The Song of the Malificae

18 Years (2)

She arrives early Tuesday, as the sun is still rising, just barely cresting the mountain slopes. She stands at the edge of the forest, where so many years ago a man was found clawed to death. A small stone cottage sits not two acres from her position. It's smaller than it was previously, squat and square. The small field of crops sway in the breeze, but they droop with a lack of life.

Liridona studies her surroundings; no one is around the isolated cottage. And so she kneels to the ground, resting her fingertips lightly in the grass, closes her eyes. Follows the path of low, slow notes to the crops, prods them up with a gradual crescendo, strengthening their weak notes with more confidence. When she looks up at the field, the crops stand a bit taller, a little more proudly. She smiles.

But she doesn't linger. She can check up on them later. Perhaps even approach them again, once she's successful and the man stirring up the evil in this town is gone.

She transforms. Bones splintering into tiny fragments, reforming into tiny bones. Her skin contracts as feathers sprout from her hair follicles across her body. Her arms open to the sides, wings; her feet falling from her shoes, splitting into four talons. Mouth and nose, lengthening, sharpening. Liridona squawks. She's never gotten used to the transformation, no matter how many times she flew with her mother.

Lifting into the air, she flies across the village. Lands in a lone tree, set behind the magistrate's house which stands close to the road. It's the same, one of the largest structures in Gimmelwald, aside from the Church and town hall. Stone walls, two-stories, the heavy schindles lining his roof perfectly round and intact.

Even his house shows off his superiority, his position of power in the town. Meanwhile, two young women are living in a one-room house at the edge of town, barely providing for themselves. Who would want to help single women though, especially when their mother was executed for witchcraft? It's the fault of the magistrate, that the town of Gimmelwald thinks this way. And now it's too late to reverse their beliefs, when it's been seared into their minds with each burning of a witch.

Liridona ruffles her feathers, cocks her head thoughtfully, as she watches the magistrate's house from her perch in the tree. The whole town would have to go. Then, she could create a utopia for witches up here, high on the mountain, away from civilization, from the Church, safe to practice magic, to learn and share knowledge, to grow. Her beak can't smile, but her beady black eyes reflect a sudden gleam.

Then she takes off. Flies through an open window on the second floor. Lands on bare feet, wings dropping her softly on the wood flooring before the feathers retract into skin. She glances around the room, which appears to be a bedroom. Surprisingly, the bed in the corner is only a thin pallet with a thin blanket.

Naked, she moves over to the wardrobe against the opposite wall, pulls open the carved doors. Again, she looks at the contents curiously, brows creased in wonder. Dresses hang within, simple and made with thin cotton, but dresses nonetheless. Liridona had never heard that the magistrate had a family, whether a sister, wife or daughter. The dresses are about her size, maybe slightly longer in the sleeves and skirt, but they'll fit. Liridona slips one over her head, replacing the dress that's probably lying in a heap by her sisters's house. She rolls up the sleeves that reach just past her knuckles, hoists up the waist of the skirt and ties a knot with the extra material by the side of her hip.

During this time, the house is silent. Liridona moves over to the door, opens it a crack and peers out. It seems this room is the only one on the upper floor, there is an open space in front of her, empty but for a pair of wooden chairs by a window looking out over the valley, and then the staircase alongside the left wall. From the top of the stairs, Liridona peers down, but the bottom of the staircase is bathed in shadows, not enough windows letting in light. Deep in the house, very faintly, she can hear the crackle of a fire. Liridona pads down, stepping close to the wall, crouched so she can see to the floor below. Last step, and she circles the banister, following the sound of the fire. The house is dark, windows are shuttered despite the daylight. The only lighting comes from candles, which flicker on scattered wooden shelves, and from the glow of a fire cutting across the floor at the end of the hall.