Mary-Cade Mandus - The Spell Bound

The day broke in a sensory assaulting burst of color. Multitudes of rapturous avian choruses proclaimed it splendorous, but Torin’s eyes saw within the riotous beauty a portent of thunderheads massing. He had spent a torturous night holding Solace and mouthing with false fairy tale hero bravado reassurances and platitudes of hope, victory and salvation. All the while his heart and spirit were withering in despair. Their adversary had proved to be too cunning and elusive. Despite nightly vigils amongst the sunflowers the witch and her imps had not returned and no trace of her had been found anywhere on the estate. She had even evaded the animals’ hypersensitivity.

Now, the day foretold had arrived, only to find him unprepared, defenseless and doomed to fail. But he had sworn on his life and he would see it through, regardless of the outcome.

Serving as a lookout, the cat lay atop the wall. From this vantage point it had a clear and scopious view of the sunflowers. Fortenbrass roamed unfettered grazing on tender shoots and grasses all the while keeping his sharp ears, eyes and nose alert and ready to sound the call should anything out of the ordinary arise.

These precautions were woefully inadequate but were the best Torin could conceive with what he was allotted. There was no way of knowing from which direction the witch would strike nor when the transformation would take place. With the cat on the watch for significant alterations to the field and Fortenbrass patrolling for the witch, he had stationed himself inside the forge. Positioned between the barn and the dovecote, with one side open to the yard, it afforded him an unobstructed view of sections of the manor site obscured from the cat’s sight. Gathered close by were three of the tried and true elemental agents deadly to a witch - iron, water, and fire. Now, they’d just have to wait for her to tip her hand.

The air rang with the rhythmic clang of hammer against steel and the dragon’s hiss of steam as Torin bullied the warped gate rod into shape. He’d been channeling his stress this way for what seemed like hours and his nerves were strung as tight as a bowstring. The crunching of gravel caused him to start violently and miss his mark, the ponderous hammer hit the side of the anvil, almost striking his knee.

Mrs. Crockery tossed him a cheery wave as she waddled past, puffing under the unwieldy weight of a large rug. Ascertaining her mission, he gratefully slipped from the stifling shed and trotted after. She made no objection, relinquishing her burden happily, and supplied the pegs as he draped and fastened the rug to the line. After thanking him for his gallantry she took up a wickerwork paddle and set to beating the carpet, sending clouds of thick dust aloft. A finicky breeze tidied up, sweeping the choking mess over the wall.

Leaving the housekeeper to her task, Torin headed back to the forge, pausing at the well to slake his thirst. Finished, he poured what remained in the ladle over his head, the shock of the cold water loosening the tension in his shoulders and neck. As he dried his face on a sleeve, a hen and her brood caught his eye.

As the biddy minced her way across the yard a dozen tiny puffballs of down scrambled comically to keep up. A grasshopper diverted the attention of one curious youngster. Sensing a meal, the chick darted from its siblings and took up the chase. The insect sought refuge beneath Mrs. Crockery’s skirt but the chick spied it and rushed in. One peck and the hapless grasshopper was lunch. A chuckle died in Torin’s throat as in a blur of movement the chick, too, vanished.

He felt a lightning strike of fear. The housekeeper’s exertions had caused part of her skirt to flip, exposing a petticoat of unctuous cloth. Before his disbelieving eyes an aberrant swell, as that of a fish feeding along the surface, skimmed across its breadth then disappeared. Torin’s muscles froze. He stood locked in place, unable to think or act.

A banshee wail rose from the cat
curing his paralysis
but he remained transfixed…
where once had stood
a wall of solid rock
a hole now yawned.
Through the breach
a portion of the field could be seen
over which a dreadful change
was occurring.

As Torin watched in horror
stalwart sunflowers
turned black…shriveled…toppled
liquefying as they fell
transforming the ground
into a fetid…noisome quagmire.

In the distance…
rising
from the ravaged landscape…
standing pure…undefiled…
a lone sunflower reigned
in defiant splendor
over a kingdom of
unmitigated desolation.

A crow of triumph
lifted the hair on Torin’s neck.
In dread he turned…
and beheld
the witch…
loathsomely beautiful
having shed her host-skin.
The jovial housekeeper facade
lay callously discarded…
its usefulness past.

Spinning
Torin sped to the forge
grabbing up a scythe
meticulously prepared
the day before.
Its iron blade
gray…lackluster…cold
in the light.
Thus armed…he hastened out.

A vicious blow to the shin
sent him sprawling.
A wrench
tore the scythe from his grasp.
Twisting around…just in time…
saved his head
as the heavy blade
swept past.

Tom Foolery…
Cheshire cat grinning…
tossing the scythe
back…forth
from hand to hand
advanced.

Still on his back
Torin shoved…scooted backwards
vainly attempting to evade the attack.
With a serpent’s speed
the fiend lashed out.

Squirming on the end of the scythe
like a shrike’s prey upon a thorn
Torin gripped the blade
attempting to wrench it from his shoulder
blind to the blood that gloved his hands.

Tom Foolery twisted the handle
giggling uncontrollably
at the agonized groans
his victim was unable to stifle.
Careful to induce as much pain…
damage as possible
the lunatic slowly extracted the blade.
Executing a grotesque jig
he pranced…twirled
then leapt into the air
ending his performance
straddling the helpless…contorted body
the scythe’s cold blade kissing
Torin’s neck.

Odile

Inebriated on success
she was oblivious
to all
but the objective…
the long awaited annihilation
of her niece.
Her hands were eager to begin…
to feel
the plant’s pulp…her niece’s flesh
between their fingers…
to relish
the cool sap’s ooze…warm blood’s spurt
as their nails
rent…tore
the delicate stem…tender body
asunder.

Senses wallowing in the imagery of
impending butchery
she approached the violated wall
with measured tread…
now that the moment had arrived
there was no need for haste
she would take the time
to savor
victory…revenge.

Blind…deaf
to all surroundings…
the assault was thus
undetected…undefendable.
Blow…upon blow…slammed
into her vulnerable body.
The momentum
granting no respite…
offering no time to breath…think…
resist…gather power…retaliate
as she was repelled…propelled back
further…from the field…
her quarry.

The well-crank cudgeled
her back
breaking progression.
Stunned…winded…bleeding
she was struggling to gain her feet
when two fists of iron hammered
into her chest.

Aloft again…she hit the smithy roof
the slanted pitch sent her sliding
over the edge.
Rising unsteadily to her knees
a final blow connected
battering her into the
white-hot maw of the forge.

But entrée was barred.
Too large for the door
she dropped onto the oven’s lip.
Spared the unrelenting pummeling
she clawed to a standing position
steadying against the stone.
At last able to gather her wits…
she amassed her magic.

With a tentative lick
a flame sampled the skirt’s hem.
Finding it palatable…it took a nibble…
then a bite.
The material shuddered…retracted.
The hungry fire pursued.
Like rats abandoning a sinking ship
imps emerged from the cloth
surging up Odile’s body
frantic to escape the burning…heat.
Her concentration destroyed
she fought for her life
against the swarming demons
but was no match for the maddened hordes
as they pulled…pressed…pushed…bore
her down with them into the fire.

Shrieking in nightmarish pain…
unearthly terror
Odile crumpled…engulfed in flame
her lifelong desire
ardent dreams of unending power
now…only so much ash.
Brought to devastation
by one fatal omission…detail.
She had once again…disdainfully
dismissed…disregarded
the horse.

Torin

As the last note
of Odile’s death knell faded
Tom Foolery’s goblin leer
slide into stunned surprise.
The scythe dropped
from his palsied grasp
to fall gaggingly heavy
across his victim’s throat.
Eardrum shattering screeches erupted
as his face contorted
his body hopped…flopped…convulsed
like a crazed marionette.

His tormentor’s attention deflected
Torin bucked violently…
rolling onto his sound shoulder…
tossing the caterwauling fiend
into the dirt.

Struggling…he got to his feet
weakened by blood loss…pain
but determined to make a stand.
Gripping the scythe handle
with lacerated hands
he turned upon his foe
only to find him…gone
a raven…oversized…dross-eyed…
sitting in his place.

Shielding eyes from grit…dirt
kicked up as the bird
furiously beat its wings.
Torin watched through squinted lids
as the familiar launched skyward
circled twice…then vanished
a deriding caw resonating sepulchrally in its wake.

Succumbing to wounds…exertions
knees buckled…
pitching him forward.
He was out cold
before striking the ground.