The Green Witch

Chapter Twenty Two

     It was growing lighter with the approach of dawn when they reached the cottage. Bronn came out to meet them as they approached, and with two of them to look after Tala Gren set her back on her feet, although he kept a firm grip on her arm as they escorted her to the door.

     Tala could see that the cottage had once been a pretty place with a white-painted fence around the garden and copper-coloured creepers climbing up the walls, but it had clearly been empty for a long time. The garden was a jungle of tall weeds and tree saplings, the windows were green with algae and the paint was peeling from all the woodwork. The door was standing ajar and fungi were growing in the decomposing leaves that covered the nearest part of the floor.

     The door opened soundlessly when Gren pushed it, though, and inside Tala could see that an attempt had been made to smarten the place up. The moldy furniture had all been piled into a side room, leaving the other rooms bare and empty, and the floor had been swept, although the floorboards were still warped and stained with damp. The windows had been opened in an attempt to let some fresh air in to blow away the musty smell that still filled the place.

     Bronn and Gren paused in the hall and a figure appeared from what had been the kitchen. The Crone looked exactly as Tala had always imagined she would be; the very caricature of an evil witch. She was dressed in black, except for a bloodstained bandage around her left arm. She had straggly grey hair and a long, hooked nose with a wart on the end. She regarded Tala with gleeful delight in her small, watery eyes. She looked tired, though. Tala wondered whether the preparations for the soul transfer, whatever they had been, had left her exhausted.

     "We meet in the flesh at last," she said, coming forward to get a better look at the younger woman. She stared for a moment as if she was having difficulty focusing, but then she reached out with a thin, bony hand to finger Tala's hair. Tala drew back in revulsion but Gren held her fast.

     "Nothing to say?" the Crone prompted, but Tala said nothing. She was more afraid than she'd ever been. So afraid that she could feel her chin trying to tremble. She was within an inch of falling to her knees and begging for mercy and was afraid that the last vestige of her self control would leave her if she started speaking. The small nugget of courage that formed the core of her very being was determined to meet her end with dignity, though. Make her remember you, she thought. It seemed that to survive in the other woman's memories was the only survival she could hope for now.

     The Crone sighed with disappointment. "Oh well," she said. "Bring her through. Best get this over with."

     Gren and Bronn nodded and Tala was led through into a back room.

     This room was drier than the rest of the house and contained far fewer signs of decay. Two circles had been drawn in some kind of brown fluid on the bare floorboards. Blood, Tala realised. The Crone's own blood, taken from the cut she'd made in her own arm. "We'll need some of your blood to add to mine," said the Crone. "As small a cut as you can make, though, Gren. I don't want too much damage done to my new body."

     The older man produced a small knife while his son held Tala tightly by the arms. Tala felt a pain in her hand as the knife cut into it, and then a small trickle of blood was falling into a clay cup the man was holding. When it was half full he took the cup away and Bronn tied a small bandage around the wound.

     Gren handed the cup to the Crone who poured a thin trickle around each of the two circles. When she'd finished the circles began to glow with a soft, crimson light and they emitted thin tendrils of vapour that dissipated rapidly in the humid air.

     "Take those manacles off her," she ordered. "She can get out of them any time she wants. Right, sweetie? You clever girl. Tie her hands instead. Unless she's more skillful with the green than I've learned to be in half a thousand years, it'll take her more time than she has to undo a good, tight knot."