The Witch and The Dead

The Demon and The Metal

Anna returned to the sharp crack of metal striking metal.

In the blinding, grueling heat of the midday sun, the demon stood out in the open, striking a hammer loudly and impotently against the anvil beside the workshop. Its encompassing, black cloak was stark against the backdrop of desert orange.

It would have been frightening, if it wasn't so odd.

The crowd of villagers hung back. Who could it be here for, they whispered. Everyone had done something. Taken more than they were given, lied as a child, to a child, given more to kin than community. Anna watched as they opened up to one another, forgave each other. Every shameful transgression was surrendered. Bonds were threatened, then made whole. Guilt, fear, relief, and love. There was nowhere left for shame to hide, so it was vanquished. The village reeked of the sweat of fear and forgiveness; its tinge both uncomfortable and sweet.

Anna brushed past her neighbors, satchel in hand. Tentative but steady, she approached the crumbling, wooden fence. Her transgressions would be heard by a higher being. She had called the Judgment of the Dead. The demon had to respect that. It feasted on guilt. It would not refuse.

The villagers fell silent as she passed, watching with interest and fear.

The demon missed not a beat as she drifted quietly through the gate.

Even in the broad light of day, she could not see its face. The black hood shrouded all.

The demon did not look up. Its sole attention was directed at the hammer, which it swung forcibly against the anvil over and over again. But the metal was cold. The man who had built this place once did quite the same thing, but only when the fires were on and the metal was hot. He hit them to shape them. The demon was doing no such thing. With each swing it grated the head of the hammer against the anvil. The screeching tore at her ears.

Anna stopped just beyond the barrier of quartz and waited for the creature to notice her. The gate creaked behind her as it drifted closed. In the sunlight, she could see now that the demon's cloak was no more than a rag. It was marred by rips and tears which ran from its hood to the ground, many of which had been sewn crudely back together. Scuffs and dirt dappled it in worn old splotches and the edge that dragged against the dirt was frayed and dusty. A number of its dark stains were a concerning shade of crimson.

Anna tightened the grip on her satchel and loaded the words into her throat.

"Demon," she called, as if it were a command to a bound spirit. Nothing. "Telderellmo!"

The hammer banged sharper than her voice, struck down truer and fiercer than her wavering calls.

She didn't need to look back to know everyone was watching her. Everyone, save it.

Her throat tightened, and cautiously she stepped forward. The quartz crinkled under her weight. Her breaths shortened to the pace of the steady drums the village beat for passing spirits. Respect bound by fear. The demon held the long, hefty hammer with one hand, swinging it with inhuman ease. The other clasped the anvil for support. Its unknowable weight rested uncomfortably on one side.

Anna watched as each strike hit with equal resolution and aim. Her arm covered her chest. Her fingers clasped around her bag.

Step after step, it did nothing. It was as if it didn't care about her at all.

But the time had come. It needed to come with her. She needed to reach it.

So, she asked quietly, "What are you doing?"

The hammer came down again, hard, hitting the anvil at such an odd angle that the two haunted metals scraped against each other in a spray of sparks that made Anna flinch.