To Kill a Witch

by Christopher Patterson

  “Nothing,” Thaddeus replied. “I thought I heard someone behind me. Damn rain.”

  “You’ve got no business over here,” one of the soldiers said.

  “Get out of here,” the other said.

  “Straight away,” Thaddeus said with a quick bow before walking as quickly as he could back to the abbey.

  †

  “Where have you been?” Gunnar asked as Thaddeus walked past him and into his cell.

  “Nowhere,” Thaddeus said, shivering as the rain still soaked his hair and ran down his back.

  “You don’t look like you’ve been nowhere,” Asaf added.

  “What do you care where I’ve been?” Thaddeus asked, and Asaf took a step back.

  “What is wrong with you?” Asaf asked.

  “That’s no way to speak to your friends,” Gunnar said.

  “Friends,” Thaddeus said with a huff and, then, repeated, “friends. Where have you been?”

  “What do you mean?” Gunnar asked. “We’ve been here.”

  “Have you?” Thaddeus asked, staring at the two suspiciously. “And where are Brant and Jarvis?”

  “I don’t know,” Asaf replied. “That rat turd was gone with his huscarl when we woke. We thought maybe he had gone with you.”

  “Why would he go anywhere with me?” Thaddeus asked. “And Alden?”

  “Helping the initiates with work around the abbey,” Asaf replied. “By the rood, what has gotten into you?”

  “I bet he is,” Thaddeus muttered.

  “Thaddeus, you should get out of those wet clothes,” Gunnar said.

  “Do you ever wonder what we are doing?” Thaddeus asked, staring at the two men through squinted eyes.

  “What?” Gunnar asked.

  “Do you ever wish you had made a different choice?” Thaddeus added. “Do you ever wish you had turned down the Lord’s offer?”

  “What choice was there?” Asaf asked. “We’re sinners who had turned our backs on God. The choice was made for us.”

  “There is always a choice,” Thaddeus said, stepping back. “We could have said no. We could still say no. Maybe some of us have recently said no to God.”

  With that, Thaddeus turned and left the cell. He didn’t know where he was going, but he couldn’t be there, around Asaf and Gunnar. Part of him wondered where Brant had gone, but then, he didn’t really care. The man was a wart, and if he never saw him again, it would be too soon.

  “Thaddeus, what are you doing?” Gunnar called after him. He hurried his feet, but he could hear the north man yelling, “Where are you going?”

  Chapter 19

  THE SMELL IN The Silver Bell almost rivaled the stink of evil that accompanied the witch, and that was strong, signifying her power. The wooden planks of the floor, where there were some, were rotted and warped. Sheep and horses and pigs and chicken shared this space with the normal patrons of the alehouse, and their shit was everywhere. Thaddeus wasn’t opposed to eating horsemeat, in certain parts of Rome it was held as a delicacy, but in the horse porridge in front of him, the meat was old and tough. The ale was sour and flat, and the men that filled the mismatched chairs and benches were all drunk and loud and rowdy.

  The bench on which Thaddeus sat wobbled with every movement and the table was a simple slab of wood, mostly unfinished with nobs where branches used to be. Two other men, joking lewdly and yelling, sat at the other end of the table, and every time they slammed a tankard against the wood, it shook and tilted. Thaddeus glared at them, but they were so drunk his glowering stares only made them laugh. The alehouse was so dark they probably couldn’t fully see him anyway. He went back to his porridge and continued his ruminations.

  How could they? They wouldn’t, would they?

  The witch’s words hung heavy in his mind. Someone close to him had joined her. He knew it. That is what she meant. But she was also a witch, deceitful and evil.

  Nonetheless, his two encounters with her caused his mind to spin, and for the first time in several hundred years, the former centurion began to question his friendships and his allegiance to God. How many sacrifices had he made over the course of almost nine hundred years? How much death had he seen? What more did the Lord require of him? He was tired and worn. When he was a young man, he wanted to live forever. The very thought of death and what would happen after scared him. Now, it was all he desired.

  “Lord, God,” Thaddeus prayed, “please, release me from this burden. I cannot take it anymore. I beg of you. Let me die. I don’t care where I go, just let me be done with this life.”

  He put his face in his hands and almost wanted to cry.

  “A man praying in an alehouse,” one drunk fellow said. He was dirty, his black beard speckled with gray and his shirt stained. He smelled awful, of sweat and ale and pig shit. “No one comes to an alehouse to pray.”

  “Well, I do,” Thaddeus said, looking down at his tankard of sour ale.

  “Take your praying to the abbey,” the drunk man said, poking his tankard of drink at Thaddeus, some of it spilling on the table.

  “This is my church,” Thaddeus said, taking a drink of his sour ale.

  “No one wants to hear praying in here,” the drunkard said.

  “Why don’t you take yourself somewhere else,” Thaddeus said, “before you find yourself with two broken hands. What good would a drunk be with two broken hands?”

  “Two broken …” the drunk said, looking at Thaddeus in disbelief. Drunks were always so courageous.

  Just then, the door to The Silver Bell opened, casting light into the otherwise dark room. The people inside recoiled as if they were wraiths hurt by the brightness, and Thaddeus squinted, just enough to make out the two figures that walked into the room. He blinked when the door closed, trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness once again. He looked up to see two figures standing before him, one small and slight and one much larger, but he still couldn’t make out their faces. The larger man grabbed the drunk who had been harassing Thaddeus, pulled him close, said something inaudible, and, as soon as he was released, the drunkard scurried away.

  “My blessed Thaddeus,” the slighter man said in Greek, sitting on a bench across from Thaddeus.

  Thaddeus recognized the voice.

  “Your Excellence!” Thaddeus almost cried, banging his knee on the rickety table as he moved to stand.

  “Sit down, Thaddeus,” the man said with a laugh. “This is not a place where you need to worry about proper pleasantries.”

  “Bishop Wulfstan,” Thaddeus said in a hushed voice, sitting as he was told and leaning over the table, “what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Really,” Wulfstan replied with feigned amazement, “and why not? Would it surprise you if I told you I had been in an alehouse before? Am I any less of a bishop because I have?”

  “Of course not,” Thaddeus said, sitting down again.

  Wulfstan looked up at the large man standing behind him and nodded. The man moved to the front door and simply stood next to it, not blocking it, with his arms crossed in front of him. The brute of a man had a large, bushy beard, and he could have been Gunnar’s dark-haired brother with his barrel chest and broad shoulders. Thaddeus couldn’t see his eyes, but he imagined them as brooding and hard. Thaddeus wouldn’t want to cross the man.

  “How did you know I was here?” Thaddeus asked.

  “My son, I think you have had a little too much to drink,” Wulfstan said, patting Thaddeus on the hand, “I know you have been on this earth a lot longer than I have, but I have a way of finding things out. Your messenger reached me, in Chesterfield. A good lad.”

  “Did you see Asaf or Gunnar? Did they tell you where I was?” Thaddeus asked, groaning as he spoke.

  “No,” Wulfstan replied, his voice grandfatherly. “In fact, they don’t know I am here. Do they know you are here, in this alehouse, drinking sour ale? If they needed you, would they be able to find you?”

  “No,” Thaddeus said, shaking his
head.

  “Friends as close as you, and they don’t know where you are?” Wulfstan said.

  “Do you know what it is like,” Thaddeus asked, “to live beyond your time? Do you know what it is like to watch all those you love die away, only to love new people, and then to watch them die? Why won’t God just let me die?”

  “Well … yes and no,” Wulfstan replied. “My time here on this earth is coming to an end, Thaddeus, and I am glad for it. I do not covet your blessing …”

  “Blessing!” Thaddeus said with a quick snort. “More like a curse.”

  “As I was saying, I do not covet your blessing,” Wulfstan said, squeezing Thaddeus’ hand not hard, but firmly, “but I do know what it is like to watch the ones you love pass away. And I do believe I also know what it is like to live well beyond your time here on this earth. Why are you here, Thaddeus?”

  “I don’t know,” Thaddeus replied with a shrug. “I can’t trust my friends. I am angry with God for making me live this long. I miss the people that I have had to watch die.”

  “My son,” Wulfstan said, “that is the witch talking. She is an agent of the enemy, and his main goal is to sow discord within the Lord’s flock. Do you truly think that Asaf and Gunnar would turn their backs on you and align themselves with a witch?”

  “No, I suppose not,” Thaddeus said. “I’m a fool.”

  “Yes. And so am I,” Wulfstan said. “You were given a choice, Thaddeus, so many years ago. Remember that it was you who cried out to God, yes? It was you who asked Him what He would have you do.”

  “How do you know this?” Thaddeus asked.

  “Was it not you, on your knees and your robe soaked with the blood of your wife, who cried out to our Lord and asked him for forgiveness … and then asked him to put you to task?” Wulfstan asked. “The crimes against men you had committed burdened you so much you couldn’t believe the Lord would ever forgive you, so He gave you a task, a purpose, yes?”

  “Yes,” Thaddeus said, tears welling up in his eyes.

  That day was always in the back of his mind, but he hadn’t thought about it in a long time. It was the day he found his wife dead. His parents. His sister. Murdered by the Romans who he had served. It was the rule of Valerian Augustus. Much of Thaddeus’ service was under the reign of Marcus Julius Phillipus, and he was sympathetic to Christians. In fact, despite the empire’s persecution of the Christians—something Thaddeus was a part of—it was during his reign that Thaddeus came to know Christ and brought his family to Him as well. But after he died in battle, each emperor after that became harsher and harsher on Christians. Until Valerian … It wasn’t fitting to have a Christian centurion, and when Thaddeus refused to sacrifice a bull to several Roman gods, his family suffered. His sister and wife were raped and killed, and his father and mother burned along with his little baby nephew. His brother-in-law was spared as he confessed that he hated Christ and would willingly worship the Roman gods. Thaddeus didn’t care how many times his sister’s husband apologized. When he was through with the man, his face was unrecognizable.

  That was the day he cried out to God.

  “Lord,” Thaddeus muttered, remembering the exact words he said, “this is because of my sin. This is my doing. I persecuted your people, and now my family has paid my sins’ penance. Help me to cleanse my heart. Make me a warrior for you, fervently seeking out all of the Devil’s servants in this world until they have all been sent back into the fiery furnaces of hell.”

  It was then that an angel appeared to Thaddeus, gleaming like the sun in white robes. He and his family were living in Gaul at the time—near what was now Paris. It was raining that day, and when the angel appeared, the rain stopped, and the sun shone so brightly, Thaddeus shielded his eyes. He could never see the angel’s face, but he spoke with a voice that was like thunder.

  “Is this truly what you want?” the angel asked. “Do you wish to be a holy warrior for the Lord on High?”

  “Yes,” Thaddeus had replied.

  “Then let it be so,” the angel said. “You will be a warrior for God Almighty. He will send you visions. He will send you messengers. He will give you dreams. And you will know where He commands you to go.”

  And then the angel was gone.

  “I should have said no that day,” Thaddeus said. “I should have just killed myself.”

  “To what end?” Wulfstan asked.

  “Would he have forgiven me?” Thaddeus asked, his eyes filled with tears as he remembered that day and his beloved Chloe, defiled and covered in blood. “Would he have taken me to heaven, right then and there?”

  “He would have forgiven you? Yes,” Wulfstan replied. “Would He have taken you to heaven? No. Not yet, at least. Before you begin to question this task you have been given, this life you live, think of all the people—and not just good Christian people, but people overall—you have saved, helped, and rescued from ruin.”

  Thaddeus just shook his head.

  “Do you remember the Persian girl, sold into prostitution by her father?” Wulfstan asked. “Did you know that she eventually married and had a family of her own, that she became a believer? Or the Ethiopian man, possessed by an evil spirit? His own family was ready to burn him alive, but you rescued him. He was able to see his grandsons grow into men … Because of you. Or what about that little Briton you rescued from a pack of shape-shifting wolves? He grew to be a good chieftain. You saved those people, Thaddeus, and more. You are doing the Lord’s work, and what you see as a curse, most around you see as a blessing. The witch is causing you to wallow in self-pity.”

  “How do you know about all those people?” Thaddeus asked.

  “Do you forget that the Lord is known as El Roi—the God who sees?” Wulfstan asked. “And He has allowed me to see some of these things.”

  “I am so tired,” Thaddeus said. “I ache. Even if my body doesn’t age, I feel its pain.”

  “Do you also forget the other names of our Lord God?” Wulfstan asked. “Yahweh Yireh—the God will Provide, for when you are worn and weary. Jehovah Rapha—the Lord who Heals, and not just physical wounds. Yahweh Shalom—the Lord is Peace, especially in times like this when our mind is chaos. And most importantly, Thaddeus, Abba—Father. You have been given a mighty task by God, and I could see how, at times, you wish this was not God’s plan for you, but as you grow weary, He is here to comfort you.”

  “It is too much, father,” Thaddeus said, still looking down and holding back his tears of sadness and frustration.

  “Our Lord says, cast your burdens on the Lord, and He shall sustain you,” Wulfstan explained. “He also said, come to me, all you who are heavy laden and burdened, and I will give you rest. In your frustration, have you come to deny the word of God?”

  “No, of course not,” Thaddeus said.

  “Then why let a servant of the Devil influence you so?” Wulfstan asked. “Why let one of the Devil’s whores cast doubts in your head? Believe, my son. And believe that the men who serve the Lord by your side are here to help you and support you. You were the first, after all, of the Lord’s warriors.”

  Thaddeus looked to Wulfstan.

  “Am I correct? You chose the others? You chose Gunnar and Asaf?”

  “Yes,” Thaddeus replied.

  “Then trust in your decision and the Lord’s guidance,” Wulfstan said. “Now, keep a close eye on others in your company. They may not be so easily trusted. Let us leave this place and get you back on track. Yes?”

  “Yes,” Thaddeus said with a smile.

  He stood and followed Wulfstan to the door, where the large bodyguard nodded and led them into the streets of Winchester. Thaddeus, in a way, felt refreshed, even though the words of the witch, the vision of his wife Chloe, still hung in his head. But he figured they always would. He was but a man, regardless of how much trust Wulfstan, or Asaf, or Gunnar, or Harold put in him. He was still a man, even if he was a holy warrior, and doubt and sin still plagued him as with any man.

 
As Wulfstan accompanied Thaddeus to the abbey, just outside of its grounds, they saw two people speaking, one with their back to them and the other with a cloak pulled over their face. But the way the one facing them moved, and the dark ringlets escaping the hidden confines of the cowl, Thaddeus knew who it was.

  “The witch,” he seethed.

  His voice was a whisper, but the way she looked up, her glimmering reddish eyes meeting his, he knew she had heard him. She said something to the person she was talking to—presumably a man with the way the broad shoulders sat under their own cloak—and they ran away, never looking back.

  “So, the pitiful warrior returns,” the witch said in a chiding voice, “and this time with a holy man past his prime. Wulfstan, why can’t you just die?”

  “Soon enough, witch,” the Bishop replied.

  Thaddeus wondered, for a moment, if they knew each other, but then again, Wulfstan was an archbishop and an important one. The minions of the Devil surely knew who he was. Undoubtedly, Wulfstan felt the witch’s presence the moment she stepped foot on England’s shores, and she felt his.

  Renata snapped her fingers, and the world around them seemed to stop. People walking in the streets stood still. Small drops of rain, mist almost, froze in space. Even a man tossing his little girl into the air stopped, him still reaching up to catch her and she suspended just above his reach, a look of delighted fear and excitement tattooed on her face. The only ones that had not been frozen, besides the witch, were Thaddeus, Wulfstan, and the Bishop’s bodyguard.

  With another snap of her fingers, mist rose from the ground, slowly swirling about in little tornados until they loosely took the shape of men, although translucent, their shape constantly changing as they moved, swaying like smoke. The witch said something in a language that Thaddeus had heard before but never bothered to learn—the infernal tongue, the language of evil, and the underworld. The wraiths, ten in all, screamed, their mouths opening wider than what seemed natural, their screech piercing Thaddeus’ ears, and they rushed the holy warrior and the Bishop and the bodyguard.