The Witch & The Witch Hunter

1

A thick mist had settled upon the quiet hamlet of Seraford. It's inhabitants had till now enjoyed the quiet piety of their simple lives at the edge of the kings forest. Yet no farmers were tilling their fields. No children played and ran between the simple cottages carefree. Though boarded windows and barricaded doors adorned the face of every dwelling. Were it not for the small seeping flickers of fire light from within, one would not be considered foolish in thinking the place was abandoned.

A low yet steady rumble disturbed the omnipresent silence, the staggered vibrations reverberating off the rough wooden walls. The approaching sound grew more and more distinct until the thud of horse shoe on earth could be discerned. As now peering eyes squinted from within the hovels into the murk, a tall dark character burst from within the fog astride a magnificent black stallion. The man, who was tall, grim and bearded, dismounted. His large black hat obscured the greater part of his features, and his long, enveloping cloak of similar hue was draped around his body. The muffled knocking and shifting of furniture came from within the nearest house as the stranger stood motionless.

The door creaked open and out came a man of timid nature, in puritan garments. He cautiously approached the stranger, in a manner similar to how a magpie may approach the eagles meal should he still be present. "God be with ye, sir" said the villager, who did well not to stammer. "And with you, good sir" replied the stranger. Upon greeting the imposing visitor, the villager lowered his guard somewhat and seemed a little less skittish "After we lost the chapel we feared the Lord had abandoned us, but you have come and tis not so". The stranger's eyes almost glinted under the shadow of his large hat, before turning his gaze upon the forest beyond the hamlet. "Pray tell me, good sir. Will I find my quarry yonder?" He said, pointing into the thicket. "Aye, a little ways in to the north, take the beaten path." The stranger abruptly began to pace in the direction he was given before the village man swiftly placed a hand on his shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. "And for the sake of all heaven, do not stray from it. There's more devilry in that place than you know".

Upon entering the forests gaping maw the stranger contended with total obscurity. Between the all encompassing mist and lack of light allowed entry by the thick canopy above, he could barely discern where his foot fell. Surely this could only be the work of black magic - the work of a witch. For indeed this man who strode so confidently in to the unholy depths of Satans lair was a witch hunter. Gripping tightly a crucifix of wood and iron, he relied on the grace of god to guide him through this miasma.

Until upon his two hundredth pace a clearing in the trees came to view and the silhouette of a church steeple towered above like some petrified giant awaiting an opportune moment to spring to life. Never had the lords house inspired such a terrifying visage. Though terror did not factor in to this mans reasoning. He swept back his flowing cape, his crucifix now replaced by a rapier in one hand and a pistol in the other. Murmuring one final prayer for his immortal soul he launched his boot clad heel at the oaken doors obliterating whatever barred him from entry within. The slam of the swinging gates echoed greatly around the hall and alcoves.

Stepping in all was dark and silent, and no regular silence was this, for the very air itself was devoid of life's warmth. A sickly feeling came over the hunter for he knew his prey was near and his overwhelming zealotry spurred him forth. Ahead of him, at the far end of the church, upon the altar was a single lit candle. Its deliberate positioning was most certainly made in hopes of drawing him in. A most obvious trap, yet he approached. Total defilement surrounded him, in the dark he could make out the pages of holy books strewn and torn about the floor, stonework smashed, seating splintered and the blood of forest creatures no doubt smeared in dreadful symbols upon the walls. His teeth gritted in righteous anger. "Show yourself heathen!" He shouted, yet only the reflection of his own voice answered him. He stood before the once holy altar and drew near the small flame, removing one of his gauntlets. Outstretching his hand he sought to cradle the light as though protecting the last good thing in this place that evil had claimed. Though there was no heat, not even as he ran his finger through the flame itself. "Tenebris" whispered a gentle voice into his left ear and the candle extinguished. Suddenly his surroundings exploded into fire. He was trapped within a burning ring with no hope of escape and there beyond the flames in the very doorway he had entered was a swirling black mass, like shadows twisting and coiling into form. The witch hunter cried in pain as he felt the singeing agony of his own burning flesh and quickly discarded his smouldering cloak. The flames were closing in, consuming all before him. He could hear death whispering to him in the crackling and gushing of burning timbers, till in sheer desperation he raised his pistol at the shadow and with the crack and flash of a single shot a shrill cry of pain pierced through the dark.

The flames were gone and a young woman fell sharply upon the stone floor, cradling her bleeding calf. The lord had not deserted the witch hunter, he saw his chance and charged with his sword chambered for one final decisive lunge. Yet it did not meet its mark. For the hunter did not strike at all. Most peculiarly, he had stopped in his tracks. Like a statue he stood, not two footsteps away from the woman. For when this witch had looked up into her executioners eyes, he had felt a such a force shake is whole body that he could do nought but freeze in place. Though this feeling was not the black arts at work - no, twas the sight of the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon. Eyes of deep oak, skin of milk and hair that caressed her face so delicately. Her small frame lay upon the ground stained crimson in a manner most picturesque. Yet the witch was evidently not overcome by the same sensation. She whipped out her hand launching a soot-like black dust into the eyes of the Hunter. He recoiled and covered his face whilst he coughed and spluttered. As his eyes began watering, expelling the contaminants, he heard only the swift pitter patter of the witches gentle footfall spirit her away into the darkness.