The Song of the Malificae

12 Years (1)

Years go by, and Liridona grows more skilled in witchcraft, spells pouring naturally from her lips, slipping into the world's song with ease. The twins aren't nearly as powerful as Liridona is, as though having a twin divided their power into smaller portions. Very rarely do the four of them, the four malificae, go practice together for the suspicion it would create. 

They carry on with daily tasks, pretending to be the ordinary farming family they always have been. They practice so carefully, discreetly, only going out in early mornings, hidden in their fields or in the forest, or in the bowels of the valley. They fly only in the complete darkness, black raven's wings riding the wind, ruffling their feathers, listening to the silence of humanity below, and to the noise of the earth wrapping them in its arms. 

They use magic only when their mother deems it necessary: throughout the rest of the drought six years ago, when the season ended with four more witches and one warlock being burned, then through the fierce Foehn winds the summer afterwards. They never use it to sabotage a neighbour's crops, never use it to settle a debt, never use it against anyone. Only ever to support their family, ensure they don't starve, freeze, burn.

So Liridona's mother is accused of being a witch like every other one that is accused and burned. Misplaced blame. Fear.

She is walking along a lonely stretch of road towards the blacksmith, field hoe and scythe hefted over her shoulder. Around a bend, a few dozen metres away still, a man walks along that lonely stretch of road, pulling a squeaking wooden cart along behind him, laden with timber, an axe, some strips of burlap. From the bushes alongside that lonely stretch of road, a cat, with black fur, matted and stiff, bounds out, rustling the greenery, leaving light imprints in the dirt. It stops in the middle of the road, in mid-step, one paw raised, tail whipping in the air, and looks at the man with dark orbs, directly in his face, opens its little red mouth, whiskers twitching, and lets out a low mew. Ears flicking, as if hearing footsteps approach, the cat, the black cat, bounds away.

In his surprise, in his shock, the handles slip from his calloused fingers, digging little grooves into the ground, and the man stands frozen, staring after the cat, into the darkness of the bushes that it disappeared into. Only faint faint paw prints and a light whisper of the leaves in the bushes on the side of the road prove the creature had been there.

The distance closes and the woman walks around the bend, into sight of the man.

"Geute morge," she says as she approaches.

She receives no response, steps closer, tools balanced precariously in the grip of one arm. "Geute morge," she repeats, a slight question peeking out.

Jolted from his stupor, the man looks into the woman's dark, concerned eyes, takes a step back, startled once again, nearly tripping over his cart. The woman throws an arm out to catch him, steady him. He flinches away. The woman pulls her arm to her side, brows lowering, gripping her tools, retreats a couple steps.

The man recovers himself, as well as he can with his heart pounding hard in his chest. He straightens his tunic, clears his throat. "Geu- ahem - Geute morge," he says, attempting to disguise the tremor in his voice.

With a quavering smile towards the woman, he picks up his cart, walks in a wide and unnecessary arc around her, as she stands still and bemused. He flicks nervous glances towards her, wheels squeaking in indignation as he trots down the road quick. Dust flies up on his heels, wrapping the woman in a gritty cloud, and he disappears around the bend.

Shaking her head, the woman walks on, hefting the tools up on her shoulder, the tip of the scythe glinting in the sunlight.

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