The Widder Woman

by Elizabeth Baxter

  No. It cannot be.

  An arm followed and another and finally a body pushed free of the horrible white cocoon. His hair was longer, floating round his head like a mane and his skin was different: scaled and colored a deep gold like the coins the peddlers sometimes brought to the village.

  But his smile was the same: bright, full of humor, making his eyes crinkle at the edges.

  “Father?”

  Hello, Toomi.

  He shifted and Toomi saw two silver wings folded on his back. Then she knew.

  In a rush, she threw herself at him and he caught her in a laughing embrace. Her father kicked, and carried her up through the water and burst out of the lake into the sky. Toomi clung tight, wanting to believe and yet not daring to.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispered.

  And I you, daughter.

  He didn’t speak with words. He didn’t need to anymore.

  “Where are we going?”

  You will see.

  They rose up into the sky, up, up, impossibly high. So high that Toomi saw the whole world spread out like a map. Surely, the world could not be so big?

  Moving through the sky towards them were countless glowing figures. Like comets or shooting stars.

  The Sky Folk.

  They surrounded Toomi and her father in a warm circle, arms reaching out to gently touch them.

  Welcome.

  Her father’s eyes were shining as he looked out on the Sky Folk. His people.

  “Father?”

  I must leave now. But first, I wanted you to see my people, to understand where I am going.

  Fear gripped Toomi’s belly. “Please don’t leave me again, father.”

  I must. The sky is my home now. But one day you will join me, as will your mother and sister. Until then you must tend the widders; they are our treasure.

  Realization came upon Toomi in a rush. She thought of the widders, those horrible, bloated, rotting corpses. But not rotting at all. Changing. Becoming…

  “All of us?” she whispered.

  All of us. We are born of Mother Lake and Father Sky.

  Later, when her father took her home, they found the widder woman waiting on the shore. Her father set Toomi down on the shingle then enfolded the widder woman in a tight embrace.

  A smile spread across the creases of the widder woman’s cheeks. “You will stop grieving for me now?”

  He nodded. To Toomi he said, “I would like you to meet Larni. My mother.”

  Toomi’s eyes widened. “You mean… you’re…?” She stamped her foot in exasperation. “But you let me travel the Deeps looking at all those horrible widders and you were here all the time! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  Toomi thought about that. Perhaps the widder woman was right; perhaps she wouldn’t have wanted that scary, strange old woman who tended rotting corpses as her grandmother. But now she understood that the widder woman was much more than that.

  Slowly she curled her hand around her grandmother’s.

  Her father embraced Larni then pulled Toomi into a tight hug as well. Then he was gone, soaring up into the sky.

  Just like a shooting star.

  Toomi threw her arms around her grandmother’s neck and buried her face in her shoulder. Arms as thin as sticks enfolded her and Toomi was suddenly weeping: for her grandmother, for her father, for her mother and sister who were still lost in grief. But mostly she was weeping for joy. Because the future seemed suddenly limitless and dazzlingly bright.

  ***

  The widder woman carried the new widder down to the shore. Toomi bent, lowered the corpse to the ground. Her grandmother’s eyes were closed, her face creased into a smile. Her last illness had been quick and for both her and Toomi it had been a strange time of sadness and joy.

  Filling her pockets with skyweed, Toomi hefted the body once more and carried it into the lake. There were tears in her eyes but Toomi did not feel sad. The sky was bright today, and soon her grandmother would be taking her place in it.

  The water closed over her head and Toomi kicked. The widders were waiting.

  END

  Keep reading for a preview of The Last Priestess, Book 1 of epic fantasy series, The Songmaker.

  Chapter 1

  Maegwin de Romily woke with a headache on the morning of her execution.

  As she roused from frightening dreams she became aware of smells first: damp stone, rotting straw, an undercurrent of urine. Next came sounds: the slow drip of water, the skitter of rats, the hushed voices of the other prisoners. Then finally, sight. Dawn sunlight fell through the barred window so brightly it brought tears to her eyes and made her head pound like a drum, beating out the rhythm of her heart.

  She levered herself into a sitting position and clasped her head as pain rampaged through her brain. Last night, after she had smashed her knee into his groin, the guard had punched her so hard she was surprised to find all her teeth still in place. But at least he’d left her alone after that. A headache and swollen jaw were a small price to avoid rape.

  She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against the cold, damp stone of the cell floor, hoping for some relief.

  “Sho-La, my mistress,” she whispered. “Give me the strength to meet my death with honor. I am lost in the dark. Guide me.” The words echoed off the walls and faded into silence. There was no answer.

  Maegwin glanced at the window. Outside, in the town of Mallyn, life went on as normal. The townspeople would be getting dressed, emptying chamber pots, cooking breakfast and doing the simple things people did every morning. In a few hours Maegwin would be led to the gallows and hanged and nobody in Mallyn would care.

  Maegwin shook her head, pushing the somber thoughts away. Instead, she brought to mind the morning prayers she’d been taught in the temple of Sho-La.

  Blessed Mother, guide me.

  Blessed Mother, heal me.

  Blessed Mother, teach me.

  Blessed Mother, I am yours.

  “Pssst! Maegwin? You awake?”

  She crawled to the door and slumped against the bars. “Good morning, Morran.”

  A bearded face appeared at the cell bars opposite. Deep lines framed eyes filled with worry. “Ah, lassie, you had me frightened last night. It would have been easier to let him have what he wanted. I thought he was going to kill you.”

  Maegwin smiled wryly. “Would it have mattered, Morran?”

  The old man’s face became stern. “Now, don’t go talking like that. We aren’t beaten yet! Something will turn up, you’ll see. The Songmaker will save us.”

  Maegwin sighed. She was tired of hearing him prattle on about this Songmaker of his. “How many times, old man? I’m not one of you.”

  “Well mayhap you should be. Where has loyalty to the king got you, eh? He’s going to hang you whether you be a rebel or no.”

  Maegwin didn’t reply. He wouldn’t listen. For Morran there were two choices: you were either loyal to the king or loyal to the rebels. But Maegwin had never sworn loyalty to either and yet she’d been dragged into the conflict anyway.

  Maegwin closed her eyes, remembering the day that had changed her life forever. Had it really only been a week ago? How could her life change so much in so short a time? She recalled the soft pressure as her sword blade slid between Lord Meryk Hounsey’s ribs and punctured his fiercely beating heart. She tasted the spray of hot blood across her face and smelled the sweat that soaked his expensive clothes.

  And heard the screaming of her sisters.

  “Hoi, Morran!” someone shouted, jolting her from her thoughts. “Are you rambling on about your bloody Songmaker again? I was an idiot to listen to your lies! Damn you to the Darkness, old man. Your sweet words have brought me nothing but a noose!”

  “Ah, you’re a chicken-hearted bastard, Randle!” shouted Morran. “If not for you they wouldn’t have caught the rest of us. You deserve to hang!”

  “Really? And what would you h
ave done if they had captured your wife and son? Kept your mouth shut and sacrificed them for your precious Songmaker I suppose?”

  “Better that than betray the cause. You lost your faith, Randle. The Songmaker will save us, you’ll see.”

  Randle laughed shrilly. “Fool! I doubt the Songmaker even knows your name! He certainly won’t give two shits when you’re dancing on the end of a rope!”

  Morran retorted but Maegwin shut their voices out, shuffled over to the window, and lifted her face up to the sunlight. She had no desire to spend her last hours listening to them argue. Through the bars, she could see a blue sky dotted with tiny wisps of clouds. A beautiful summer’s day.

  A good day to die.

  ***

  Rovann rode into the clearing and yanked the reins, pulling his horse to a halt in a spray of mud. The acrid odor of charred wood lingered on the air, strong enough to make his horse snort and stamp, unwilling to go closer.

  Rovann studied the scene. A once-magnificent building lay in ruins in the center of the clearing. The walls and roof had collapsed, leaving a heap of rubble. Blackened beams stuck out from the pile like the fingers of a corpse.

  The surrounding forest lay quiet and peaceful, giving no clues to what happened here. In an oak nearby a squirrel chirped angrily at Rovann’s intrusion. A blackbird alighted on a holly branch, stared at Rovann with one beady eye, and then took off into the trees.

  The saddle creaked as Rovann swung his leg over the horse’s back and jumped to the ground. Drawing his short-sword, he padded silently toward the ruins. Crouching at the base of a wall, he placed his palm on the blackened stone and closed his eyes. Nothing. No resonance remained within the granite. The fire must be at least a week old.

  Rovann straightened and re-sheathed his short-sword. There were no clues here. Lord Cedric Hounsey, on whose land the temple lay, claimed the blaze had been an accident. But Rovann suspected otherwise. Yet, without survivors to dispute the lord’s story, there was little he could do about it. Rovann kicked the ground in frustration, sending up a shower of ash that blew back at him, covering him in a fine gray cloak.

  His horse, Glynn, snorted and gazed at his master with ears pricked. Rovann trotted back to his mount and noticed a piece of parchment pinned to the trunk of a large sycamore. He strode over and ripped it down. He scanned the crude black letters, his breath quickening. There was still a chance. But he had to get to Mallyn. And fast.

  Swinging into the saddle, he kicked Glynn into motion, leaving behind the woods and coming down onto the paved Kingsroad. Glynn’s hooves made a loud ‘clip-clop’ on the hard stones. The sun was just poking above the tree-line. Lazy streamers of mist rose from the fields. Farm workers dotted the road, pulling carts or carrying tools. They stared at Rovann with wide, fearful eyes, wary of strangers.

  Rovann chewed his lip. If he didn’t reach Mallyn by midday… Shaking his head, he choked the thought. He would not fail. Could not. He had a duty to his king, to his people. Rovann smiled crookedly. Duty. That word again. Istra always hated how he was torn in two.

  Duty? she would say. Must it come before everything? Before us?

  Ahead, the Kingsroad forked. Rovann cursed, pulled Glynn to a stop and threw his hands up in frustration. The roads were identical with no way-markers to aid the travel-weary stranger.

  “What do you think, Glynn?” he asked his horse.

  The chestnut gelding flicked his ears idly.

  Rovann closed his eyes and slowed his breathing to a deep, steady rhythm. He felt the life around him: the thump of Glynn’s heart, the rustle of rodents in the undergrowth, the movement of worms in the soil. Thousands of tiny life forces shimmered, connected by the all-encompassing tapestry of the Eorthe. Rovann pushed his senses further out and found it: a mass of iridescent life energy so strong it could only indicate a town full of people. It lay to the south-west, many miles distant.

  He opened his eyes and sank forward, fatigue flooding his limbs. Pressing his head into Glynn’s mane, he breathed in the musty smell of the horse and impressed the image of their destination on the beast’s mind. Clinging on, he pressed Glynn into a gallop down the south-western road.

  ***

  Blessed Mother, I hear you.

  Blessed Mother, I see you.

  Blessed Mother, I feel you.

  Blessed Mother, I come to you.

  The rattle of the lock jolted Maegwin from her prayers. The door creaked open and two guards entered. They were both scarred, hard men. Without a word, they yanked her to her feet. She didn’t resist. They fixed a pair of iron manacles round her wrists and marched her out.

  The other prisoners pressed up against the bars of their cells as she was led past. They stared with dull, emotionless eyes, knowing they would soon share her fate. Morran’s eyes glittered with tears and his old face was full of sorrow.

  Maegwin smiled at him. “I’ll save you a seat in the afterlife, old man.”

  Morran reached through the bars and squeezed her arm. “Be brave, lassie. Be brave.”

  The guards marched her from the cells, through the guardhouse, and to a small office. Inside, a bald man sat behind a desk, staring at her with pitiless eyes. Maegwin had met this man just once before, when she had first been brought to face the king’s justice. Amin Shador, the governor of the Mallyn jail. She knew little of him, except what the other prisoners had said. The disgraced younger son of a lord, he’d been sent here as punishment for bedding his brother’s wife. Maegwin knew she would get no mercy from him.

  Sho-La, my light, my guide, my mistress, she thought. I come to your halls.

  “Your name?” Shador demanded.

  “You know my name.”

  “Indulge me.”

  Maegwin tipped her chin up. “Maegwin de Romily, priestess of Sho-La.”

  Shador inclined his head gravely. “Maegwin de Romily, you have been sentenced to hang for the murders of Lord Meryk Hounsey and three of his guardsmen. You will now go to your death. Do you understand?”

  She nodded.

  “Do you wish to see a priest?”

  “No. Get on with it.”

  “As you wish.”

  Amin Shador stood and donned a long black cape. He led her from the room, the guards following close behind.

  As she stepped outside, the midday sun sliced into Maegwin’s eyes like broken glass. Everything was picked out in stark brilliance: the circular courtyard, the thick gates, the crowd staring at her, the wooden platform on the far side. A gallows grew out of this platform like a bald, ugly tree. A noose hung from it, slowly turning in the breeze.

  Shador snapped at the guards, “Take her quickly to the scaffold. Let’s get this done.”

  Shador strode purposefully forward and the guardsmen propelled Maegwin after him. A path opened for them but the crowd pressed close on both sides. The threat of anger filled the air. Maegwin’s eyes moved over the crowd, searching for a spark of compassion. She found none. The people of Mallyn glared at her with eyes full of violence. They saw only a murderer and traitor.

  “Faithless whore!” a man hissed.

  “The Fates will send you straight to the Darkness!” an old woman shouted.

  The executioner, a massive man wearing sweat-stained leather and a crude wooden mask over the top half of his face, waited patiently beside the gallows with his arms folded. “And how is milady this morning? Ready to give us all a good show?”

  She smiled at him. “I forgive you for taking my life. May Sho-La grant you mercy.”

  The grin on the man’s face faltered. He grabbed Maegwin’s elbow and forced her up onto a three-legged stool. The scaffold creaked as the executioner pulled the noose over Maegwin’s head. The rope felt coarse and prickly where it lay against the skin of her neck. Soon she would drop and the noose would tighten, crushing her windpipe, choking the life from her…

  A wave of fear clenched her stomach. Her heart pounded.

  Sho-La, my mistress, she thought desperately. Please give
me courage!

  Shador unrolled a parchment and read in a monotone voice, “By order of the Lord Sheriff of Mallynshire, according to the laws of King William of Amaury, I hereby announce that Maegwin de Romily…”

  Maegwin stopped listening. A family of crows landed noisily on the wall and hopped about, looking for something to scavenge. In the crowd, a child turned in his mother’s arms and regarded Maegwin solemnly. Why had a child been brought to watch her die? Surely he was too young to be taught such hatred?

  Maegwin turned her gaze skyward. The heavens were a clear, perfect blue. Yes, it was a good day to die.

  “…to be hanged from the neck until she be dead. Fates have mercy on her soul.”

  With a crunch of splintering wood, the executioner kicked the stool out from under her. Maegwin fell. The noose snapped tight, pain exploding along her nerves. Maegwin choked, desperately trying to suck in a breath. Blood pounded in her ears. Her eyes bulged in their sockets and she squeezed them shut. Her body bucked, her legs kicked. As her breath left her, the movement became slower, slower, slower.

  Then stilled.

  The Last Priestess is available now on Amazon! Click here

  About the Author

  Thank you for reading The Widder Woman! If you liked the book, please consider leaving a review. If you would like information on future releases, giveaways and competitions, why not sign up for the author’s newsletter? Subscribe here

  Elizabeth Baxter was born and raised in England. In her spare time she enjoys reading, hiking, traveling the world and watching England play cricket. She’s been writing since she was six years old and plans to continue for as long as she’s able to hold a pen (or a keyboard). If you are interested in more information about the author and forthcoming books, visit her at: