The Third Witch

by Rebecca Reisert

  AFTER SUPPER, the warm firelight flickers like fireflies on the faces of young soldiers who are gathered around the hall, listening to the tales of the dark man, their leader. The little girl tiptoes in, carrying a huge book with beautifully tinted drawings. She has been neatened up, her hair tidied into plaits. She shoulders her way past the soldiers.

  “Now what is this?” her father demands as she plops the heavy book down on his knees.

  “I have been waiting and waiting—ages, sir—for you to finish my story.”

  “But I have been at supper for only—”

  The child stamps her foot. “I do not talk about supper, sir. I am talking about your war. You were gone forever and ever, Papa. I think that if I had to wait another single day, I would shrivel and die.”

  Her father tosses back his head and roars with laughter. He shouts to his men, “Although the only whelp my wife has thus far managed to give me is this girlchild, my little chit here has wormed her way into my graces. ’Tis a clever wench, so I just might keep her after all and not drown her with that last litter of unwanted kitchen kittens.” Most of the warriors laugh heartily at the joke, but toward the back of the hall, a tall, broad young man with a shock of reddish hair grimaces and bites his lip. Her mother, bright in her apple green gown, slides her slender hand into his and leads him from the hall.

  The child frowns to see them go.

  Her father tugs the ribbon knotted in her plait. “So you feel that reading-this book is more important than the tales of war I have to tell these young soldiers, do you?”

  She nods. “ Your soldiers have had you for months and months, Papa. ’Tis my time now.”

  “And what would your mother say to your sneaking into the hall?”

  The child sighs loudly and cuddles closer to her father. “I fear I am asad disappointment to Mama. She longed for a tabby cat but gave birth to a lioness instead.”

  The whole hall rings with laughter, and she twinkles with delight at the success of her joke.

  “Where is your mother, child?”

  The girl glances toward the end of the hall, but her slender, beautiful mother has not returned. She senses that she should not mention the red-headed man with her mother. So she climbs onto her father’s knee and pulls the book up onto her lap. “Now shall we finish the story?”

  Her father looks out at his men. “I never thought anyone would value me more as a scribe than a warrior.”

  His warriors laugh again. She tilts her head to look around at him. “Now, sir, if you would teach me to read, then I would not need to bother you for these tales.”

  “But you can read.”

  “English, but not Latin, sir. I would like you to teach me to read Latin.”

  “Teach you to read Latin, chit? What a minx you are! You will grow up to be a great lady. What need have you to read at all, much less Latin?”

  The child leans back against her father’s chest with a contented sigh. “I will not be a great lady! I will be a girl forever and ever!”

  Again the room rings with laughter.

  Her father rests his chin against her warm little head. “ You cannot be a girl forever.”

  “Then I will be a soldier like you.”

  “ You cannot be a soldier, chit.” His voice is cozy and kind. “ You will grow and become a beautiful lady like your mother, but unlike your mother, you will give your husband many sons.”

  The child stiffens. “I will not be like my mother! I will not!” Her voice is pulled tight. She twitches out of his arms and slides to the floor.

  The soldiers laugh again and her father ruffles the girl’s hair and pulls her back onto his lap.

  “All right, all right, I surrender for tonight, child.” He opens the beautifullyillustrated books. “Pay heed, chit. This word is Deus— it means God. This word is stabat— it means . . .”

  SEVERAL DAYS LATER, the child stamps her foot.

  “I will not go with you, Mama. My father is home so seldom. I shall stay here with him.”

  The slender lady who left the gathering with the red-haired man closes her fingers on the child’s shoulders. “That you shall not, my girl.”

  “That I shall, Mama.”

  Her mother shakes her till one braid tumbles loose.

  “ You will obey your mother!”

  She hears her father calling her to come to the hall. As soon as her mother stops shaking her, she twists herself free and begins to run.

  “I’m coming, Papa!”

  But her mother is faster. She grabs the girl and pulls her back.

  “ You will come with me.”

  “Papa is to give me my Latin lesson.”

  “ ’Tis not a fitting business for a young lady. You will come with your mother.”

  “Papa said I might—”

  “I do not care a fig what your father said. Now go to your nurse. Now, I say. Put on your old gown. ’Tis time you learned the tasks of a lady of a castle, not the frumpery-rumpery of Latin. You are not to be a priest, girl. Even your father would tell you to behave.”

  She eyes her mother with something close to hatred. Then she says, “And even your husband, madam, would tell you to behave.”

  Her mother raises a hand to slap her, but just then the nurse walks into the room. Her mother moves her hand to her hair and pretends to be tucking in a few stray wisps.

  “Change my daughter’s gown, Nurse. Then you and she and the other women will go with me down to the stream. The bed linens need washing, and we will gather flowers to fill the hall with posies to celebrate my lord’s safe return.”

  Her mother swishes her way out of the room. The child hears her callout to her father, “My love, there will be no Latin lesson today. Our little wild beast of a daughter must be tamed this afternoon. She must come with me down to the stream . . .”

  WHAT ANGERS HER MOST is that her father will not say nay to her mother.

  “We were to have a Latin lesson,” the child reminds him. The bevy of women, loaded with baskets overflowing with linens and small clothes, have started their march down to the stream. The child clings to her father.

  “Do not make me go,” she begs.

  But her father laughs and crooks a finger in her tumbled plait.

  “ Your mama is right. We have a wild thing for a daughter. She must learn to be a fine little lady.” He laughs at the sight of the child’s cross face. “How else can I get a wealthy husband for you?”

  He laughs again at her frown.

  Then he slides his arm around his wife’s slim waist and pulls her to him. “Teach her to be just like you, my love,” he whispers.

  The child scowls.

  Her father rests his forehead against his wife’s head. “I miss you every moment you are away from me, my beauty. Hurry back to me.”

  Then he kisses her, hard, and she kisses him back.

  Out of the corner of her eye, the child sees the red-haired man watching-them hungrily from the shadows.

  THE CHILD REFUSES to admit that it is actually fun to be down at the stream.

  It is a different world when the men are not about. The women and girls of the castle spread the linens out on the rocks and pound stones and sticks against them, singing lively tunes together. Many of the tunes are comical, and she can hardly keep from laughing, especially when the fat henwife begins to dance around, a twisted bedsheet on her head.

  After the laundry has been washed and spread to dry in the sun, thewomen sit on the rocks, their skirts kirtled high about their waists, and eat apples and dried figs. They take turns telling riddles.

  As soon as she sees a chance, the child slips away and runs back to the castle.

  I will have my Latin lesson, she tells herself.

  It feels like a long time before the castle comes into sight. She is panting and sweat trickles down her face.

  Papa will want me to look sweet. I dare not appear looking like a ragamuffin. She plops down on a stump and fans herself with her hand, trying to cool d
own. She mops her forehead with the hem of her gown.

  Then she hears a thunder of dozens of horses. She falls on her belly and slithers down behind the stump. She peeks over the top. Sleek chargers pound their way past her, galloping toward the castle. A cart clatters along with them.

  She hears the castle gates scrape their heavy way closed. She feels a moment of panic. I am too little to know what to do. Should I run back and get Mama? Should I stay hidden here? She wants to whimper with fear. Instead she inches her way up to peer over the top of the stump.

  The riders gather around the gates. She can see that some of them have bows and arrows. Two of them stand beside the cart. It carries a strange machine that confuses her. Then one of them lifts the top off a metal pot. She cannot see what is inside until one man uses some tongs to lift something that shines like a hot coal. He places it in a little bowl at the end of an arm of the machine on the cart.

  Then she notices the red-haired man is standing among the attackers. He seems to be their leader.

  “Papa,” she whispers. “Papa!”

  Then the arm of the machine swings through the air. Something like a rock, a glowing rock, flies out of it and over the wall of the castle. In a few moments, she sees flames shoot up. The arms swings again. More flames.

  Things seem to move slowly, like in a dream. She knows there must be sounds, but she hears nothing. Her ears feel stuffed with silence.

  The machine keeps flinging its arm, and the fire-rocks keep flying overthe wall of the castle. She knows the buildings inside are built of wood. She knows fire is an enemy worse than men.

  The gates open. Through the gates she can see that the courtyard of the castle has become an orange and red mouth of flames.

  But the war is over. Papa came home because the war is over!

  Then when the men from the castle try to escape, the men outside fall upon them, slashing them with swords and clubbing them with sticks. So the men from the castle fall back inside and push the gates shut once more.

  This is not happening. This is a dream. This cannot be real. My papa is in there. This cannot be real.

  The red-haired man signals with his hand. Her hand flies to her mouth in horror as she sees what is happening.

  The attackers pull long boards out from under the cart. Some of them hold them across the gates. Others nail them in place with long spikes.

  Then the sounds begin. She thinks she hears cries and pounding from behind the gates, but maybe it is just the echo of the hammers outside.

  This will stop soon. It will stop.

  Something like an archangel from a picture in the Latin book appears atop one of the walls. Wings—golden and red—stream out from its arms and shoulders.

  Then she realizes it is a man on fire.

  He holds his arms out wide.

  And then he jumps.

  Another man—not on fire—leaps over the wall. He lies on the ground, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle. The attackers smash logs against him for a long time. When they move away, he is still.

  And always it seems the red-haired soldier is in the thick of the fray.

  Then more men, their clothes alight with flames, leap over the walls. To her horror, they still look like archangels.

  Papa is not there. He cannot be there. My Papa must have left before all this began.

  It is impossible that any of the archangels could be her father.

  Toward the end of the afternoon, she can no longer see the tips of the flames, lapping like cats’ tongues above the walls of the castle. After awhile longer, the attackers rip off the boards they nailed across the gates. Then the red-haired man eases the gates open.

  Everything inside the gates is black and ragged although overhead there is a lot of light. The buildings are all gone, replaced with a jumble of ash and burned lumber. No one is moving around.

  The red-haired man and his soldiers disappear inside.

  For a moment she thinks about running down there and nailing the boards back up. Then she will be the one to send the glowing rocks flying over the castle walls. The attackers can feel what it is like to burn inside a castle.

  But she is too little to do anything.

  So she waits.

  Late in the afternoon, all the attackers come back out, laughing and strutting. They clap each other frequently on the shoulder and make loud jokes. She is glad she is too far away to hear them. Then they all ride away.

  She picks her way carefully down to the castle. She feels like the charred castle walls. All her feeling has been burned away, and she is nothing but feet, hands, and eyes. She walks inside the silent castle. She can hear things grit and grate under her feet, but there is no other sound. Jagged black boards like dragons’ teeth poke straight up to the sky. But it is a strange, unearthly landscape like a picture of one of the circles of hell. She does not recognize anything or even remember where the keep or the stable were.

  She finds a hole underneath some tumbled rocks. She crawls into it, like a small, weak animal in a tiny den. She hears something making little mewling sounds. For a while she wonders if there is a kitten hiding somewhere, but then she realizes that the sound is coming from her own chest.

  At dusk she hears someone ride into the courtyard. She peeks out of her hole. It is the red-haired man. He walks among the dark shapes that smell of smoke, poking at them with his sword.

  After a while she hears another horse approach. He runs to the gates to meet it. It is her mother.

  He reaches up to lift her mother out of the saddle.

  “Well, my love? I see the deed is done,” her mother says.

  He begins to kiss her passionately. She kisses him back, but the child sees her kisses are not as passionate.

  Then her mother pulls back to ask, “Quickly?”

  He nods and tries to kiss her again, but her mother holds him back.

  “All dead?” she asks.

  He nods.

  Then her mother nods once before she asks, “My husband, too?”

  He nods again. The child wonders if his voice has gone away. Her mother kisses him, but this time he is the one to pull back.

  “He killed my father,” he says, holding her at arm’s length. “I would not be worthy to be his son if I did not right that murder.”

  Her mother gives his wrist a quick kiss. “He was a boor! Full of stories of high adventure and little to show for it.”

  The red-haired man releases her and walks away. He stands looking at the burned rubble, his back to her mother. She looks after him, troubled, and then approaches him from behind and slides her arms around his chest, resting her cheek against his back. “ ’Tis war, my dearest love. ’Tis war. Now you can claim me as your spoils of war. How will you use me, my love?”

  He pats her hand, but he does not look at her.

  Now her slender hands pull at him till he turns to face her.

  “My daughter,” she says. “We cannot find my daughter down at the stream.”

  The red-haired man stiffens.

  “‘Did you see that child on the road?” She takes his hand in hers and looks deep into his eyes. “I cannot think where she might be.” She gives a little laugh. “I have left the women searching for the little minx.”

  He lets her hand drop. For the first time, his face looks troubled. His voice is heavy with horror. “Lady, tell me, ’tis not possible that she came back here with her father. Tell me that—little as she is—she could not travel so far. I do not mind the killing of men, but to murder a child—”

  “No!” her mother snaps. “Of course she was not here. Why do you fill my ears with such fantasy? She did not reach her father. She did not!”

  She presses her palms against her forehead. She backs away from him, wobbles, and almost falls. The red-haired man catches her.

  “ You are not well, love. Let me fetch some water.”

  She begins to gasp and shake.

  “Breathe, breathe, my love,” he says.

  “Was she he
re?” Her mother begins to beat her fists against his chest. “Was she? Did you kill my child?”

  “It happened so quickly—”

  “Was she in the castle with her father? Was she?”

  “I did not see her—it all happened so quickly—”

  “Was she here?”

  “I did not see her—but I cannot swear ’twas not so—”

  Her mother makes a sound like a wounded animal and sinks onto her knees, rocking back and forth, moaning. He scoops her up in his arms.

  “My lady, my love, let us go from here. My dearest love, I would give my life for you. I will never do anything to hurt you.”

  After a while they ride away, leaving the child alone in the ruined castle.

  EVENTUALLY, THE STARS COME OUT and they fill the sky. They do not seem to care that the child’s father is dead. The child finally crawls out from the pile of burned boards.

  Then she begins to run.

  She runs for a long time. Sometimes it is day, and sometimes night. Sometimes she walks, and sometimes she crawls. She drinks water wherever she finds it, even in a ditch or a pond whose surface is sticky with scum. She does not eat. Whenever she hears the approach of people, she hides until there is silence again. Sometimes she wakes, curled in a patch of heather or a heap of leaves with no memory of falling asleep.

  And then, she stumbles in the wood. She falls to the ground, the nub of a stick pressing deep into her cheek. She has no more strength to get up.

  She smells the damp wool of a skirt that kneels near her face, andrough fingers stroke her cheek. Then the hands prop her head up, and water is poured into her mouth.

  Nettle’s voice comforts her. “There, child, there. You’re safe here, child. I will keep you safe. ’Tis time to rest, my little gillyflower. The horrors are over, child. The horrors are gone.”

  BUT WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, the horror has only begun.

  F O R T Y - T W O

  I FIGHT MY WAY UP to the surface of the icy water. My chest feels as if it has cracked and is lashed into place with ropes of ice. I cannot breathe.

  I thrash and paddle my way to the shore. I pull myself onto the bank. My gasps for air are greedy. My head aches and my stomach churns. For a long time I can’t open my eyes.