Slewfoot: A Tale of Bewitchery

by Brom

The shadow, which was no longer a shadow, lifted its head and let out a long howl.

A star appeared in the cloudless night, sparkled, another, then another, then a hundred thousand. Father drank in their ancient light. He watched an owl fly soundlessly past. The insects and night creatures began their songs. The moon peeked out from behind the hills, bathing the forest in its silver glow.

He saw the first stars above through the trees, spotted the waning moon, and it was not long before the ghosts began to appear, joining them as they ran, their howls melding together, creating a symphony of the living and the dead.

She wanted to believe him, the beast, was all in her head, because a touch of madness was better than the Devil living in your barn.

“That is not what you want, that is what you need. You are not made out of needs, you are made out of your dreams and desires. What is it you wish and dream of?”

Abitha began to hum, to sing a song without words, the crickets, frogs, and toads all lending their voices. The night felt to her a living thing; she felt its breathing, its pulse. She moaned, drinking in its intoxicating sweetness, laughed, then sang, then laughed some more. She’d not slept for going on two days now, and she let her delirium take her.

“Life is nothing but riddles … we spend our whole lives puzzling them out. Sadly, as soon as we find the answer, the riddle changes. Does it not?”

This is real, she thought, no dream, no nightmare to awake from. I will be tried as a witch and hung as a witch, and that is all that is left for me now.

Oh, for the love of God, someone stop this! Abitha thought, and turned away. She searched the crowd, hoping to find some outrage there, some desire to end this senseless torment. A few were crying, but most watched grimly, their faces stolid and righteous. There were some, yes, like Goody and Ansel, whose faces betrayed their inner vileness, but most appeared transported, almost in rapture, as though sharing this moment with God Himself, their hands clasped to their breasts, staring upward into the firmament, their lips moving in silent communion with their Lord and savior. Abitha could see that these people believed, truly believed, that they were doing God’s work here this day. And there was something about these people that horrified Abitha even worse than those whose faces were lined with cruelty. As at least cruelty was a thing that could be pointed out, confronted. But this belief, this absolute conviction that this evil they were doing was good, was God’s work—how, she wondered, how could such a dark conviction ever be overcome?