Uncharted Frontier EZine Issue 16

by Allan Kaspar

~~~Back To Top

  The Baron and the Witch

  By Allan Kaspar

  Beanna’s Cottage was nestled deep in the Crowswood, built near the bank of the Wyneberry River. Named after its current owner, the ancient Witch Mortebeanna, the little cottage in the wood was purposely built well off the main trade path that ran through the center of the large forest, as she preferred being left in isolation and peace. Once in a while a child would stray from the road and lose themselves in the dense wood and she’d find them half-starved and soaked with rain or snow. The children would always recognize her, and the more imaginative ones would beg her not to eat them. Of course, Mortebeanna would never actually do such a thing. Quite the opposite, really. She would bring them back to Beanna’s Cottage for a hot bowl of soup and some fowl, and then guide them back towards the village.

  The aforementioned Falcon’s Rest was a village on the outskirts of Crowswood. Several farms, a logging camp, a blacksmith, a tavern and two large animal pastures surrounded the traditional village Guildhouse and Townehall. The villagers within it had their own superstitions about the wood that surrounded them, and almost all of them avoided Crowswood at night. The screech of whippoorwills and hoots of owls echoed through the forest during the evening hours, providing those stumbling home from the Feather and Candle tavern a reason to quicken their pace. At this evening hour, most of the village were heading for their homes (or the Feather and Candle for a mug and a mutton joint).

  Baron Baden Grebaine was not from Falcon’s Rest, though the villagers knew him on sight. He was their feudal lord and had been visiting the village more often than usual for a busy noble. Devon Steelhammer, the Blacksmith, had undertaken a project of great importance to the Baron, and the Baron stopped every week to check upon its progress.

  This night was different though. Baden rode straight past the blacksmith’s at a steady trot, and then turned his steed down the next road to head directly into Crowswood. His page, Meodan, lead the way with a large lamp in front of him, guiding the Baron along the worn forest path.

  “Are you sure you know where you’re going in this blackness, Meodan?” Baden asked.

  “Yes mi’lord, I’ve been here several times before on other errands,” Meodan said, and turned his horse down a worn deer path, keeping his grip tight on the lantern he held in his right hand.

  Their pace slowed significantly now as the path became dense with undergrowth. Baden growled when Meodan turned them back around for the third time in order to get them back on the proper path to Beanna’s Cottage. The Baron could swear he heard Meodan mutter something under his breath that it wasn’t he who insisted they immediately set out to consult the Woodwitch in the middle of the evening, all because some spy went missing.

  Mortebeanna’s reputation was well known throughout the region. Most people knew her from the many town fairs throughout the county, where she would toss the stones and read the Omens for a fee. She could tell women whether or not they were carrying a child before their bodies made it obvious, and she could also tell how many days there were until she were at her “most productive.” She made most of her money for the year on these three things. If these weren’t enough, Mortebeanna could speak with the Gods and Goddesses and call their healing down upon the sick and misfortunate. Baden had heard all of these things and more, but Meodan was correct (as much as that annoyed him). He was hoping to call on the witch’s powers of divination to determine what happened to his spy, Reynald. The man had been on a mission of the utmost of importance and had never been late with a report in his life.

  Three days had passed since Reynald was supposed to report back to Castle Grebaine, and that had led the Baron to believe the worst. If the letter Reynald was carrying fell into the wrong hands…but no, he couldn’t think things like that. Any number of mishaps could occur when travelling as far across the Kingdom as Reynald was. Baden was sure his spy had simply gotten delayed. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself. And yet here he was, riding hard into the night to enlist the help of some crazy woman who could tell the future by throwing gemstones across a table.

  “We’re almost there,” Meodan announced, “I can hear the river.”

  Indeed, Baden could hear the welcome rushing of the Wyneberry river and was thankful to soon be rid of the saddle. Meodan turned around again, “Have you considered that she may not be up for visitors at this late hour?”

  Baden shrugged, “This is dire, Meodan. I would think she would have the sense not to turn her Baron away.”

  Now it was Meodan’s turn to shrug, “You’re assuming she even knows who you are, sir. You might be in for a rude awakening when it comes to a Woodwitch’s loyalties.”

  “You’re in danger of abusing our informal relationship, Meodan. Mind your tongue,” Baden warned.

  Meodan laughed, “Ever the charmer, mi’lord. I forget my place, but it was a friendly warning. As you well know when it comes to the Women of the Were and Wood, they are not bound by the Crown’s Law. We would both do well to remember our courtesies.”

  “Now I understand why the Temples have been lobbying to outlaw them,” Baden said.

  Meodan nodded, “Indeed. Take the village back there, for instance. Not a single Temple to the Divinities to be found in the entire place. And why not? This Mortebeanna heals their sick, blesses their livestock, reads their fortunes and divines their omens from the casting of stones. These poor folk see more direct benefit of their donations to her than they do any temple.”

  “Hence the old saying: Anger the Witch and you riot the village,” Baden agreed.

  Meodan reined in his horse and dismounted, then began hitching his horse to the three-rail fence that outlined the Cottage’s small front yard. When he finished, Meodan did the same for his master and helped the Baron out of his saddle. It felt good to walk and stretch, and the Baron silently vowed to never ride through a dark forest ever again while he walked the cramps out of his legs. His eyes had begun adjusting to the faint moonlight that penetrated through the forest canopy into the small clearing where the cottage lay. Baden thought he noticed faint candlelight through one of the front windows.

  “Shall we?” Baden beckoned to Meodan, which was his way of saying, you go first.

  The entrance to the cottage was a heavy, round wooden door. A golden crow’s head with a heavy brass ring in its beak served as a knocker. Grasping it firmly, Baden clacked the knocker on the door three times. The knock seemed to bellow around them and throughout the Cottage. “There are Old Ways at work here,” Meodan said, “I can feel it.”

  “So can I,” Baden replied, and shivered as a chill passed through him.

  The door swung open with a loud, creaking groan of protest. “Enter, Baden, Son of Baxon, Lord of Grebaine, and Meodan of House Grebaine, and be welcome,” A disembodied female voice seemingly said from nowhere and everywhere around them.

  Baden felt the hair on his arms standing on edge, and then an irresistible urge seemed to pull them both inside the cottage. The strong scent of burning incense and boiling herbs assaulted their nostrils, filling the air with a thick, heady and sweet fragrance that smelt… otherworldly. Suddenly, the door slammed shut behind them, causing both men to jump and reach for their weapons.

  “Sheathe your swords, you’re in no danger here,” said a woman’s voice from behind them.

  They spun around again. Meodan’s words caught in his throat. In front of them stood a women bent and gnarled with age. Age that, by the look of her wrinkled, spotted face, seemed to defy possibility. A smile formed from below a large, crooked nose. She gestured to a small table with several empty chairs, “Please, sit.”

  “We’re sorry for disturbing you at this late hour,” Meodan began.

  She dismissed him with flick of her hand, “Please. The old never sleep.”

  Mortebeanna shuffled over to a small stove and carefully grabbed the steaming kettle that sat upon it. Placing it upon a stone on the table, she grabbed three polished ston
e cups that hung from a rack above them, filling each with the bubbling liquid and handing them to her guests.

  “What is this?” Baden asked.

  “It’s called hospitality, Baron. You are guests in my house,” Mortebeanna said, smirking, “And it will help wash the cold, damp chill from your bones.”

  The Baron winced at the woman’s forward statement, then flashed her a smile, “This is true. I’m guessing you know why we’re here? Seeing as you already know who we are…”

  She nodded. “This is true,” she said, mimicking his words, “You have guessed correctly.”

  The Baron took a sip of the hot tea in his cup. The taste was sweet with faint layers of honey and peach, with a strong anise finish at the end. A warmth rushed through his body and the fatigue of the late hour melted away with each sip of the beverage.

  “This tea is a marvel…I feel like I could ride a whole day and not break a sweat,” Baden said.

  “I agree, what’s in this wonderful concoction?” Meodan asked.

  Mortebeanna shrugged, “I have different names for plants, herbs and roots than you do. We can discuss that another time. Time, which is currently running short for you, so I suggest we stick to why you came here.”

  Baden could feel a cold sweat breaking out on his back. “I’ve been told you can read the Omens by casting the Stones. Is this true?” Baden asked her.

  She nodded, “The Gods have gifted me the ability to read the Threads of Fates. I can tell you what I see, if you ask the right questions.”

  “I would beg of you to tell me what the Fates have in store for me. I’m surrounded by a fog of uncertainty…Danger lurks in every shadow. I need to know if my fears are unfounded,” Baden said while fidgeting with his fingers.

  “I live a simple life here in the woods, Baron,” the old woman said and rose slowly and shuffled to another corner of the room, stopping to grab a large pouch before making her way back to the table.

  After several seconds of silence, Mortebeanna stretched out a hand to the Baron, “Times are hard, and my herbs need restocking.”

  Meodan nudged the Baron from under the table, and pointed to the bag of coins that dangled from the Baron’s belt. Realization bloomed on Baden’s face and he reached into the bag and grabbed four gold drakes, and placed the coins in the woman’s palm.

  The witch’s hand closed with an audible snapping sound and disappeared within the folds of her feathered robe, “Your charity is much appreciated.”

  Baden figured the coins were enough to last her a month. The woman seemed to agree considering the large smile on her face. Without another word, Mortebeanna swiped her hand slowly over the candles on the table, all of which lit instantly.

  Both men jumped back, “Magick!”

  The old woman let out a throaty, scratchy cackle, “Just wait, you’ve seen nothing yet.”

  Baden began to wonder if their coming here was a good idea. The old witch seemed to sense the thought since she looked directly into his eyes, “Your coming here was foretold, Baron. This meeting was Fate, pure and true.”

  A clacking sound emitted from the bag as Mortebeanna whirled her hand around inside to shuffle the stones and conjure the Threads for casting. “Ask your questions, Baron,” She said, then warned, “Four questions answered for the Four Drakes given.”

  Baden rubbed his temples and thought hard on what he would ask. The first and most important would be confirming his worst fears, “Why hasn’t Reynald reported back to me?”

  Mortebeanna nodded, removed her hand from the bag and held her closed fist over the table and recited, “Let the Thread pull these stones as they may,” she finished and opened her fist.

  The stones bounced erratically on the hardwood table, bumping and clattering into each other before coming to a standstill. The witch eyed each one carefully, muttering about which stone had hit another one, how far one landed from the other and so on. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she glanced back up at the Baron, “The Stones are cast.”

  Mortebeanna sipped her tea before continuing, “The man you know as Reynard has been taken by a group known as The Publicans. The threads show he is still very much alive and shall return in three evenings from now. Ask your questions.”

  The answer surprised Baden. Reynald was one of the most skilled trackers and pathfinders of anyone he knew. Sure, Reynald wasn’t invincible, but he also wasn’t easily captured. Not to mention that The Publicans, as far as Baden knew, were allied with House Grebain and would not do something to hinder them. To him, this meant Reynald let himself be taken, for whatever reason that may be.

  “Where lurks my greatest threat?” Baden asked, then immediately wished he could take the vague question back, but it was too late.

  The witch waved a hand over the table and the stones leapt back into the bag. Reaching inside, she shuffled them around again and re-cast them on the table. Again she analyzed the chaotic results as they settled onto the table.

  “You fear danger from without, when your real danger lies from within. The Threads suggest betrayal by someone you trust. If it is not prevented your Thread begins to fray,” she said.

  “Do the threads say who?” Baden asked his third question.

  This time Mortebeanna did not gather the stones, but reached in the bag to grab a small handful more and cast them amongst the stones on the table. She leaned in to examine a small ruby that had knocked another stone from its place upon landing.

  “Someone very close to you. Perhaps a relative…or maybe a spouse?” She suggested, “The Threads are not particularly clear here.”

  Baden’s cold sweat was growing worse. Despite the suggestion, he did not suspect his wife, Baroness Anna. Baden loved her and she him. The had one of the most genuine relationships, a rarity in noble circles, and he felt there was no way such a thing could be true. The cynic in Baden also whispered that Anna had too much to lose if her husband were to be overthrown. No. Baden had a pretty clear idea who the culprit or culprits may be, and the thought literally chilled him. He reached for another swallow of tea and realized his cup was empty. Mortebeanna refilled his cup as he pondered the omen.

  Baden knew of only two people in his Court who would betray him in such a manner, and actually gain from it: His brother Arik, and his sister Beylyn. It was no secret that his siblings despised him as the Firstborn, the only one to legally inherit their father’s title and fortune. What made things worse, their father had recognized Arik (the youngest of the three and an illegitimate bastard their father brought home from the Northern Conquest) prior to his death as a member of the House of Grebain, giving him a spot in the succession. Beylyn would only inherit if both of her brothers died, so Baden doubted highly that she was making any moves for the Baronial Seat on her own. Anything she did she’d be doing out of trying to get on Arik’s good side, which Baden would not rule out.

  Now what? Baden knew he had another question he could ask the woman, but his biggest concerns had been answered. While some of the news disturbed him, it also helped to put his mind at ease. Reynald would return soon and that settled the worst of his anxiety. After all, the uncertainty of a threat was always worse than knowing when it would be made real. At least now he could prepare. He looked to Meodan for a suggestion, who simply shrugged.

  “What does my future hold?” Baden asked.

  “A vague question, Baron. But so be it,” she said and summoned the stones back to their bag.

  This time Mortebeanna shook the entire pouch and then upended it onto the table. The stones crashed and tumbled onto the table, clinking and clacking as they collided with the table and themselves. The witch waited until they had all settled and studied them for several minutes. She pointed to a dark black stone in the center of the table, “Your death is certain…and uncertain. It has not yet been set in stones. You still have choices to make, and each one may lengthen or hasten its coming. A Great Change is coming, and if you do not embrace it you will find yourself overwhelmed b
y it. You will lose all in order to gain everything you seek. One Thread leads to a Crown. The other to a Headsman’s Axe. One to glory, the other to the disgrace of your House and family name. Lastly, the catalyst… the crossroad of your fate will be determined by Treason.”

  “Treason? The treason you spoke of earlier?” Baden asked.

  “No,” she shook her head, “The Treason will be in the choice you make, be it for good or ill.”

  Baden hated Omens. They revealed much by concealing and shrouding even more. Why did every other noble seem to have an easier go of it? He didn’t see the other Barons and Dukes fending off betrayals and surrounded in treason. No, they all had a much simpler life, it seemed. For Baden, everything always had to be built upon blood and toil, whereas everyone else had the world and riches handed to them.

  “I have answered your questions, Baron Baden of Grebain, and our time here is finished,” She bowed slightly and went about cleaning up the table.

  “Thank you for answering my questions, Madame Mortebeanna,” The Baron said in the usual custom.

  “You may not thank me when all is said and done Baron,” She smiled and the door to the cottage swung open, “The Threads have determined a hard path is ahead of you. Our paths may intersect again someday. Never forget what you learned here. Ponder it in the days to come, and you may yet control your Fate.”

  Baden nodded and made his way to the door. He beckoned to Meodan, “Let’s go.”

  “Already?” Meodan asked with a yawn, “I feel like we just arrived.”

  “We’ll stay in the nearby village tonight. The Inn should still be open. Come on,” Baden said, practically pulling Meodan out the door.

  Both men made their way across the yard to the fence where their horses stood grazing. Untying and mounting the animals, they made their way back into the forest. This time the lamp was unnecessary. Their eyes had adjusted enough and the full moon was bright in the clear night sky.

  “Well that was a waste,” Meodan spat.

  Baden looked at him perplexed, “Why do you say that?”

  “Well she didn’t tell us a thing, did she?”

  Baden supposed they really hadn’t learned anything completely new, but it had helped him narrow his focus, and for that he was thankful. Saying it was a waste of time almost seemed insulting.

  “Look, I understand her replies were cryptic but—“ Baden began and Meodan shot him a look that silenced him immediately.

  “Cryptic?” Meodan asked, “She didn’t say anything! You gave her the money and she chucked stones around and mumbled to herself a few times and then told you never to forget what you learned and send us on our way.”

  Now Baden was really confused, “No, Meodan. She told me that I should be wary of betrayers within my House and family, and then how I had a choice to make, and—“

  Baden could see the look on Meodan’s face, a mix of horror and confusion, “Wait, you really didn’t hear her say anything, Meodan? Like, nothing at all?”

  Meodan shook his head, “Only a mumble or two. There’s magick at work here. I swear it.”

  Baden lightly slapped the side of his head, “Of course! You know how Omen’s work, Meodan. They are only to be heard by the man for whom the stones are cast.”

  Meodan shivered, “I never knew that was a literal truth. I thought it was just custom to get one’s Omens casted alone. That woman knows the ancient ways. I have never seen the like in all my life. What did you learn from her?”

  Baden thought on this as they rode through the Crowswood, slowly making their way back towards Falcon’s Rest.

  “That we must be vigilant,” he said at last, “and that our Fate is not yet set in Stones.”

  Meodan pondered this for a stride before nodding, “Fair enough. By the way, the first ale is definitely on you.”

  Baden swerved his horse closer to Meodan, who rode beside him, and kicked him in the shin, “Some things are worth all the toil and effort it takes to achieve them.”

  The flickering lamplights of the village came into view as they exited the forest. Baden noticed his companion had become quiet, and in the light of a passing lamppost looked almost…sullen.

  “Something on your mind, Meodan?” The Baron asked.

  Meodan nodded, “Mi’lord…will we—“ he hesitated a second, and Baden saw he was choosing his words carefully, “Will we ever know peace, mi’lord? Will the constant conspiracies and games of deceit ever come to an end?”

  The statement struck Baden to his core. Not because of the bluntness of it, he was used to that from Meodan and it was one of the reasons he kept him in close counsel. It struck him because he wasn’t sure of the answer. Sure, in his heart Baden hoped for a true, lasting peace in his realm where the people could live their lives in prosperity and happiness. He was also a realist. His father, Baxon, had once told him that a good ruler never knows true peace. That advice echoed in his head now.

  After several paces, the road turned and they saw the Inn ahead of them at the coming intersection. Lamps burned in the windows and the sounds of revelry could be heard from within. Finally, Baden turned to Meodan, “I don’t know.”

  “Pardon, mi’lord?” Meodan asked?

  Baden shrugged, “You asked if we’d ever know peace. I don’t know. There are no limits to the ambitions of Men. We’re not like the Elves or the winged Aviaks. I think it’s in our blood to always desire more. I would hope we could find a comfortable peace, even in my small Barony, where the people can exist in happiness and safety.

  “I’m not like the others of my House, Meodan, and neither was my father. We didn’t have grand dreams of becoming the next Duke of Sagoran, or even King of all Makor. Our Barony is rich in land and ore. My father felt we had all we needed to defend and comfort ourselves. I tend to agree with him. My siblings, however, thought us both the fools.”

  Meodan sighed, “Peace is but a dream, then?”

  They had arrived at the Inn, and had just finished dismounting their horses in the nearby stable when Baden put an arm around Meodan, “I don’t know my friend,” he said and lead them both towards the Inn door, “All we can ever do is hope.”

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  Contributor Bios

  Short Fiction

  James Field (Sluggish Bullet) -- Indie author, sixty-two years old, English, live in north Norway, retired engineer, married, two children, nine grandchildren, one great grandchild.Author of: Gathering Clouds; Pink Water; + six short stories. All Science-Fiction. Third novel nearing completion: Clouds over Planet X.

  Christopher Barnes (Fun Not Fair) -- In 1998 Chris won a Northern Arts writers award. In July 2000 he read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 He debuted at Newcastle's famous Morden Tower doing a reading of his poems. Each year he reads for Proudwords lesbian and gay writing festival. His collection LOVEBITES was published by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh.

  Holly Day (Sam The Rat) -- Holly Day was born in Hereford, Texas, “The Town Without a Toothache.” She and her family currently live in Minneapolis, Minnesota, where she teaches writing classes at the Loft Literary Center. Her published books include the nonfiction books Music Theory for Dummies, Music Composition for Dummies, and Guitar All-in-One for Dummies, and the poetry books “Late-Night Reading for Hardworking Construction Men” (The Moon Publishing) and “The Smell of Snow” (ELJ Publications)

  Richard Lawrence (The Books) -- Richard has been featured several times in Uncharted Frontier now. His stories are generally based on previous experiences. Conversation represents the sixth story in his “Merlin Saga,” which first appeared in our April 2013 issue, the first story being titled Satanspawn.

  Maurice R. Beaulieu III (The Last Library in the World) -- Maurice recently earned a Masters Degree in English/Creative Writing at Rhode Island College. Suspense Magazine published his short story "August Unwinding" (2011) as a contest finalist for the year and he won a fiction award at
the University of Rhode Island (2010).

  Allan Kaspar (The Baron and the Witch) -- Allan writes at his headquarters nestled deep in the woods of the Pocono mountains. He’s a new father, an editor of a fine magazine, and has recently finished his fourth novel which he hopes to find representation for. His obsessions include the cooking of good food, the taste of good beer, The Iron Druid Chronicles, and Turn-Based Strategy gaming.

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  Thank you for reading another fantastic issue of Uncharted Frontier EZine! We hope you enjoyed your reading and look forward to seeing you for our next release! As always, you can read all past issues for FREE in our archives on the Uncharted Frontier EZine website.