Slewfoot: A Tale of Bewitchery

by Brom

Thus, Abitha had no problem reading her promissory note, pulling it out during the long voyage over whenever she needed a good laugh, or a good cry.

Virtuous, obedient young woman, fair of face and complexion, shapely figure, good upbringing from pious, well-mannered house.

Her mother though, she’d been a true cunning woman, and it was through her teachings—teachings cut short upon her untimely death when Abitha was just twelve years old—that Abitha had gained the handful of remedies, charms, and divinations she now possessed.

Neither one of them aware of the three small shadows hovering in the far corner of the room, watching them, waiting.

Abitha hesitated; she knew that the book contained more than remedies, that her mother’s cunning craft was not limited to root medicine, that she had the sight and told fortunes, that it was even rumored on rare occasions she’d acted as a conduit to call dead loved ones to speak with their families.

Abitha would never forget the first time her mother allowed her to hold it. Her mother had tapped the last loop in the line and told Abitha that loop was hers, that the next was her mother’s, then her grandmother’s, great-grandmother’s and so on all the way back twelve generations. She touched the bottom rung and said, “One day, when you’re ready, you will join all your mothers and your hair will be added here.”

I am the girl who looked into the eyes of a thousand gods, am I not?

“She is a witch! A witch! Pray tell you see it!”

“Mayhap we have gone too far, but we must see this through now … we must have her confession.”

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?

“Earth was our mother,” Forest said. “And you were our father … the great forest lord. You were the heart of the wilderness, of the wildfolk. You were loved and you were feared. You were life and you were death, doing what was needed to preserve the balance. All part of the cycle of nature, of death and rebirth, of winter and spring.”

The serpent closed in, closer and closer, its lethal promise igniting something deep within Abitha’s breast: the primordial need of every creature that has ever been hurt by another—the need to bite back. A hard grimace set on Abitha’s face. “If it is a witch they want,” she hissed, “then a witch they shall have.”

Her eyes narrowed and her lips peeled back, exposing small fangs. She lifted her head to the sky and howled long and loud, wanting them to hear—the men, the women, the children—wanting them to know that the beast was coming for them.