Oh, Dark Tumbleweed

Part 1

It was born innocently, on the nudging of a gentle breeze that gave no indication of the evil that would evolve on this bright fall day. It began simply, as it always does, of dying grass and dead weeds, picking up more and more as it rolled. Tumbleweeds are made of death, after all.

The bundle traveled through open fields, with the breeze turning to wind as it frequently does this time of year. The wind grew harsh and the bundle grew larger, picking up more debris at a faster pace as it came upon a field of unattended hay and an old farmhouse in the distance.

Clouds filled the sky, draping the land in deep shadow as the tumbleweed entered the farmhouse property. It slowed in the pale reeds, but grew larger still. Weeds bent toward it, as if to purposely join the ball as it propelled past the rotting carcasses of small animals and the twisted forms of crows. The wind pushed it towards the farmhouse, where the shadows grew deeper.

At the foot of the porch, it tumbled over human remains. More bone than flesh, the figure wore the tatters of clothing, gray fabric flapping in the wind. Littered around the form was broken glass, a torn bag of rice and remnants of moldy fruit.

On the porch, the tumbleweed rested at the door, leaning against it as if it had come home from a long and weary journey. The wind had calmed back to a breeze and it gently caressed the leaves and twigs that had accumulated on it.

On hinges in need of oil, the front door opened a crack, revealing a sliver of darkness.

"Ah," a wispy female voice said. "You are perfect, so perfect."

A pale arm with languid, tapered fingers reached through the opening and touched the tumbleweed. It turned black on contact, the raven tone slowly spreading with a sound like the crinkling of onionskin.

She waved her hand, dismissing the tumbleweed as it began to roll again. It took with it a piece of her. Where moments ago, the weeds and golden rod eagerly bent toward it, all now leaned back out of its way. Her touch brought dark memories and a knowing of death.

Images of her remembrances flashed . . .

Three people dressed in black, sitting side by side, each looking very dour.

One spoke, "Clemence Townesend, the final verdict of this court is guilty of the practice of black magic, and of possessing such symbols related to this practice in your house and on your person. We are a community of white magic. Your methods are not condoned in our village." The man's deep voice echoed off the walls of the room. His name was Cotton Winslow and he was the Chief Justice of the court. His face was long and craggy. His gray eyes, overshadowed by a heavy brow, gave him a permanently angry look.

"It is the determination of this court that you are forever forbidden from walking the streets of Wellton or interacting with members of this community. Your sentence is banishment to a home on Goodwin Acres. There you shall live in isolation until the end of your days."

Clemence Townsend cursed them. The rage in her words rose above the jeering and shouts of those there to watch. Judge Levi Green, a large man with a round face and shaking jowls, slammed a gavel down on the bench and it fell like thunder as he called for order. The audience's voices trailed to silence.

A third judge, Archibald Bowden III, younger than the other two, had a long face and bright blue eyes that almost made him look friendly. As he cleared his throat his lips turned downward, and his brow darkened before he spoke.

"Several different persons, whose identity shall remain anonymous, will weave a web of white magic to close you in. Though you cannot leave, supplies you require will be passed through the web. You can of course, still grow your own vegetables, starting with a supply we will provide. Your magic will not leave the web—"