Witch Hunt

Cailleach Will Burn

The night was filled with the shouts of angry voices—voices that were infused with curses and vows of destruction. Voices that were filled with anger and spoke of a deathly promise. They spoke of a debt to be paid: a debt of blood, and nothing was going to stand in their way. A mob trudged its way up the hill. Their was a light perspiration in the air that coated the ground and had begun to upset the earth, turning it into a slope of unforgiving mire. They held pitchforks, torches, scythes, and shovels like they were common weapons. Their faces were shaped into scowls of disgust and hatred as they pursued their prey across the Scottish Highlands, north of Glasgow. One thing was clear: a witch hunt was on.

Ahead of the angry mob was a girl who was not yet a woman. She turned back to look at her pursuers. There was a fear that blanketed her face in the pale torch light; dark circles clung under her eyes and her lip quivered ever so slightly as she immediately turned to flee. She felt the fear creep into her as she felt the presence of the Grim Reaper right on her heels. It wasn't supposed to be like this, she thought. Not like this.

"There she is, lads," came the cry of Malcolm Dubgall, the town's leader. He was a big, brute of a man. His face was scruffy and he looked excited, even a little angry: that is, the side of his face curled into some sort of a grin or snarl, but no one knew which.

The people following him answered his cry, though they kept their distance in fear of his temper. "Hue and cry! Hue and cry!" was the mob's response.

The girl they chase stumbled over something hard, but was back up in a second and dashed into the ruins on top of the hill.

"Hold it boys," ordered Dubgall, and everyone came to a halt. "She's stuck in the ruins. If one of you finds her, give a cry and we'll all be there in a second. Go!"

As everyone rushed into the ruins in search of the girl, Niall Ciaran stood still for a moment. He was seventeen years of age, blond haired and blue eyed. He did not know why he had stopped, but he just peered at the ruins curiously. Another shout from Dubgall sent him on his way.

Something about the ruins seemed strange to Niall. He laid his hands on the broken wall in front of him. He could have sworn that he felt energy emanate from it: ancient energy that spoke of vengeance and broken promises. The ruins had once been part of a castle, but had been destroyed by the English long ago. Now it was just the remains of a site that no one seemed to remember.

Niall looked down and saw a trail of blood before him. He followed it cautiously. By chance he saw something shift in his peripheral vision and pulled his knife. A cloaked figure lay on the ground; blood coated one of the their legs.

"Who are you?" Niall asked. The figure turned and the hood fell from her face. Niall did not have to be told that the girl was beautiful, but that did not matter. She was the witch they were pursuing. Niall jumped back in alarm. "Do not speak," he warned her immediately, "or I will kill you." He held his knife at her to show his advantage, yet it was obvious he had no skill in using it.

The witch looked up at him with solemn eyes. "Whatever they have told you is wrong," she muttered.

Niall was shocked at the beauty of her voice, even if it was filled with anger. No, he realized, it was pity.

"I'm turning you in," he said matter-of-factly.

She lowered her head. "If that is what you must do."

Niall looked at her more closely. She was about his age, with blond hair and gray eyes. No, they were not gray. She was blind! This realization hit Niall with a sudden wave of wonder. "How did you get up here?" he asked in awe.