by Ethan Proud
“This witch doesn’t mess around,” Swain said and took another pull. He eyed the swill in the bottom and polished it off.
“No, she doesn’t,” Vahrun mused.
***
Mayor John Kerrick’s office was large and boasted a library full of classic fiction, legal tomes, and encyclopedias full of worldly facts. A large window allowed natural light to filter in and it fell across his desk, strewn with piles of paper. An ashtray full of cigar butts smoked in the center of the desk and it was obvious how the mayor spent his time.
Kerrick was seated in a large plush leather chair, while Ruckstead sat on a hard, wooden stool opposite him. He could have chosen a softer chair, but he preferred to display his discipline in front of the hedonistic man.
“About these murders,” Kerrick started. His stern words from the letter were not reflected in his current attitude. He was sheepish now, if not downright shy.
“Yes, currently unsolved and no suspects,” Ruckstead said firmly.
“Ah. Have you made any progress?” The mayor cut two cigars and handed one to Ruckstead. He accepted the feeble peace offering.
“Had I any information, you would be the first to know,” the sheriff assured him.
“But no suspects, I find that extremely odd,” Kerrick said as he puffed a ring of smoke past his mustached lips.
“You’ve seen my reports. Do you believe that a man is capable of such destruction?” Ruckstead said, taking a long drag.
“There are sick people in this world,” the mayor answered in all seriousness.
“And more and more of them come to Northgate with each passing month, buying up property and pushing the locals into poverty. Raven’s Barrow is full of farmers turned paupers and petty crime is at an all-time high,” Ruckstead retorted.
“Seems like your jail could house a few more tenants,” Kerrick rebutted.
“You are ignoring the obvious problem here. The businessmen, Kerrick, they need to go.” Sheriff Ruckstead made eye contact with the paunchy man in front of him, but the mayor couldn’t maintain his gaze.
“Our economy is better than ever thanks to them,” Kerrick blustered. “All of Northgate’s residents have benefited from their presence.”
“And none more so than you,” Ruckstead said and dropped his near full cigar in the ashtray. Standing, he tipped his hat to the mayor. “I have a murder to solve, so I bid you adieu.”
Chapter Thirty-four
The Tree of the Morning was clearly a relic from a different plane, it was neither adorned with teeth or bones as Artemisia had expected. Its gray bark was smooth and unblemished, and insects buzzed between its foliage. The pinnately compound leaves were a deep mauve and catkins dangled from branches and dripped a sweet nectar that had a heady scent. Beneath it stood a regal, bull elk, his antlers covered with the corpses of those who had tried to take the snapdragon blossoms at the base of the Tree. The span of the antlers was easily twelve feet across.
“Who guarded the Tree before the elk?” Artemisia asked. She was having a hard time imagining herself as the next Guardian if she failed.
“The elk is the vessel for the soul of the Guardian,” Glautous explained. “Do you have a plan to defeat it before we approach?”
They stood a few hundred feet from the tree on a gentle hill streaked with blue venation. The Tree was positioned in a shallow depression that had this been the first plane would have provided shelter for the sapling tree centuries ago.
“No, I don’t have a plan,” Artemisia admitted. She assumed that the Guardian was demonic in nature, and her dagger would unwork any enchantments and she would be able to steal the seed pods. Yet, if the Tree required a soul, perhaps killing the Guardian would be a poor move on her part. The Tree of the Morning was a portal to the seventh plane, therefore it likely possessed magic more powerful than Artemisia could contend with.
She cursed silently under her breath. Undoubtedly, Vahrun had tricked her into this fool’s quest. She considered the possibility of letting the Guardian take her and forcing Vahrun to rescue her as part of his oath. But according to her demon guide and the literature, a soul freed from the Tree was bound for the seventh plane.
“You will need to create a diversion, and when the Guardian isn’t looking I will sneak in and steal the seeds,” Artemisia said pensively. She knew it wasn’t a good plan, but she had nothing better to offer.
“How mundane,” Glautous drawled.
“Are you afraid of the Guardian?” Artemisia teased.
“Yes,” Glautous admitted.
“I am too, but if you don’t do this your oath to me will be unfulfilled and the binding spell will destroy you,” Artemisia said.
With a withering glare, the demon rose and stole across the top of the rise before descending towards the Tree of the Morning. Artemisia gave him a head start before slipping down the slope after him. She was fairly certain that the Guardian would kill Glautous and it would be over in a matter of minutes. She didn’t have long to snag the pods.
Glautous reached the base of the tree and faced the Guardian. He felt sweat bead on his chest and back as the elk’s fuming eyes fell upon him. Around the tree were corpses in various stages of decay, all of them punctured by the tines or trampled underfoot. The bodies that still hung from the antlers moved occasionally or moaned. One of them, a wood nymph, reached out a hand towards Glautous as if pleading for help. The demon knew better, any corpses in this field or hanging from the elk had served as the Guardian, likely this nymph currently possessed the elk. No demons ever attempted to steal the blossoms beneath the tree, as immortality was innately gifted to demons and devils upon their birth.
The elk let out a bugling challenge and pawed the earth, tearing up great chunks of bleeding sod, lowered its head and charged. Glautous leapt out of the way and the antlers missed him by a mere hair. More agile than any earthbound creature, the elk spun, its tines leading the way. Glautous attempted to dodge again, but the Guardian predicted his feint and swung a hoof up and caught him in the chest. The elk pinned him to the earth and its eyes glowed triumphantly. Its breath smelled sickly of honey as it bent down and ran its tongue up the side of Glautous’ face. Its expression quickly changed when it realized that the demon was not a challenger to the Tree and his soul would not release it from its bonds. Its head shot up and it caught sight of the witch stooped beneath the tree, stealing the skull-shaped pods from the snapdragons.
Artemisia took none of the blossoms which could be turned into a tea-like draught of eternal life but took only the seed pods. Their macabre expressions made the mundane plant seem at home on the fourth plane. The witch’s thoughts were broken when she heard the sound of hooves thundering her way. She spun around and found herself face to face with the Guardian. The elk dropped its head, its antlers framed Artemisia’s body and with its forehead it butted her against the Tree. Artemisia gasped as her ribs cracked and her head slammed against the bark.
She slipped to the ground as consciousness threatened to leave her.
Glautous turned to march back up out of the bowl. His oath had been fulfilled now that the Guardian had defeated the witch. Artemisia was Vahrun’s problem now. He could imagine the smug look on the witch’s face when her nemesis was forced to trade his life for hers.
The demon stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the two figures approaching the Tree of the Morning. They were human, but they lacked the corporeal form of Artemisia. These were spirits. The man wore a felt hat and an overcoat. His spouse was the color of caramel, her long, thick hair hung down her back loosely, she wore a simple but elegant dress and was barefoot. While they had the careful and tidy appearances of those who had money, their hands betrayed the fact that they tended the land for a living. Their faces bore the tell-tale signs of long days out in the sun, crows-feet, laugh-lines, and tans. They were only a few years older than Artemisia.
The couple exchanged words before stepping between the Guardian and the witch. The woman placed her han
d on the elk’s head, said something and the elk nodded. The man picked up Artemisia and carried her and her pilfered seeds away from the tree. The woman spread her arms wide and screamed as the elk gored her. As she hung limply from its horns, the form of the woodland faerie emerged from the elk’s mouth and ascended up the Tree and into the seventh plane.
Glautous felt the oath dissolve as if it had been a piece of clothing. He didn’t spare the witch a goodbye or even a parting glance.
Chapter Thirty-five
Artemisia’s eyes fluttered open and she found herself looking into the face of her uncle Reed, Mission’s father. He had been dead for nearly sixteen years. Remembering where she was, it wasn’t as strange as if she had encountered him in the first realm. He was dressed exactly as he had been when he and Dolores died. Seeing the pouch of snapdragon pods on the ground, she recalled the Tree and the Guardian. She sat up abruptly and her head and ribs protested the movement.
“Where is Dolores?” Artemisia asked, though she knew the answer.
Reed smiled and pointed at the elk beneath the Tree.
“We need you to keep an eye on Mission for a little longer. He was always a trouble maker,” Reed said and laughed.
A tear rolled down Artemisia’s cheek when she saw her aunt’s body hanging from the antlers.
“You didn’t need to do that. You two should be together,” Artemisia argued as she wiped her cheek.
Reed and Dolores had brought Mission to her when he was six years old and had fallen ill with smallpox. Modern medicine couldn’t save him, and neither could her herbs, tinctures, or spells. Artemisia was only fifteen years old and at the time an accomplished witch but Mission was dying despite her best efforts. Reed and Dolores begged her to find a way and Artemisia set off across the planes in search of a being powerful enough to help.
The gods and goddesses had laughed at her request and told her that she needed to learn piety. So she sought out the next best thing, a demon. She worked on a spell and captured one who agreed to help her. She returned with her demon aide to the first plane and the demon worked a spell to save Mission, but the cost was steep. Healing Mission required his parents’ life force. Feeling duped, the witch had banished the demon from the first plane. Years later she had encountered him again, planning to kill him, but he had expressed the sincerest of apologies and Artemisia struck a different deal with him. However, there was no bringing Reed and Dolores back from the dead. Artemisia had been forced to raise Mission, though motherhood was not her vocation.
“The priorities of the dead are different from those of the living. Once you return to the first plane, I will sacrifice myself to the tree so Dolores can go to the seventh plane. I may be the Guardian for a millennia but I will see her again,” Reed said sagaciously.
“Your priorities shouldn’t be the living…” Artemisia retorted as she slowly stood.
“Northgate is not our concern, our son’s safety is. The Rameks are a dangerous family and he has gotten too close to them. Now hurry, we need to get you back to your portal.”
***
Artemisia cast a spell over the pentagram and the surface of the first realm became animated and began moving. She wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but she thought she could make out the inside of her cottage. She turned to Reed. “Thank you for saving me, Uncle.”
“You are most welcome,” he said. They embraced and then Artemisia stepped into the pentagram. Reed’s last words sounded like a threat to Artemisia.
“Don’t you dare let Vahrun take our son.”
Chapter Thirty-six
Vahrun’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he nearly dropped his glass of whiskey when he felt the witch call on him. With great annoyance he opened his eyes.
“She’s back,” he said, scooting his chair away from the table.
“She didn’t die?” De’lune asked incredulously.
While this was promising for Mission, it bode ill for her family.
Swain too, left the table, abandoning the plate that his daughter had just set for him. He grabbed his coat from its hook and put it on.
“Where are you going?” De’lune asked him.
“I am going to make sure that Artemisia is dead before Vahrun fulfills his oath. I won’t let her, or the sheriff, kill my son,” Swain said.
“Again,” Vahrun added sarcastically as he pushed the door open.
Swain did not grace him with a response but stepped out the door behind him into a light rain. The mountain tops were concealed by thick clouds that were dumping snow that could be measured in feet. It wouldn’t be long until the snow fell in town, too.
“I can’t let you kill Artemisia in front of me, my oath will compel me to kill you,” Vahrun warned.
“Murder is murder, and I am not trying to hang. But I assure you that Artemisia will,” Swain said.
“Clever!” Vahrun applauded.
The two went their separate ways as rain slicked down both of their jackets. Swain kept his head down and his coiffed hair was soon matted against his forehead. Mayor Kerrick lived on the north side of town, two blocks off the Main Road on Pilgrim’s Cross. By the time the Ramek had made it to the mayor’s home, his boots and pants were muddied to the knee.
The mayor’s home had a meager yard and a sizeable barn, overrun with creeping weeds which were so desiccated that they were impossible to identify. Their shoots began to blacken in the rain and their shriveled involucres had been trampled and crunched into nothing. The strap-like leaves of irises stood testimony beneath the eaves to a time when the ailing Mrs. Anne Kerrick had more time on her hands.
Lifting a copper knocker that had since turned green from oxidation, Swain brought it back down on the door until he heard movement from within the house. John Kerrick opened the door and smiled broadly.
“Master Ramek! What a surprise to see you.” He stepped aside to let the sopping man inside.
Swain left his jacket and boats in the coat room and stepped into an expansive sitting area lit by a modest hearth. A bookcase and four chairs were pushed against the east wall, while a sofa was set along the west wall. Anne Kerrick lay on it, taking shallow, wheezing breaths. A coffee table with a kettle of tea and two cups was set next to her. The unhealthy sheen of her skin, the blood caked to her lips and the rattle in her chest spelled tuberculosis.
“This used to be the hallway, but Dr. Stern couldn’t make it upstairs to the study, and keeping an ill woman in the kitchen was most inappropriate,” John Kerrick said. “And housing her in the servant’s quarters would have been unheard of.”
“So which door does Miss Beatrice use?” Swain said with a touch of dark humor. In truth, he was jealous of the tryst with the secretary. Since his wife Apolonia’s tragic death during childbirth, Swain had experienced no shortage of lovers, but none lasted more than a month or two.
“She uses the front door. But she has a key as to not disturb my old lady by knocking.” Kerrick made a show of hemming and hawing. Then he continued, “Asking a lady to come in through the back would be calling her a prostitute.”
“If the shoe fits, and in my experience, it always fits,” Swain said, and the mayor turned bright red.
“We can continue this schoolyard discussion in my study. I will have Bruna pour you a drink. Whiskey is your poison of choice if I remember right?” Mayor Kerrick supplied.
“That is correct.” Swain followed the mayor through a set of doors into a dining area set with a dark lacquered table set with fifteen chairs.
Kerrick requested two glasses of bourbon be brought up to the study by a pretty blonde girl with blue eyes. The girl, presumably Bruna, nodded and set to immediately.
The study was upstairs and was filled with several large bookcases, a liquor cabinet, and a large desk strewn with papers. Some of the papers were official town documents, and others were drawings the mayor had done while staring out his window. Most of the artwork was of birds or the sun rising and setting over Northgate. Swain pursed
his lips; the artwork was very good. He even caught sight of a rather lewd sketch of the soon-to-be late Missus Kerrick.
John Kerrick sat down audibly in a large, leather sofa, the hide of a piebald steer stretched across its surfaces and the horns of the creature and one of its companions used for the legs. The mayor indicated that Swain should take a seat in a magnificent chair made from moose paddles. It looked significantly less comfortable, but more stately.
“So, what is the meaning of this visit?” Mayor Kerrick asked jovially. “I find it hard to imagine that you have come to discuss my relationship with my secretary?”
“Indeed. My purpose is much more dire,” Swain said with a solemn expression.
“Does this have anything to do with Sheriff Ruckstead’s unsolved case?” Kerrick asked, his kind expression leaving his face.
“You are most perceptive,” Swain started. “I have heard rumor that the sheriff believes an animal is to blame.”
“I can neither confirm nor deny the details of any current investigations. But you are not far from the mark,” the mayor answered politically.
“You do not need to; I too think that we have a rogue animal wreaking havoc in our streets. But unlike the sheriff, I think this creature did not come to Northgate by any mundane means,” Swain said.
“The sheriff is notoriously against the belief of witchcraft and magic. Do tell, though.” Mayor Kerrick leaned forward in his chair. Just then Bruna came in with the whiskey. She handed each of them a glass and left.
Swain watched her leave out of the side of his eye before elaborating on his theory.
“You just said it. Witchcraft. We have a witch in our midst and the citizens of this town have fallen victim to her dark magic.”
“You believe Artemisia is behind this?” Kerrick asked, taking a long draught.
“Who else? The monster among us been summoned, only a devil-worshipper would be as bloodthirsty to call upon demons such as we have seen here,” Swain said, watching the mayor’s reaction. He appeared pensive, he hadn’t discarded the idea.