Thorfinn and the Witch's Curse

by Jay Veloso Batista

  Cub snapped the reins, kicked the horse and the old gelding leapt forward. Between his brother’s arms, Finn gripped the horse’s mane and held tight, loose horse hairs flipping in his face. His brother muttered curses, “Damned Dundle, he is a drunken coward, that’s all he is, and he was the one who got this all started. I should have left it alone.” The horse could see well enough in the light of the half moon, steering in the center of the lane and swinging wide into the old Roman road to Jorvik.

  “I should have left it alone,” Cub repeated to Finn.

  Finn clenched his legs tightly to the horse withers, his brother steadying him from behind, the night clear and the way empty, only the hooves rhythmically thumping through the silence. Their passage made their own chilly wind, and Finn bit his lip, holding tight to the shaggy mane, and blinking in the breeze. Cub began to talk in his ear, “We’re fine, Finn, we didn’t need that useless Dun. I won’t let that mare scare me. I have my sword, I am Agne Agneson. I am no coward….” Finn nodded, gritting his teeth and bouncing with the mount’s gallop.

  Slowing the horse to a cantor, Cub searched the roadway for the first fork. “I thought it was right along here…,” he reined back, the moon sinking lower in the sky, the night darkening. The horse snorted and blew. Finn squinted, looking for the side road where they had turned to make their delivery only a few days past.

  “There!” Finn pointed up ahead. Cub snapped the reins and pressed the horse forward, and they ducked into the darker path. Going slower here, the lane seemed treacherous in the dark, the old pony feeling its way, and despite Cub’s urgings, it held back and carefully pawed onward. Finn could hardly see, and twigs snapped at their clothes when they got too close to the brush. Cub grumbled and forced the gelding forward. Frost covered leaves crunched beneath hooves. Finn could feel Cub’s panting on his neck and in his hair.

  “This is taking too long…,” he complained. Too long, Finn agreed, holding tight to the horse’s neck.

  The forest at night became too dense, too dark to see ahead. Their mount slowed to a stumbling pace, swinging its head from side to side. Finn whimpered, “This ride is taking too long, Sorven is in danger, that monster could already have returned.” Leaves and twigs brushed his face. Finn inhaled a ragged breath, holding back tears, and whispered, “Are we lost?” Cub grunted, reined in the gelding, and jumped down. Stepping out front, he led the animal forward, pushing headlong down the roadway. They advanced, hesitant stamping steps in the dark.

  “This is the second turn, I am sure of it,” Cub told Finn, his words ringing surprisingly loud in the quiet wood. The fell pony turned as Cub led, and Finn felt branches clutch at his coat and snap under the horse’s gait. Disturbed in its perch, an owl just overhead hooted as they passed, Finn startled by the sudden, close call. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. Cub lurched through the overgrown pathway, pushing brush aside and trying his best to center in the unlit course. Cub pulled at the truculent beast, “Come on, old boy, come on…”

  Finn peered over Whitenose’s shoulder, watching for any sign of the open pasture. The trees began to thin, and he whispered to Cub, “I see the field, it’s up ahead.”

  Cub stopped the horse at the edge of the pasture and tied it to a tree at the pathway. He helped Finn down and set him on his feet. Then he carefully drew his sword.

  “You stay behind me,” he cautioned, “At all times, just stay out of the way. I will do the fighting.” Finn grasped his brother’s coat and followed him across the grass. A frost had made the pasture sparkle in the light of the waning moon, frosty whitened leaves scattered like a sea around a dome shaped island. The humped hill in the middle of the field sat exactly as they had left it. A light breeze rippled the grassy lawn. Cub moved quickly to the hillside, Finn clinging to his coat tail.

  As they approached the hill, they noticed a faint glow at the apex, like the washed-out glow of rotting wood in the deep forest. Cub hushed Finn and began to scale the hillside, crawling carefully using the handholds afforded by the worn carved steps. As quiet as possible, they inched over the rise on their bellies, Finn lifting his head to look over Cub’s back.

  The greenish light emanated from the stone lined crease cut into the summit. Brighter here at the hilltop, the strange light cast an eerie glimmering that reflected off the surrounding stones. A black humped shadow hovered over the spot where Sorven had placed the rusty pot. Finn climbed slowly along the ridge line next to his brother. Cub held his sword before him, his arms trembling enough to make the blade shake in the dim glow. Cub put his mouth right to Finn’s ear and whispered, “It’s that thing….”

  Finn could see it! A breeze whipped past, and they could smell it too, the foul odor made Finn’s eyes water. The night mare waddled back and forth, its wings folded back over its shoulders, its back to them, preoccupied with its efforts. The shadowy beast blocked a bile colored flame, flickers showing between its legs, and sickly green glinting from its glossy hide. Slowly, Cub eased closer, crouching and working his way across the yard. Too frightened to fall behind, Finn crawled on his hands and knees behind him.

  The beast moved to the side and revealed her.

  Kneeling before the old pot, a hunched old woman waved clawed hands in the air, her mouth mumbling… the boys could hear nothing but the wind and the wheezing of the mare. Her grimacing face a mass of scars, her hair over her forehead burnt to a frizz while the sides stood out like a cloud, her tattered dress barely covering her sagging dugs, the sight of her stopped both boys. Glimpses of her body showed blotchy, pale skin, boils on her arms and rotted, sagging flesh, and her eyes glinted the same blood red as the creature. Her body seemed transparent; they could see the stones behind her. Finn held his breath—this is a ghost, a real ghost.

  The witch and her night mare focused completely on the old pot in the cellar. Filled to the brim with a viscous, bubbling liquid, a noxious green flame burning beneath it, the entire cauldron radiant with a sickly eminence. Ghostly hands weaved in the air over the pot, and sparks and pops spat into the air. The witch motioned to the beast and it leaned over and spit a bloody drool into the pot. The flames flashed higher and the light within the witch grew stronger, her body growing more milkier, more solid right before their eyes!

  “Balder’s arrow!” Cub hissed. “It’s Sorven’s blood, it’s bringing her back!” and with an angry shout he lunged across the remaining yard and flung himself into the narrow space between the rock walls. The night creature, startled by the noise, twisted in the confined space, lifting its wings and raising up on its hind talons. The witch, her face an angry scream, jumped to her feet.

  With surprise as his ally, Cub swung an erratic blow, and he chopped into the night mare, by pure luck hacking a chunk from its side and ripping a tear in its wing. The creature clawed at him, snapping with its tiny fanged mouth, hissing and spitting.

  Kneeling in the yard, Finn froze. He couldn’t move, couldn’t catch his breath.

  Hurt and cramped in the narrow passage, the mare scrabbled up to the top of the wall above Cub, its damaged wing hanging useless. The witch charged Cub and grasped at him with her clawed fingers while a shouting Cub pressed forward into the ruins. Ghost fingers made no impact, and in return his swung sword bit no flesh. Frustrated, the evil apparition fell back a step to her cauldron, calling silently to the beast hovering above Cub.

  Though he could not hear the witch, Finn recognized the mouthed call as a command. A call to attack. His brother in danger from above—that threat broke the spell that had held him captive. He croaked, “Watch out!” Cub raised his eyes in time to see the creature leap at him, and his two-handed swing connected with a dull thud. The monster shrieked, then whimpered, flopped to the ground and lurched away, dodging Cub’s thrusts.

  Finn watched his brother move back into the yard chasing the monster. He danced around the black, leathery thing, stabbing and hacking, trying to land a fatal blow while avoiding the wounded beast’s claws. Both stumbled around the yard, c
ircling each other in the dim light from the glowing cauldron. Finn pressed himself against the hillside next to the cellar opening, watching the battle.

  A horrid visage flew out of the ruins directly at Finn! He screamed in terror.

  The witch must have not realized he hid there until he gave Cub warning. Now she chased him, reaching out with her crooked fingers as he staggered backwards, scrabbling away from her clutch. He ducked and ran to his older brother, the ghost matching his pace. Tripping, he fell a few steps from his brother, and seeing him sprawled helpless before the ghoulish witch, the midnight creature bounded to attack him.

  Finn’s distraction provided the opening Cub needed. As the monster leapt to strike his little brother, Cub slammed his sword down and pinned the night mare to the turf. The creature screamed. The howl startled birds into the night air, caws and squeaks lifting into the sky. Withering, coughing blood, the monster collapsed into a pile, pus and ooze weeping from its mouth and the gash at its side, puddling on the frozen soil. Finn instantly forgotten, the witch dropped to her knees beside the dying beast, her empty hands waving stoking motions over the heaving, dying mess. Cub pulled loose his blade and swung at her, and swung again, hacking and slicing, frustrated that his sword passed through her translucent body with no effect.

  Finn, panting and shaking, struggled to his feet, his heart pounding in his chest and ears. My breath, I can’t catch my breath! His eyes locked on his furious brother, the eerie ghostly image and the dying monster, he slowly backed away. Turning to run, he faltered into the ruins of the stone walled cellar, bouncing off the stone walls in confusion.

  Before he could recover his balance, Finn stumbled and kicked over the boiling pot, spilling the bloody fluid and dowsing the green flames. The glow around the cauldron extinguished with a pop!

  Crackling with lightning, the ghostly witch rose up into the air, arms raised with fists clenched, mouthing a scream. Startling Cub, she flew past him, directly at Finn and struck him with both fists.

  For a moment, Cub saw the ghostly shape enter his little brother, disappearing into his chest, and Finn crumpled in a faint. But … he didn’t!

  Cub watched, awestruck, as his little brother and the witch, both now glowing like ghosts, both struggling in a desperate embrace, tumbled past him and right over the edge of the hill!

  The Realm Between

  Screaming in his ear, the witch grabbed Finn by the throat. He could feel her sharp nails dig and scratch. Her sour breath in his face, shrieking so loud, so shrill. He kicked and flailed at her grasp and locked together they rolled past Cub and over the hilltop. As they tumbled over each other, the grip on his neck loosened. Uncontrolled, their rough slide down the grassy hillside gathered speed, and they scrabbled and spun as they struggled, she fumbling to clench his throat again, he batting at her clawed fingers and punching at her horrible grimace. A sudden stop at the bottom, Finn landed on her chest with a thump. She barked a cough as he seemed to knock the very breath from her ghost, and fighting for his life, he grabbed her hair and banged her head against the turf. He ripped a handful of greasy hair out by its roots.

  Finn rolled off the wretch, kicking with both feet, pushing her away. With a crack, a kick connected to her head and her wheezy scream turned to a wail of pain. Finn kicked again and again, the old hag covering her face under his blows, leaving her torso exposed. Finn landed a solid strike with his heel in the center of her chest. Moaning, the witch rolled over on her belly and crawled from Finn’s reach.

  Heart pumping, Finn leapt to his feet and ran.

  Run, he thought, run far.

  Get away.

  Across the field he stumbled, terrified the witch clutched at his back.

  Got to get away. He ran, ducking into the brambles at the edge of the forest, dodging between the trees. Not stopping to glance behind, he ran deeper into the wood. He stumbled but ran on until he could run no more, and collapsed at the side of a tree, struggling to capture his breath. Panicked, he turned to look behind and watched for any sign that he had been followed. Cub, I should call for Cub, he thought, but his fear of the witch held his tongue in check. He felt the raw scratches the witch had left on his neck and cheeks and turned to run again.

  He stumbled and fell on mossy mound, a loamy, fresh dirt smell in his face. Keep moving, get away… He drew a ragged breath, climbed to his feet, and staggered forward. One foot in front of the other, keep moving. His pace slowed, his steps unnaturally quiet, and he paused, holding a ragged breath to listen to the forest—he heard no sound of pursuit. He hardly heard any sound at all, only an eerie whining wind. The forest seemed empty, the frosty ground occasionally sparkling, a glimmer in the moonlight.

  He turned around, unsure of his directions in the dark wood. He caught his breath and held it…

  I’m lost.

  He wandered, turned in a circle. Lost. A new panic overcame him, and he began to run again, and afraid, he called out, “Cub! Cub, I’m here.” The forest answered with its odd whistling wind, his footsteps muffled in the winter wood.

  Alone, I’m lost and alone….

  His heart racing once more, he began a haphazard race through the wood. It seemed like he ran for hours…Finn broke free of the forest and lurched into a clearing, nearly crossing before he realized midway through the glade stood a man.

  Only a bit taller than Finn, the stranger had an odd look to him, dressed in a gown like a woman, his head wrapped in a queer bundle of cloth with a bright gem set over his forehead. To Finn’s surprise, his eyes glowed with that same eerie light of the ghostly witch. With a startled gasp, he turned to run back the way he came, but the stranger called out to him.

  “Thorfinn Agneson!”

  Finn stopped and glanced back—he knows my name!

  “Thorfinn Agneson!” his deep voice, commanding, “GO HOME!”

  He pointed opposite to the direction Finn headed.

  “That way…It’s that way!”

  Too wary to get close and never taking his eyes from him, Finn circled the clearing and hurried off in the new direction. The trees seemed widely separated here, a clear path led to a roadway, the sky brightening with pre-dawn light. He recognized the location, he recognized the lane to his father’s farmstead. He felt tired, so tired. He had run far that night. He could see the stockade, he could see home. Finn rushed forward, pushing through the gate, stumbling across the yard to the great hall. Exhausted, he pulled the door wide, stumbled across the threshold and collapsed at the table.

  As he entered, his mother and Yeru looked up from their breakfast preparations, his mother calling his name, “Finn?”

  Relieved, he placed his head on the table, suddenly overcome by fatigue. Closing his eyes, Finn fell into a deep and dreamless slumber.

  Chapter 5

  Yeru

  Up before dawn, Gurid and Yeru moved quietly about the hall, preparing a breakfast for their sleeping guests. Rousting the few remaining revelers from their sleep on the benches, Yeru shooed them out to their bunks, collecting up their empty bowls and sweeping crumbs off the table into her apron. She had wrapped her head in a white muslin, a few stray hairs hanging down over her forehead, while Gurid had wound her braids around her head and tucked them under her hood. Gurid pulled the iron pot from its shelf, filled it with fresh water and set it on the remaining coals. As the water came to a boil, she added oats, dried peas, cubes of root vegetables, some herbs and a bit of the leftover pork and crackling from the previous night’s feast—this would make a hearty breakfast porridge.

  Neeta still slept in her crib, gently stirring but not yet awake. Their sounds hardly disturbed the quiet morning. The alcoves around them sounded with gentle breathing and a few snores and snorts. Yeru bent to tend the fire, propping a few sticks around the pot, and Gurid used a thin knife to slice some of the leftover bread, arranging it on a wooden platter. Neither spoke in their familiar routine.

  The entrance door creaked loudly.

  “Drunken fools,” Y
eru grumbled, “must have left it unlatched…”

  Both women paused, Yeru awkwardly rising from her stoop. The door swung wide. A cold chill air disturbed the flames. The dawn brightening the sky illuminated the empty doorway.

  The door rocked as if someone passed the threshold, and both heard distinct footfalls cross into the room. Gurid gasped—she thought she smelled her son. The hairs on her arms prickled like gooseflesh.

  A bench at the end of the table scraped on the floor and moved aside. Yeru lifted a hand to her mouth, her face blanching, her eyes round and wide.

  Gurid knew her son Thorfinn. She could feel him in the room, almost hear his breath.

  “Finn?” she hesitantly called.

  Both women distinctly heard the table squeak slightly under an unseen weight. Gurid shivered, the cold seeping in through the open door adding to the unnatural chill that rushed up her back.

  Turning to face each other, confusion and fear mirrored in their eyes, Gurid whispered, “Did you see…?”

  “I saw something. Something or someone… entered,” Yeru whispered back, “It was a sprite, that’s for certain.” She made a hand sign to protect against evil.

  “Oh Freya,” Gurid stepped carefully towards the table end where the bench had moved. She felt the table with her hand. “It was Thorfinn. I mean, I heard him…I thought I heard him….”

  “Don’t worry, I will go check the boys,” She nodded to Gurid. “It’s probably nothing, we are tired from a late night, and we are imagining things. Those useless drunks just left the door unlatched is all,” she spoke more to convince herself than Gurid, who stood with her hand on the table, gazing at the space between the bench and the plank floor. Yeru collected a taper from a wall sconce and leaned over the coals to light it.