THE BLACKBERRY WITCH: chapters 1 & 2

THE BLACKBERRY WITCH (working title)

I. The Blackberry Thief

Wednesday dawned just as Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday of that same week had done: cold, crisp, misty, chilly, damp, dying but alive, an echo of summer’s glow in one ear and the snap of winter to come pulsing faint in the other. Rosy light greeted first the circling hawks and soaring eagles and other, lesser birds high in the leaden sky, then grazed the tips of changing treetops, stroking their bark with golden hands until the forest entire, leaf to root, had been graced by morning’s warmth. After the forest came the crags, the low hills, the heather, the pastures. The dawn avoided the sullen bog and the dank hollows already locked in winter’s grasp. It streamed instead through fields of corn and wheat, both golden in kind.

Finally, the dawn reached the village on the valley floor. It curled around the cottages and workshops and barns like a lazy cat. And then, also like a cat, its labors performed, the dawn settled in for a well-deserved nap.

Thomas awoke some time later, after most of the village was already up and working. His bedroom window faced west, toward the river and beyond. It took the gently flickering tail of dawn coiled beneath the sill several hours to disturb his dreams.

When he woke up, Thomas sat up, stretched his arms, rubbed bleary eyes, and frowned at the cat’s-tail dawn creeping across his floorboards. They had been lovely dreams, full of knights and dragons and talking trees, but the dawn had come only to call him back to itchy blankets and the smell of sheep outside and another day adventure-less.

Thomas scowled, but the sting of wakefulness faded altogether quickly. There was still adventure to be had today, after all, and this kind—if rather mundane and less exciting—was something to be cheerful about. Quickly he scrubbed his face and changed into daytime clothes and grabbed his satchel and a jacket and a shiny apple from the kitchen table. Then Thomas emerged into the light of Wednesday dawn, fully four hours late but ready to go all the same.

The village of Mídhel sat at the lowest point of the Valley of Thistles at the foot of Briar’s Peak, nestled well into the middle-lands of the Old Country in a time long ago. It was so long ago that none who are alive today remember the whys or the hows of the stories, just the wheres and the whats and a little of the whens. To Thomas, however, the stories had not yet been told for the first time, nor would they be until after he lived them and then wrote them in a careful secret journal that his granddaughter discovered many years later.

But on this day, this mid-autumn Wednesday, Thomas’s mind was filled not with stories but with an eagerness to feel the sun on his face and relax in the downy hills and enjoy a day free from labor or worry. He hastened through the streets of the village, passing various familiar faces: Malcolm the blacksmith, Bradách the cooper and cartwright, and Caitlín the seamstress, who gave him a little wave and a cheery “hello!” as he passed by her window. Thomas hurried past shops and homes and barns and warehouses and Mídhel’s only tavern, the Gentle Goose, following the roads ever westward until at last they coalesced to one narrow dirt trail leading into the hills.

Thomas grinned at the sight. Above him, the road climbed around hillsides carpeted with bright green grass, adorned with orange-leafed trees, and draped in floral crowns of astonishing colors. Within these hills were apple orchards and stands of plum trees and patches of raspberries and gooseberries and the dark, ripe blackberries that made Thomas salivate just to think of them. Adjusting his satchel on his shoulder, he started up the road into the hills.

By the time midafternoon had relieved midmorning of its duty, Thomas was comfortably tucked into a bed of springy grass beneath two small knolls. He lay his head upon his satchel, covered his face with his jacket, ate a few more blackberries, and drifted off for a well-deserved, if unearned, nap.

He was awakened not ten minutes later and sat up swiftly. His jacket fell to the grass and blackberries tumbled away. Thomas thought he’d heard a thunderclap, but the skies were blue and clear. It must have been just a dream, he told himself, and tried to settle back into the grass.

His former comfort had been lost by the abrupt awakening, and try as he might, Thomas could not find it again. He squirmed for a few minutes before admitting defeat and pushing himself to his feet. The blackberry and raspberry bushes that surrounded this hiding-place were nearly his height, so Thomas could see very little except the expanse of green foliage on all sides and the hint of a matted-down trail he had followed here.

He looked around a little. This was his favorite haunt, but today it didn’t feel quite right. Thomas felt almost as if he’d stopped just short of the end of a long journey, as though he hesitated just before arriving at his true destination. It was an odd feeling. He looked down at the blackberry juice on his fingertips and wondered if the berries were unripe or too ripe despite their delicious taste.

Still, the day was young and so was Thomas, and perhaps he could find some adventures after all. He scooped up his belongings, threw his jacket over one arm and his satchel around his neck, and picked his way back to the dirt trail.

Left would take him back to Mídhel. Thomas turned right, hiking a little higher into the hills. He rarely came this far. He’d done so once or twice and found nothing of interest—no berries or fruit trees, no rivers with shiny rocks and darting fish, no old trees with strange knots in their trunks. But there was nothing wrong with looking again, he decided. And even if there was nothing out here but grass and hills, it was a pleasant day for a stroll.

Thomas strolled for a while, following the dirt trail until it dwindled and then striking out on his own in the long grass. It didn’t take but fifteen minutes before he’d gone farther in this direction than he ever had before. He kept walking, but more cautiously now, not knowing what he’d find and wary of sudden drops or poisoned plants or wild animals.

When he saw the massive bushes dotted with purple and black, he thought he’d found a stand of hyacinths and angled toward them, intending to pick some for his mother. When he neared, however, Thomas realized that the purple blotches in the leaves were not flowers at all. They were blackberries.

A patch of wild blackberries. Enormous blackberries, at that, easily the biggest Thomas had ever seen. He had to peer closer to be sure they weren’t clusters of grapes or some kind of mashed-together mess, a chance mutation of nature. But no, these were blackberries, dark and rippled with individual lumps the size of his knuckles. The plants carrying them were nearly as thick as Thomas’s wrist.

Thomas picked one. He had to tug it free of the vine, and it sat like a stone in his palm. He sniffed it. Nothing seemed amiss so far. He held it up to the light. It fairly sparkled, almost glistening, and the sight of it made his mouth water. He glanced around. He had wandered into a wide wild patch of giant blackberries, and from the looks of things, he was the first person to come here in a long, long time.

Thomas had been warned of many things that waited in the lands fringing Mídhel. He’d been cautioned against following the floating fairies that sometimes danced in the treetops. He’d been told stories of the ghost-lights on the bog that lured travelers to their murky graves. Nora, the cobbler’s wife, had once told a tale at the midsummer bonfire about the monstrous dullahan of the eastern crossroads, the headless rider with its wagon of skulls drinking from a flagon of blood as it roamed the roads at night. It gave Thomas nightmares for a week.

He had been warned about selkies lying in wait near the river, about banshees and devils dancing in the hills, about the sluagh that disguised themselves as ravens and menaced those who fell ill, about the goblins that dwelt in unseen caves and sucked the marrow from travelers’ bones.

But he’d never been warned about eating giant blackberries, and the one in his palm looked and smelled and felt ripe, so he took a mouth-filling bite.

It was easily the sweetest, juiciest blackberry he’d even eaten, and it took three more bites to finish it off. He licked his fingers, sucked the seeds from between his teeth, and grabbed another. Just a pair of these blackberries would make a pie, he was sure, and while a small part of his mind started planning how to bring a hand-wagon into the hills to retrieve a few dozen more, most of Thomas’s being was focused on the bliss of eating the second giant blackberry.

He finished the berry and took a deep breath and a good look around. His fingers were stained purple, his tongue tingled with sweetness and tart, the sky was blue and clear and looked down on fields of green and gold and orange. Thomas felt more peaceful and contented than he ever had before in his entire life, all twelve years and counting.

Like lightning followed by the clap of thunder, a witch appeared in the clearing.

First she wasn’t there, and then she was. There were no puffs of smoke; there was no fanfare; Thomas neither saw nor heard any of the magical trappings he might have expected from such an appearance. The witch simply was.

Thomas had at least one and a half seconds to contemplate her, to look upon her visage, her dress, her demeanor, in perfect calm. Then came the delayed thunder that accompanies every lightning strike. For a moment, all movement in the clearing ceased: all chirps and rustles and sighing leaves were hushed, swallowed in stillness.

The sky became night-black for an instant—and then day-blue again, just as quickly.

The impact of the witch’s arrival hit Thomas like a thousand drummers beating upon his chest. He felt, rather than heard or saw, the immense displacement of air and sound and energy that came in the witch’s wake.

It felt like bones grating, like the bones of trees groaning. The clearing seemed to shudder beneath her weight.

Thomas was rooted in place. He could not move to cower or flee. Instead he stared at the witch, who stared at him back with eyes of obsidian glass sharper than dragon’s claws. She had pale, pale skin, and she wore a violet gown with lace embroidery along the hem and sleeves and bodice. From one ear dangled a slim silver pendant with a graven image: a serpent wrapped around a tree, fangs bared. Her other ear was obscured by a cascade of shining black hair.

The witch parted her lips to show white, white teeth in a very small smile. “Hello,” the witch said. It was not the angry, raging voice Thomas has expected. It wasn’t silkily enchanting, either, the way he’d read about in stories. But it was smooth and feminine and mildly pleasant.

“Hello,” he replied, more out of habit than anything.

“You have stolen from me,” the witch said, looking at the blackberry patch next to Thomas. “You have stolen some of my blackberries.”

“I’m sorry,” said Thomas, embarrassed now of the dark stains on his palms. “I didn’t think—”

“Would you like some more?”

Thomas blinked. “More?”

The witch gestured at the patch. “You’re a young boy, still growing, still active. You must be hungry. Go ahead, eat a few more, fill your belly.”

“Really?”

“Of course.” The witch smiled another small smile.

Thomas reached for the nearest blackberry, then paused. “You’re not going to, say, turn me into a hare or lock me up in a tower or—or kill me, are you? For stealing your blackberries?”

The witch shook her head. “No, of course not. Go ahead and eat.”

After another moment of contemplation, Thomas plucked the nearest blackberry from the vine and took a bite. It tasted just as good as the others. He devoured it, licked the juice from his fingers, and reached for another.

“If I might interrupt your lunch,” the witch said, staying his hand, “what is your name?”

“Thomas,” he replied.

“Thomas,” she repeated. “A fine name. Thomas, I am going to punish you for stealing my blackberries.”

Thomas felt a prickle along his nape. He let his hand drop to his side. “Punish me? But I thought…” He hesitated under her gaze. “I thought you said it was okay to eat more.”

“I did say that. And it is. Eat your fill; you have already stolen from me, so stealing more will not increase your punishment.”

“But—”

“I said I would not do those things you mentioned,” the witch interjected, her voice calm but commanding. “I have no desire to do those things. But you have stolen from me, Thomas, and you must be punished. Didn’t your parents ever warn you about stealing from a witch?”

“I didn’t know they were your blackberries,” Thomas replied. “I’m sorry.”

The witch looked around. “But they are my blackberries, and you have stolen them. For your punishment, I think I will steal something of yours. I think I will steal your sister. Yes, that will be just. Thievery repaid in kind.”

“My sister?” The prickle turned to fear outright. The blackberries suddenly sat heavy and uncomfortable in his stomach.

“What is her name?”

“I—I’m not telling you.”

The witch let out a little laugh that might as well have been no sound at all. “You think that if I don’t know her name I cannot steal her. But you stole my blackberries from me and you don’t know their names. You don’t even know my name.”

“Please, mistress, don’t steal my sister.” Thomas’s fear had turned his legs unsteady, but he was resolved to keep standing straight. “I’m sorry I took your blackberries. I’ll repay you for them—just don’t take Eleanor.”

She regarded him the way a dog observes the wind in the grass. “Eleanor. That is a lovely name. Yes, I will steal Eleanor. That will be a start to your punishment.”

Now the witch bared her teeth again, a full smile, and it was the grin of a wolf stalking a cat. “I will make Eleanor hurt, Thomas, as retribution for what you have done. I will make her scream.”

And then the witch was gone.

#

It took Thomas a minute or two to fully come to his senses. The delay was understandable. He was fighting the urge to panic, or to cry, or to be sick in the clearing from the sudden stress. In the end, he clenched his fists, rubbed his eyes to get rid of the frightened tears waiting to spring out, and then took seven long, slow, steady breaths. The breathing helped with his fear and adrenaline and with digesting the blackberries that now sat heavily in his stomach.

A little more composed, he gathered his belongings and knelt in the grass to think. He knew, from all the stories he’d heard, that rushing headlong after a witch without a good plan wasn’t the best idea. It was only slightly better of an idea than stealing a witch’s belongings, even accidentally. Witches were powerful and cunning. Thomas would need to be even more cunning, since there was little chance of matching the witch’s craft or strength.

Thomas frowned. Thinking of ideas wasn’t working; the fear was creeping back in. He snatched his satchel and upended its contents into the grass, then organized them neatly and rocked back on his heels to consider the belongings and tools at his disposal: a travelling book, a small telescope or spyglass, an empty pouch for carrying stones or sand, and a lucky charm made of woven grass and metal wire. Thomas’s frown deepened when he looked at the charm.

After another minute of thought, he reached a decision. There really wasn’t anything else he could do but rush headlong after the witch without a good plan. He didn’t have any tricks or strategies or powerful allies or spells of his own, but he did have a twin sister he loved, and she was in danger of being stolen and worse.

He would start with running back into Mídhel to find her before the witch did. The next step of the plan would hopefully present itself at that point, but it would be a start.

Thomas stood, brushed the dirt from his knees, vainly scrubbed at his stained fingertips, and collected his things back into the satchel, which he swung over his shoulder. He poked one of the giant blackberries. It was soft to the touch now, too soft, as though its moment of ripeness had passed already. Thomas shook his head. It was just as well.

Five minutes had passed since the witch disappeared, no more. He prayed those five minutes would not make the difference between Eleanor’s safety and the worse things his troubled mind conjured. The witch had magic and could vanish at will; Thomas figured he needed a clear head more than a head start. He’d shortly see whether he was right.

Thomas secured his satchel, took another deep breath, and rushed headlong out of the clearing after the witch without a good plan.

II. Stolen

Thomas paused for just a moment at the edge of town to catch his breath before continuing toward home. He walked briskly now, moving as quickly as his could without arousing suspicion. Suspicion would lead to questions and likely chores assigned by various villagers who thought a twelve-year-old boy loafing was a worse offense than high treason. Thomas couldn’t afford any delays, especially not from burly workmen and drivers and tavern-keepers, so he smiled and nodded and waved whenever he passed them—and then ducked down the next empty street and hurried on.

His home still stood in the usual location, which he supposed was a relief. He entered through the back door, not bothering to kick off his shoes or wash his hands, and took the stairs three at a time to the small loft that served as the bedroom he shared with his sister. When he reached the top of the stairs, Thomas cast his gaze upon the contents of the room. He saw two beds, one messy and one well kept; a writing desk with stacks of drawings and a few illustrated books of children’s stories; a shuttered and unlit lantern in the window; a fetish hanging from the ceiling meant to ward against evil spirits and pixies; assorted clothes and toys and other normal belongings. He did not, however, see Eleanor.

Thomas thumped back down the stairs and burst into the front room of the house, startling his mother at the table and his father in the chair by the hearth. Thomas shoved his hands into his pockets and did his best to appear presentable. It seemed to work well enough; his mother brushed a few leaves from his hair, straightened his shirt, and narrowed her eyes at the grass stains on his trousers, but didn’t say anything further.

“Thomas!” called his father, setting aside the small wooden pipe he had been stuffing. “There you are, my boy. I was wondering where you’d gotten to. How’s your day? You’re home earlier than I thought; I expected you’d be out in those hills until dusk on a fine autumn Wednesday like today.”

“I’m actually just stopping back for a minute,” Thomas replied, thinking quickly. “I forgot my spyglass. But I’ve got it now.” He patted his satchel as proof. “I’m going to go out again, maybe find some of my friends or skip rocks in the river. Have you seen Eleanor? We talked about building a bonfire in Master Cedric’s barren field tonight.”

“No, I haven’t seen her for a few hours,” said his father, picking up his pipe again.

“I don’t want you building a fire out in the fields, Thomas. You’ll burn yourself,” said his mother.

“Have you seen Eleanor, Mother? Did she go somewhere?”

His mother pursed her lips. “She was here earlier this afternoon drawing on the porch, but she left a little while ago, I think. Maybe she went to the market or to play with her friends. She probably didn’t want to wait around all day for you to get back. You do keep her waiting sometimes, you know, Thomas.”

Thomas swallowed. “Maybe I’ll just go looking for her in town, then. I’ll be back later.”

“Wait just a moment, Thomas.”

Thomas paused near the back door, certain that his trousers must be stained black from his sweaty palms. His mother came over and placed a knit cap over his head, tugging it down to cover his ears and brushing his hair away from his eyes. “There. Now at least you won’t catch a chill tonight. You might burn yourself up in that bonfire, but at least you’ll be warm.”

“Thanks, Mother,” Thomas managed, and then bolted out the back door. He heard her call out a few more admonishments after him, and then heard the door swing shut. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and ran faster. Midafternoon had become late afternoon while he was out stealing the witch’s blackberries, and he’d already wasted enough time.

Deep in his bones, he could feel that Eleanor, wherever she was, was in serious trouble.

#

Thomas raced through the streets and alleyways and unmarked paths and fields of Mídhel in search of missing Eleanor. At first, he paused at doorways and politely glanced inside, asking those he passed if they’d perhaps chanced to see his sister here or there. With every negative reply his worry grew. His glances became less polite and his questions a little more abrupt, and eventually he stopped asking anyone at all. He just ran, one place to the next, jumping fences and climbing low walls and ducking around corners to avoid the ire of the dogs whose tails he’d trod.

Thomas began at his home and moved outward in a piecemeal fashion, jogging through the bakers’ quarter and the tailors’ district and the grocers’ sector. He climbed the steps of the constabulary and shouted Eleanor’s name into the open doors; he ducked his head into the sweltering foundry, pulling it out again just as quickly without a single word after seeing the irritated look on Master Braddan’s face; he stopped at the inn for a quick drink of water and a look around before moving on.

Mídhel was not a particularly large town. Thomas’s investigation lasted no more than forty-five minutes. At the end of it, he was exhausted, dripping with sweat, and more panicked than ever about his missing sister.

He’d checked the southern markets, where his mother had suggested. He’d stopped in at the homes of two of Eleanor’s friends. They’d shooed him away unceremoniously. Thomas even checked with the stable hands at the eastern pastures; Eleanor loved to watch the horses run. They’d seen nothing. One of them tossed stones at Thomas to make him leave. Thomas barely felt the sting for his worry.

At last, he limped into the apothecary’s shop, hoping for another drink of water and a moment to rest and regroup. To his surprise, along with the water, the apothecary offered him an unsolicited clue: “The traveling caravan of Elb na Sálan passed through town not two hours ago, my boy. Did you happen to see them on the North Road? Such colorful fabrics!”

Thomas gulped down the water and ran out without a reply or even a word of thanks. He hardly regretted the omission. For the first time since the witch’s appearance in the blackberry patch, he felt a shred of hope. The market shops along the North Road were stocked to cater to travelers and wagon-trains passing through Mídhel, so they didn’t provide as much of a delight to young boys and girls as the fancy puppets and figures at the toymaker’s shop in the center of town. They were also far from any other locations of interest: the North Road was isolated, meant to take travelers through and away from Mídhel. It had once led into the far north, until the plains flooded and Palewater Bog covered most of the road. Now the road died in the bog, forcing travelers west or east. The North Road was typically all but abandoned this time of year.

But a traveling caravan with colorful silks would definitely change all that, especially for Eleanor, who loved the touch and contrast of foreign fabric. Thomas ran faster.

His pounding feet carried him to the North Road, out away from the thick cluster of buildings at the heart of Mídhel and between fallow fields that bordered the southernmost stretches of the bog. Thomas slowed only when he started to notice something strange. The small tents and stalls that bordered the road, generally manned by townsfolk looking to sell provisions and hardtack to travelers, were empty. In fact, the North Road entire was swept clean of people, save for Thomas himself.

He stopped running. The shops were still open, but no one was in them. He saw bushels of apples and pears beneath a high awning, but no shopkeeper to watch the wares. Next to the fruit, long basins had been filled with water for mules and horses, with a few bales of hay and bags of feed beside them, but Thomas couldn’t see Mistress Eva anywhere. She was always in her rocking chair next to the hay bales, darning socks or napping while customers fed and watered their mounts, but now it seemed as though she’d left right in the middle of business.

On the other side of the North Road, the shops and tents were equally empty. Thomas squinted against the dying light of the sun, which streamed between the stalls and striped the road in gold. He took a few more steps down the road, then shouted: “Eleanor!”

His voice echoed, followed by a slow-rising wind that tugged at his sleeves and poked his cheeks with needles. Thomas pulled his jacket from his satchel and shrugged it on, grateful now that his mother had insisted upon the knit cap. He adjusted it to cover his ears and called out for Eleanor again. There was no response.

Thomas frowned. Something had happened out here, or else the shops would not be empty. Not empty, but emptied, he thought, abandoned as if in haste. Maybe they all went to see the Elb na Sálan caravan safely onto the canyon road between the hills and the bog, Thomas reasoned. Maybe Eleanor went with them. Maybe she’d be back any minute, skipping and laughing and teasing him for his worry.

Maybe he’d dreamed the conversation with the witch. He’d surely dreamed the size of the blackberries.

This time, when the witch appeared, she did it properly, at least according to the stories. First, smoke roiled in over of the North Road up to Thomas’s ankles. He tried to shake it off his feet, but soon the patches of fading sunlight were swallowed up in shadow.

Next, the wind turned colder and sharper, and though it didn’t blow away the smoke, it seemed intent on driving Thomas back into Mídhel. He stood fast, grimacing as the stench of Palewater Bog crested over him, riding on the wind: wet and dripping and slimy and filled with half-rotted logs and decaying carcasses.

After the smoke and the wind, clouds filled the sky, dark and angry. But they didn’t shut out the light. Instead, the light changed to a sickly yellow like the inside of a winter squash. The light made strange shapes appear in the smoke, frightening enough that Thomas wanted to close his eyes or run away. But he didn’t.

Finally, after smoke, wind, clouds, and light, the witch appeared with a thunderclap and flash of white light that temporarily blinded Thomas. When his vision finally cleared, he laid eyes upon the witch: still in her sleek violet gown, but seemingly taller, more imposing. He also saw that she was not alone.

“Eleanor!” Thomas cried out.

His sister looked up at him beneath matted blonde hair that fell in a tangle over her face. “Thomas!” she shouted back. “Don’t—”

Eleanor was interrupted by a wave of the witch’s hand. The girl continued to speak, but no sound came forth; she clutched at her throat, tried coughing, tried pulling away from the witch, but to no avail. Thomas saw then that the witch held a heavy chain in her right hand, which was connected to thick iron manacles around Eleanor’s wrists. Even at a dozen paces and in the murky light, he could see that his sister’s skin was raw beneath the manacles.

“No!” yelled Thomas, now very angry. He took a step toward the witch. But even though he pulled with all his strength, he couldn’t take a second: his legs were now rooted to the earth, and indeed his hands were pinned to his sides, by chains of the dark smoke that now lapped against his knees.

Thomas could still speak, though, and he used his voice to utter a few rough words against the witch.

The witch gave him another little smile and he could see the points of her teeth. “Thomas,” she said, and then everything else stilled and he could only hear her voice. It felt like cotton had been shoved in his ears.

“Thomas,” the witch said again. “I have stolen your sister as punishment for your theft, as I told you that I would. You seem surprised. But I am no liar. I keep my promises and my bargains. If I unlatch your limbs, you will not try to attack me, and you will not again speak such unkind words to me.”

It was not a question, but she watched him as though for an answer. After a moment, seemingly satisfied with whatever she had seen in his immobility, the witch waved her free hand again. Thomas felt the smoke relax from his arms and legs. He shook them out, unable to avoid a shiver at the oily feeling of the smoke on his skin. Then he straightened his knit cap and lifted his satchel over his head and set it gently on the ground.

“Give me my sister back.”

The witch tucked an errant strand of raven hair behind her ear. The movement made the silver serpent-and-tree pendant swing back and forth and reflect the yellow light.

“No.”

“Please,” said Thomas, more fervently. He took a careful step forward.

“No.” The witch’s voice was mild and precise. She looked over at Eleanor, who was still unable to speak, and then lifted the chains and rattled them a little. “No,” she repeated, “I will not release her. I have stolen her, keeping the first word. I must keep the second word and the third word. I must make her hurt and make her scream. I must remain truthful to the words I say.”

“Please,” implored Thomas. He took another step. “I beg you not to hurt her. I’ll do anything you want.”

At that, the witch lifted one eyebrow. “A beg is a bargain without the right offer. It seems that you care very much about your sister: more than you care about the rightful ownership of property, in any case. It seems that young pretty Eleanor is a powerful ransom for your cooperation. I could be persuaded to renege my words if the proper bargain were struck.”

“Whatever you ask for,” Thomas said with a third step. He wasn’t sure what his plans were, but getting closer to the witch couldn’t put him in any more danger, and maybe he could surprise her somehow.

The witch appraised him. “Foolish words, young boy, but I am not without compromise. I have demands. If you are able to fulfill them, I shall release your sister to you.”

“Unhurt?”

He saw the witch’s eyes narrow, just slightly. It was enough to make him decide against a fourth step.

“I make no promises regarding the second word or the third,” the witch replied after a moment. “But I do not believe I will carry them out for some time, if we come to our proposed arrangement. I will have other affairs to attend to. Therefore, I will refrain from further injury to young Eleanor for the present.

“But, Thomas,” and now he could see emotion in her eyes, something cold and ancient and deep, “if you are unfaithful or untrustworthy, if you cannot or will not bring me what I ask for, if you deviate or deceive, then I will not be made a liar but will carry out the second and third words to their fullest. And when I am finished, I will commend Eleanor’s soul to the smoke, where she will wander until hoarfrost take the world. Do you understand?”

Thomas screwed his eyes shut for a moment, then nodded. “I understand.”

“Very well,” said the witch. “My demands are thus. I require four objects for a particular work of witchcraft. I shall provide you with adequate descriptions of these objects and where to find them. Bring me the quartet and I shall release your sister as she now stands. Fail to do so and you and she will suffer beyond measure. Are we agreed?”

“Aye,” replied Thomas. He felt the word resound in his chest.

“Bargain struck,” said the witch. “That which is agreed cannot be unraveled by mortal hand. I have your word; you shall have my information. One of the four objects is a fragment of boar tusk from the western hills; it need not be larger than your thumbnail. Another is a tuft of yellow-green lichen that grows at the very center of Palewater Bog. The lichen is unmistakable, for it shrouds the bones of an ancient warrior. The third object is a shell from the forbidden grotto on the shores of the eastern river, a small blue-white speckled shell the size of a human’s heart. And the fourth object is an acorn from the forest south of your village. I require a specific acorn, but I cannot describe it in ways you will understand. It is highly prized there, however, and not unknown to many.

“These are the objects four: the boar’s tusk, the lichen tuft, the speckled shell, and the prized acorn. Bring them to me and I will trade you your sister. Do you understand the terms of our bargain?”

“Aye,” Thomas said. “I’ll find them and bring them,” he added quietly, unsurely, looking at Eleanor’s stricken, tear-stained face. “And I’ll take my sister back unhurt.”

“Very well. Our bargain is struck, agreed, and decided. You have seven days, Thomas, from this very evening. On the seventh day, if you have not returned here with the quartet of objects I have demanded, your sister’s soul will join the smoke forever.”

Thomas nodded, too afraid and drained and bewildered to speak.

The witch kneeled and set the chains down. Thomas saw Eleanor strain against them; it seemed the witch’s magic held them fast to the earth. With both hands, the witch brushed aside the smoke around her, then stretched her fingertips toward the soil. Silvery light leaked from her fingers and puddled on the ground.

Gradually the light took on a distinct form, a pattern of crossing lines and swirling curves. It seemed to melt away the dirt and reveal something older beneath. Thomas didn’t recognize the symbol created by the silvery light, though he felt as though he should. Something tickled in the back of his mind, behind the fear and growing dread.

When the symbol was complete, the earth rumbled and the witch straightened to her full height. She slipped her right hand beneath the bodice of her dress and pulled out a long silver needle. Without hesitation she jabbed the needle into the tip of her forefinger.

Thomas saw a large drop of blood well from the wound. It quivered on the witch’s finger a moment, then broke free from flesh and fell. Where it splashed on the glowing symbol, the silvery light turned to rich violet, the same color as the witch’s dress and, Thomas now realized, the same color as her blood.

Three more drops fell, changing silver into violet. With the last drop, the whole symbol became a pulsing tangle of witchcraft and energy; the individual violet lines writhed like snakes.

The witch replaced the needle and reclaimed the chains. The violet light of the squirming spell suffused her face, and her eyes flashed a deep red as she stepped onto the symbol and pulled Eleanor next to her. The snakes slithered up Eleanor’s legs and around her waist, where they became more like vines, the kind that creep and bind and choke out life.

And then the throbbing violet symbol pulled Eleanor into the ground.

Thomas tried to leap after her, but found that he had been frozen in place again. He struggled vainly against the witch’s hold. The wind started up again, knocking the knit cap from his head and starting to blow the smoke away.

The witch tucked the same loose strand of hair behind her ear with a long white finger. “Farewell for now, Thomas,” she said.

The violet vines rose up around her, though Thomas found it hard to distinguish between the witchcraft and the witch’s dress, which were the same hue. In fact, as he watched, the magic seemed to shrink into her gown and flatten itself to the curves of her legs and hips and torso, forming an intricate pattern of lace and knotted fringe.

“Seven days, Thomas,” the witch reminded him. Thomas felt an awful lurch in his stomach as the earth beneath the witch’s feet opened up and he saw moving blackness in the void.

Swiftly the witch was pulled down into the earth. The last sight Thomas had was of her sharp teeth and the glitter of her eyes and the single strand of raven hair. And then the dirt settled and the violet light faded and the smoke dissipated and the North Road became the North Road again and all was as it should have been on a mid-autumn Wednesday right around dusk.

Except, of course, that practically nothing was as it should be.

Thomas slumped down to his knees and wept.