The witch and the warrior
Lizella Prescott
For Made Up Words
It was an arranged marriage, but a happy arrangement nonetheless. The aging witch, who had lived alone in the tower for so long, would marry the hot-eyed, quick-limbed warrior. The queen, the architect of their union, attended the ceremony and loaned them her favorite priest.
“Will you, Brigid, keep the sunlight shining through the ceaseless Spring, and temper your husband’s fire with your wisdom?”
The witch smiled bashfully, bringing a touch of color to her linen white cheeks. “I’ll try.”
“And will you, Belus, guard your land against interlopers, seen and unseen, and protect your wife and the kingdom with the last of your breath?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, scorching his new wife with his gaze.
To everyone’s surprise, especially their own, they produced a strong, healthy son with a generous mop of curly, golden hair. Their joy was so great they barely noticed the changing quality of the sunlight. It was formerly an unwavering lemony hue. Now it fluctuated between frozen yellow and spicy mustard.
The people noticed and whispered, but the whispers stayed soft. Crops grew year round, and the solar-powered automata ran as expected. Besides, the people were forgiving. They accepted that pregnancy and new motherhood might distract any woman, even a wise old witch.
When they had a second child, a coal-haired, copper-skinned girl, the whispering grew hard, and whetted tongues into blades. The people had always venerated the witch because she provided an endless Spring. But now, they said, she was twisting her sorcery towards selfish ends, using it to conjure strange children a woman her age couldn’t naturally bear.
Two of the forgotten seasons had returned, what the elders remembered as Fall and Summer. Every so often, a light frost would nip at the crops, killing tender young shoots, or a merciless heat would force all but the strongest plants to bow before it. Now the witch’s name in the people’s mouths was bracketed by fleeting curses.
Still, the people did nothing more than grumble. The light was sufficient for a well-fed life. The witch and the warrior remained happy, although Belus was starting to worry. His wife was looking more pale and creased than usual as she chased the children around the castle, collecting their soiled garments.
As the children grew bigger and faster, their mother grew weaker and slower. Her lemon-ice hair faded to white, and she began spending every spare moment asleep. Winter came for the first time in a generation, and the people stood at the gates, shivering in silent, hungry reproach.
When they started throwing stones, the warrior summoned his men and drove them away. Afterwards, he stopped worrying and started wondering. He, who spent his days patrolling the steppes at the edge of their holdings, was as strong and hot and bronze as he was on their wedding day. Where was she wasting her power, and on whom?
When he confronted her, she blinded him with a flash of light and retreated into the nursery. She read stories with cold tears streaming down her face. She was losing her power and her connection to the sun. Soon, she would lose everything.
“My power is virtually gone,” she confessed, sobbing in his arms. “I don’t know what happened.”
The warrior stroked her bone-white hair and sighed. “Something will have to be done. The people must be appeased, or they’ll hurt our children.”
“I know,” she murmured. “I agree.”
They acted swiftly. The warrior redoubled their defenses, and the witch found a flame-haired girl to take her place. She had an easy laugh and an innate feel for the magical properties of the sun. The witch tried hard not to hate her.
The warrior and the children took to the girl, growing happy and relaxed in her warm, effervescent presence. And her abilities were perfectly adequate. She could eke out several hours a day of uneven sunshine, just enough to satisfy the people.
The witch floated through the castle like a ghost.
A month later, the witch departed, using the dregs of her power to bend light around herself until she became invisible. Unseen, she kissed her children goodbye and stroked her husband’s smooth, bronze brow.
She found a quiet cave in the forest by a clean, clear spring. She swept it out and lined it with fresh pine boughs. It was silent, except for the soft gurgle-plink of dripping water. It reminded her of the high tower where she lived and worked before her marriage.
She ate a few bites of bread and cheese from her pack. Then she closed her eyes and didn’t stir for seven days.
On the eighth day, she awakened in a blaze of light. She felt younger, stronger, restored. She remembered her years in the tower, where she had grown so powerful and spent so much time alone. Could it be that simple?
About halfway through the long walk home, the sun had sputtered and then guttered out. Now, with only the slightest effort, she restored its light, approximating the bright, cheerful hue of Spring. A small smile bloomed on her face. I suppose they won’t be surprised to see me now.
When she arrived at the castle, the guards lowered the drawbridge without even being asked. The warrior, the girl, and both children were waiting on the other side of the moat. Her husband was a decidedly duller shade of bronze, and the girl wore a stained smock and a harried, questioning expression.
The children squealed and greeted their mother. “We knew you would come back!” they sang.
The warrior’s gaze, not quite as scorching as it once was, still warmed the witch. “Is it true? Are you really going to stay?” The question was a plea and a prayer.
She nodded, her lips twitching into a grin. “Yes, but you’re going to build me a tower.”
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Copyright 2016 | Editor: Veronica Montes
