Slewfoot: A Tale of Bewitchery

by Brom

She spotted the dead man. I will bury that one by the road for all to see, as a reminder that I will not be tread upon.

She realized that she was looking forward to the encounter, looked forward to staring Wallace down. And why not? she thought. I am the girl who looked into the eyes of a thousand gods, am I not?

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?

It is so much more than vengeance, she thought, knowing it was deeper, something on some primal level, a need not just to kill this man, but to hear him scream as she butchered him.

Why be the rabbit, it seemed to ask, when you can be the wolf?

“You understand? My soul will never be at peace, not so long as such evil as these men walk the earth.” At this point she was talking more to herself than to Samson. “Abitha is dead, they killed her, all that is left is wrath and malice … my restless soul. Do you understand?”

“If it is a witch they want,” she hissed, “then a witch they shall have.”

“Mercy, I beg of you.” “I know not the meaning of that word.”

“I am not Abitha. Abitha was murdered. I am the witch, and the witch cares not for your tears.”