by Chris Cooper
Oliver tried to breathe, but his lungs refused to expand, either due to panic or the woman’s telekinetic vice grip on his vital organs.
She’s going to kill me.
As Oliver loosened his grip on the coin, a staccato pop came from the front door. The woman lurched forward and let out a bansheelike scream as she gripped her shoulder. Everything in the room—including Oliver—came crashing to the ground.
“Run!” Ben yelled from the doorway.
Oliver needed a moment to regain his bearings, however. As he stood, a curio cabinet whizzed by his head and crashed into the wall next to Ben. Oliver ran to the kitchen and managed to escape out the back door and slam it shut before the knives from the butcher block embedded themselves into its thick wooden frame.
How is she doing this?
He knew he wouldn’t be able to outrun her for long, and he could hear the weeds shifting behind him. She was rapidly closing in, not running but gliding toward him. He turned his head to see the woman hovering across the field, her feet parting the tall weeds below. He had nowhere to go, nowhere that offered safety, except for possibly the briar patch. If the coin truly offered safe passage, crossing the briars might be his only hope.
When Oliver reached the patch, he leapt into the wall of thorns. As he did, the woman’s bony hand wrapped around his ankle. Oliver had crossed the barrier, but she yanked his leg out from under him, and he fell flat on his face. He turned over as she slowly climbed his body. Her dark stringy hair hung on either side of his head, and she brought her face so close to his he could smell her acrid breath. Oliver traced her nose up to her eyes, but the shadow cast by the moonlight made it hard for him to see. At first, she appeared to have a sideways catlike pupil, but as his eyes adjusted, he realized that a line of stitches had sealed her right eye. Dried tears of blood crusted the skin under the sutures. The left eye stared at him with unblinking ferocity.
Oliver reached out to his side, searching for anything he might be able to use to defend himself. He ran his fingers over a large rock. With as much force as he could muster, he brought the rock crashing into the side of the woman’s head. She let out a groan and fell limply onto the ground next to him. He scurried to his feet and ran toward the row of gaslights lighting the path to town, not daring to look back. How was she able to follow me? He hoped the blow to the head would incapacitate the woman—the creature—for a while, at least until he figured out what to do next.
“Over here, child!” someone called to Oliver from the building next to him. A frail woman stood with broom in hand on the front porch of the building at the edge of the briars.
“Over here,” she said again, beckoning him with the broom. Oliver had no time to consider the offer—it was either this or certain death—and ran toward her. She shuffled over to the front door and ushered him inside, latching the door behind them.
“Just sit down and stay silent,” she whispered and blew out the oil lantern in the front window.
The room was completely dark, so Oliver sat where he was and leaned against a heavy wooden object. The woman perched underneath the window at the front of the store.
A few terrifying minutes passed as the two sat in complete silence. He heard a shriek in the distance, and it sounded as though the woman with the stitched eye was heading in the other direction.
“Who is she?” he whispered.
“The Witch,” the woman replied.
“The Witch?” Oliver asked.
“The Briarwood Witch.”
“Wha—” Oliver started but was interrupted by an abrupt pounding on the door. He felt gooseflesh form on his arms. Oliver held his breath as the two waited for the unwelcome visitor to leave.
Someone pounded again. “Constance, open the door!”
The woman struggled to get to her feet.
“No! Don’t open it,” Oliver whispered, but she had already unlatched the door. Three men, tall and rugged in stature, rushed into the building, nearly knocking Constance off her feet.
“Where is the stranger?” one of them asked.
“Who?” she replied.
The man held out his lantern to illuminate the interior of the building. Oliver attempted to shuffle behind the large wooden object, but they had already spotted him.
“Take him,” the man said.
The two others rushed forward to grab Oliver by the legs and pull him into the center of the room. They lifted him to his feet and led him over to the door.
“Wait, the Witch,” Oliver started.
“The Witch from whose curse we were free until you brought her back?” The man wrapped his leather glove around Oliver’s throat. “We are well aware of the Witch.”
As the band of men led Oliver from the building, the light from the lantern allowed him to see the inside. The place appeared to be a shop, filled with shiny metal baubles.
The men dragged Oliver past the town statue of Nathaniel Hale and toward the town hall, just behind the square. They didn’t ascend the large staircase to the main entrance but rather led him off to one side to a smaller wooden door. One of the men pounded on the door with his fist, and a small peephole slid open.
“Who is he?” the man behind the peephole asked.
“We found this trespasser running through town. He has brought the Witch back to torment us.”
“And the glorious leader?” the man asked.
“No—no sign of the bastard.”
“Praise be,” the man replied.
The peephole slid closed, and Oliver heard a heavy thunk on the other side of the door as the man behind it slid a reinforcement bar out of the way.
Oliver was prodded inside the building. The door watchman returned to the short wooden stool next to the heavy wooden door. Once the men were inside, they barred the door and led Oliver down a narrow hallway. Decorative sconces lined the stone walls, hissing with the gas that fueled the flickering flames. The men opened the door to a tiny room, which was only dimly lit by the lamps in the hallway.
“You can’t lock me up here,” Oliver said. “She’s chasing me. She’ll kill all of us.”
“No need to worry. We aren’t going to lock you up here.” The man pointed to a small wooden hatch in the center of the floor. “Your new home is down there.”
The man unlatched the floor hatch and forced Oliver to descend the rickety wooden ladder into the darkness below. The hatch shut above him, and the men closed the door to the hallway, leaving Oliver in total darkness.
Oliver was in a complete panic. He tried to control his breath, but the black was closing in on him. He took slow careful steps in search of a wall to sit against. When he found the damp stone foundation, he slid to the ground. The floor below him was cold and wet, and he had already started to shiver.
Several minutes passed, and his breath slowly returned to normal. His senses sharpened in the darkness, and he could smell the dampness around him. As he sat in silence, he could swear he heard breathing on the other side of the room. A faint shuffling a few moments later confirmed something else was occupying the pit with him.
“Who’s there?” Oliver’s voice echoed against the seeping stone walls.
The shuffling stopped, but several moments passed before the stranger broke the silence. “Just a fellow unfortunate soul,” he replied.
Oliver had heard the voice before.
“You were at the town hall meeting the other night, weren’t you?” he asked. He recalled the man who’d stood in front of the crowd, waving his arms and trying to reestablish order.
“Indeed,” the man replied. “Unfortunately, I was not able to restore my favor with the people of Briarwood. It’s difficult to tell exactly how long I have been down here without the sunrise and sunsets to break up the days.”
“Why are we down here? What’s going on?” he asked.
“Ingratitude,” the man replied. “Our glorious leader has been missing for some time now, and the town celebrates his absence. Simply disgraceful. He has protected us
from the outside world, from those who’d seek to kill us. Without his protection, we will not be able to survive here.”
“And who are you?”
“I am very fortunate to serve as our glorious leader’s assistant. I tend to his daily business and ensure everything remains in order.”
“And your name?” he asked.
“Oh.” The man paused as if he couldn’t remember. “Elias. And your name?”
“Oliver. I’d shake your hand if I could.”
“Oliver… Oliver… an odd name. I don’t recall seeing any Olivers on the town roster,” Elias replied.
“I’m not from around here. I live on the other side of the briar patch.”
The man was silent.
“Are you still there?” Oliver asked the darkness.
“Don’t hurt me,” Elias whispered, his voice trembling.
“Why would I—”
The door creaked in the room above him. The hatch flew open, and he was momentarily blinded by the flood of light as a lantern slowly descended into the pit.
“Boy! Come with me,” someone yelled from above.
Oliver assumed he was “boy,” approached the ladder, and began to climb. The guard grabbed him by an arm and pulled him up the rest of the way. This guard was probably the size of the last three men combined. He bound Oliver’s hands with rope and led him upstairs to the meeting hall. The room was just as he remembered from the other night, alive and full of furious people—only this time, they focused their anger on him. The guard led him through the main entrance and dragged him down the carpeted aisle leading to the front of the room. The barrage of screams and insults from the crowd was overwhelming. What are they going to do to me?
The guard forced him into a chair facing the crowd.
A man emerged from one of the rows of benches and walked toward him before turning to address the audience. “Quiet!” he shouted, trying to bring order to the crowd.
He yelled several more times, and silence slowly crept over the mob.
“Thanks to all for being here,” he said. “As we are all aware, the Witch was spotted on the outskirts of town in the presence of this outsider.”
“Kill the outsider!” a woman shouted from one of the benches.
Oliver felt ill.
“Now, patience, please!” the man said. “Before we determine punishment, we must first understand the dark forces this boy used to bring her back. Perhaps we can banish her once more.” He turned to Oliver. “Well, boy, explain yourself.”
“She was chasing me,” he sputtered. “She attacked my home, and I ran. She chased me through the briar patch.”
The crowd collectively gasped, and any remaining chatter stopped abruptly.
“That’s absurd. No one but the Witch and our glorious leader passes through the briar patch.”
“It’s true. It’s true. I can show you how.” Oliver fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the gold coin.
The man nodded to one of the guards, who approached Oliver and took it from him. As soon as he saw the etching on the front, he dropped it on the ground and took a step backward.
“It’s the Briarwood Key,” the guard said, as if terrified by the dull coin on the floor. The crowd broke into shouts and commotion.
“Where did you find this?” the interrogator asked.
Oliver immediately regretted his decision to reveal the coin.
“Where?” the man shouted. He gripped one end of the table in front of Oliver and flipped it over and out of the way.
“I just found it,” he stammered.
“Found it where?”
“In-in a flower bed back home.”
“Why did you bring the Witch back here?”
“I told you—she was chasing me. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry,” Oliver said, panicked tears streaming down his face.
“So she came for you?”
“I think she wants the coin back,” he replied.
“And she thinks you possess it?”
Oliver nodded.
“Very well then,” the man said, relaxing his stance. Oliver exhaled, taking a premature sigh of relief. The man clenched his fist and took a quick jab at Oliver’s face. The chair tilted over, and Oliver smacked the back of his head on the floor. Everything went dark.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Severe pain brought Oliver back to the waking world. His head pounded as if a pickaxe were pecking away at the inside of his skull. He tried to move his arms, but his hands had been bound behind him, held together by a frayed length of old rope that scratched and burned his wrists as he struggled. The setting was familiar, and he recognized the uneven grid of stones surrounding him. He had been propped up in the middle of the town square. The statue of Nathaniel Hale lay in ruins next to him, deformed by its toppling. He stood on the statue’s pedestal, tied to some sort of wooden beam mounted against its base.
Oliver looked over at the broken statue of the town’s founder. He thought of Elias, the regal keeper of order, who was locked away in a dank pit, hidden from the rest of the world. This is a coup. The glorious leader—Simon, Oliver was almost sure—had disappeared, and the townspeople had clearly taken the opportunity to wrestle power from what little rule remained.
But why am I here?
The square was vacant, and the lights from the surrounding buildings had been extinguished, even those in the town hall. He had no concept of the time but guessed it was early morning. The only sources of light were the gas streetlights bordering the square. The silence was overwhelming, and Oliver would rather have been in the presence of an angry mob than in isolation, wondering what fate awaited him. He wanted to go home, back to Izzy, Anna, Nekko, and Pan—to a time before his discovery of the coin. And what of them? Are they safe? Has Simon come for them too? He was trapped, both confined to the stone pedestal and confined to this strange world beyond the briars. Oliver no longer possessed the coin that allowed him to cross over, and he might very well never leave the place again.
Something caught his eye as one of the streetlights flickered in his periphery. An odd stream of fog slowly rolled in and consumed the lantern, suffocating the light in its opaque mist. It flowed inward from the corner of the square, extinguishing the street lamps, one by one, along with any hope that Oliver would walk away from Briarwood alive.
The Witch is here.
The sickening realization washed over him. She thinks you have the coin? This question had been the last posed to Oliver before the man in the town hall sent him crashing to the floor. She wants me. Oliver was the sacrificial lamb, and perhaps the Witch would leave the town alone once she had him.
The mist consumed an entire corner of the square, like water creeping over the bow of a sinking ship. He struggled to free himself from his bonds and rubbed his wrists raw against the splintering rope. A slender silhouette hobbled from the mist. For a moment, Oliver held out hope it was someone—anyone—other than the Witch, but her pigeon-toed creep and stringy black hair were unmistakable. She moved awkwardly, lanky limbs clumsily stepping toward the center of the square, as if her legs had been broken multiple times and improperly healed. She tilted her head, causing her hair to slink to one side.
Oliver felt a pair of hands on his as someone gripped the ropes behind him.
“Hold still and say nothing,” the person whispered from behind.
He could feel the vibration of a knife against the rope. As the binding fell away, the mysterious savior grabbed his wrists, holding them together and preventing him from pulling free.
“When I tell you to flee, turn round and run as fast as your legs can carry you. Not until I say.”
“Got it,” he replied.
The woman behind him whistled, and a flaming object flew toward the Witch. The vessel exploded against the stone, sending bright-orange flames spilling out onto the ground. The light from the flame illuminated the Witch, and Oliver noticed the dried blood on the side of her head from where he’d struck her and the patch of crimson
on her shoulder from Ben’s bullet.
“Run!”
He turned and hopped down from the tall stone, his feet landing awkwardly on the uneven bricks below. He stumbled forward and regained his footing, running in the direction of the woman in front of him. Her long brown hair whipped in the wind, strands blowing chaotically in the breeze. She sprinted toward one of the storefronts.
A loud screech came from behind, and Oliver turned to see the Witch’s feet rise from the ground and hover over the flame.
As they approached the storefront, the door swung open, and a man on the other side waved them in. He crossed the threshold as the man held up a bottle resembling a Molotov cocktail, at least the ones Oliver had seen in movies. He lit the rag, which hung loose from its neck, with a candle and flung it at the Witch, who was now halfway across the square. The makeshift bomb exploded below her feet, and flaming accelerant splattered into the air, scorching the bottom of her dress. She let out another howl just as the door shut in Oliver’s face.
“That’ll slow her but not for long. Lift the hatch,” the woman said.
The small candle provided just enough uneven light for Oliver to make out the broad shoulders of the man who had opened the door. He shuffled over to the center of the room and pulled the floor rug back, revealing a wooden hatch beneath it. Oliver had flashbacks of the dungeon and the terrifying darkness that came with it, but if these people had planned to lock him away, they wouldn’t have bothered to save him. The man’s lumbering form disappeared into the hatch below.
“Hurry,” the woman said, pushing him from behind. He climbed down the shallow staircase, and she followed, pulling the rug back over the door before shutting it behind her.
The room was completely silent except for the few shallow breaths escaping from Oliver’s hand-cupped mouth. A sudden pulse of pressure caused the hatch to creak above them. The front door of the store splintered and cracked as it was ripped away from its hinges and sent flying across the room. Breaking glass and debris rained down on the floor above them, sounding like an unexpected hailstorm. Oliver could visualize the emaciated Witch floating over the floor above them, bare feet pointing downward like a ghostly ballerina in midjump. No one said a word but merely sat in silence, and Oliver weighed whether or not it would have been better to have been ripped apart in the town square than to die in a deep, damp hole.