WITCH
I clasp the flask between my hands, even though the warmth from the tea has long since leached into the
frozen air. I can relax in the solitude of the mountains, with only the wolves for company. Soon, the fire
will be too low to give off any heat and the sun just a memory of the day. In the safety of the night I will
run with them. The run. We will run through the ever-white woods that lead to anywhere and everywhere.
Now, I hear their call. The howling feared by so many.
Leaving the warmth of the campsite, I surrender myself to the wild of the wood. They race behind me,
only the fastest reach my side with the joy so obvious on their faces. We share that, the love of the race,
the exhilaration, the speed. Even though
none can match my speed, I cannot hunt like they do, instead I take in my surroundings. I have been
away too long. Winter has already stolen the red shades of autumn and covered everything in a blanket
of snow.
I am suddenly alert, still running, but the woods are quiet. The snarling of my wolves has stopped, the
only sounds are the thudding of my boots on the snow and my ragged breathing, but there’s something
else. Horses, maybe ten or so but ten men on horseback mean trouble. The witch hunters are back.
The witch hunters are supposed to find and kill witches, evil beings that walk among us. They stay for a
week or two, killing anyone they might suspect of either being a witch or harbouring one, like my parents.
My mother was accused of witchcraft and, when father tried to stop them, they killed him too. Murdered at
the stake in front of everyone, and no one stopped them.
I race back, leaving the wolves to continue the hunt, as dawn approaches. I break through the tree line
just as the witch hunters arrive. Great, I’ll miss their grand speech, one of the advantages of being late.
At least they won’t see me in the woods, they can’t. If they did, I’d be dead for sure.
I sneak into the back of the crowd. As usual no one pays me any attention. Finally they ask to see all
the girls who weren’t fifteen the last time they were here. We line up in the empty inn, while they stare at
us. Waiting. Then the baron tells the leader about all of us, one at a time. Standard procedure they call it;
I call it picking ducks for the slaughter.
I shouldn’t have gone today. I see the mistake as he eyes me, the baron telling him all about my strange
habits. I watch his eyes grow suspicious and then the baron gets to my parents. I’m dead. He knows it, I
know it, so why is the baron still talking? And there it is, he cuts the baron off mid-sentence.
“What is your name girl?” The way he says it makes my skin crawl, so I stare at the baron instead. “ANSWER ME!” I flinch but that doesn’t stop his palm hitting my jaw. It stings, butno more than that. I’ve had
too much treatment like this from “Sh-she c-cant sir,” the sorry excuse for a baron stutters, “H-her name is
Z-Zola sir. You s-see she’s m-m-mute sir.”
Oh. The evil gleam in his eye reveals all. That’s what he was waiting for, one of the five signs of witchcraft.
I will die at the stake, and he will laugh as I burn.
At least this time they got it right.
By Alanna James
CREATIVE WRITING