Psychofauna

Beware the Crone

Previously: Deshawn and his mom, declared prophets rather than witches, are cut free from the stake. However, the Merry Men arrive and cause chaos by trying to save them from the sheriff's men.

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Deshawn hid in the underbrush as the dragon set the rest of the forest ablaze. Trillions of genre-possessed neurons across the festival's attendees were simulating the flames, and so Deshawn could feel not only their light, but also their heat. He gripped his knees, sweating, shuddering.

Overhead, the dragon beat its wings, circling, its imaginary voice continuing to bellow, "...Emerge, young sojourner, and hear my charge! For destiny's winds call thy name. Fear not, for I bring a quest of valor and truth, a journey that shall test thy mettle and unveil thy true strength. Heed my call, brave one, for fate awaits thy answer! I do seek thee for a purpose most glorious and..."

Gran was up there too, in the sky. He knew he should look up at her, but he couldn't stop moving his head from side to side. Deshawn shook his head, trying to rid himself of images, even though he knew it wouldn't work. The images of actors pierced by arrows. The image of his mom, wailing, carried off by the wizard's companions, the Merry Men. The image of the knights, chomped on by the dragon. At least this last image had been hallucinatory. He was pretty sure those guys in knight costumes were still alive. But he was also pretty sure that those other guys struck by arrows were dead. The blood had been too well-rendered to be all in his head.

There was a sound in the distance: a siren. A firetruck's siren! Presumably it was here to handle the parts of the fire that were real. The sound was something to orient towards. He rose from plants he been hiding in and set in that direction.

It wasn't long before he heard the voice of an old woman. "Little boy! Wait!"

Deshawn slowed down. The woman came beside him and caught her breath. She walked, hunched, beside him, her hand wobbling as her walking stick pressed into the ground.

"Little boy––"

"I'm 15."

"And I am lost, little boy! Like you, I flee the dragon's fires. Would you help an ancient soul find her way out of the dark forest?"

Deshawn glanced in her direction. The old woman was covered in tattered cloth. It was difficult to make out her face.

"What archetype are you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"I mean, like, what medieval fantasy trope are you playing?"

Deshawn knew that while some crone archetypes were safe, others were not. The wise hermit, for example, would probably do him no harm. But the wicked hag might try to eat him.

"I'm sorry, young lad. I understand not your words."

"Are you a wicked hag?"

"My, my! Your locution cuts me like a sharp wind! But indeed, some have called me wicked, flung pebbles at my shadow, scorned the earth beneath my feet. They curse me not for my deeds, but for the blood that runs through my veins, for it sings of ancient roads and moonlit secrets. Yea, they hate what they do not understand, and so they hate my kind."

"Right, what kind is that?"

"I am but one of the wandering gypsies."

"Gypsy. OK, thanks, got it."

He knew what his mom would have to say about the ethnic stereotyping of gypsies. He also knew that he had to be careful. He was dealing with the old gypsy woman archetype, which – in America – actually had more to do with mythology than ethnicity. If the old gypsy liked you, she might grant you a magical amulet. If she didn't, she might hex you for life. Of course, there were no such things as magical amulets and hexes, but that didn't mean this gypsy couldn't mess with him on a psychosomatic level.