lingering but a moment longer?” he thought aloud.

“What was that?” the catfolk asked, but the spellcaster did not heed her. He was not in fact even addressing her. Instead, he’d opened the book before him, allowing its thick pages to fall where they might, responding to a will that was not entirely his own.

By the light of the stars, the moon, and the few candles that still flickered in tiny islands of illumination about them, black shapes wormed their way onto the blank vellum. They twitched and squirmed like tiny parasites across its surface, before settling into a series of familiar scrawls.

Go west.

Alexis slapped the book shut. “Our answers lie in the ruins of that abandoned windmill,” he declared to the catfolk. “Leave if you must, but I intend to seek them there, and to put this threat to rest once and for all.”

Rock locked eyes with Alexis, to be certain of his intentions. She looked out at the dark woods surrounding her, and then to the devastation that ringed them around the dead fire. Then she shrugged.

“Yeah, sure. Okay.”