The Wolf & The Witch

Claire and Lestat started in a cold cell of rusted iron and cobwebs and pinpoint holes in the mortar, and they finished in the middle of a burning witch village, in their home, blood running down their broken bodies. In the three months they had frozen together, cried together, been slammed down into the hard earth together; they had been thrown into pits, they had gone hungry, they had gone thirsty, they had their teeth rattled, and they had hugged each other, slapped each other, and kissed each other; they had hated each other, and hurt each other, and stitched each other, and loved each other. They had walked together, slept together, bathed together, and made love, together. And in the center of the coven, their bodies went limp, and they died together.

The wolf collapsed to his knees, the witch lifeless over his left shoulder. Her body hung limp, and to the side- hands in the hot ash, feet in the hot ash, and the wolf was a dark red mess in the white, and a bright red mess in the black. His body slumped under the witch’s weight, and it slumped under his, and his chin fell to his chest, and his eyes drifted shut, and lost focus on the tendrils of white smoke creeping up from the ground. Wind in the ashes, and the cracking and splintering of the wooden hearts of trees, and the approaching feet of witches, and the low, continuous rumble of thunder, and Claire’s breathing, in and out, slowly in and out.

Trees- oaks and elms and maples, the long stands of ancient pines; the brown forest floor, dead leaves, broken needles; villages of wood built by human hands full of sleeping children, full of families, dirt roads and stone roads and the lanterns and fences that lined them, wolf packs and their homes, with witches, and women, and children, some unhappy, some abusive- but not all; lichens and mushrooms and the red bellies of ferns; abandoned huts, and garden rows; the dens of mice and foxes; and the short walls of gardens, and the stone walls of property lines spilling back into the fields, and the walls that separate wolves and witches, and the doors that keep one out, and the other in, and the tables, and the chairs, and the doorframes, and the bedframes, and the bridges over cold streams, and the bodies of wolves and witches...

All burned to ash and ember.

Itthon, all of it, now coexisted in the translucent wavering of death. In a single day all the color of the forests of Itthon had been reduced as if they were painted in watercolor: cobalt blue and phthalo green, umber and cadmium, broad brush strokes of color washed white by flames and fire.

The erosion of the walls that had surrounded the hearts of the wolf and the witch had taken place in the shivering cold. Only their bodies remembered the truth: the first time they held hands was when the floor fell through, five minutes after waking up together. The first time they hugged was on the frozen bank, not even an hour later. Walls and the ribbons to climb them; doors and the trust to open them: the wolf and the witch, slumped together in the ash.

Seven witches surrounded them, their hands outstretched, ready to bury them, and Beverly held the black knife in her right hand, and followed a glowing ember as it skimmed along the surface of the heat, and she was instantly in front of the wolf, and crouched, and sunk the blade into Lestat’s chest.

Though it didn’t sink deep, because the moment steel touched his skin Lestat drew the knife strapped to Claire’s dangling leg and slit Beverly’s stomach open from one end to the other, spilling her intestines into the ash at his knees. And as Lestat killed the priestess, Claire, with her lifeless, dangling arms, with knuckles burning and blistering in hot ash, scooped up handfuls of glass and hurled them at the line of witches, hitting their outstretched hands, and arms, and faces.

Claire had five seconds to think before the toxin hit her. Claire was naturally resilient to poisons and toxins due to a lifetime of working with them, and collecting them, but she knew she was about to be paralyzed- the glass had cut her palms the same as it had the seven witches. That resilience was the reason she had woken up before the wolf, in the cell three months ago, despite weighing less than him. She heard Beverly gasp behind her, and she heard thunder, and she heard Lestat’s labored breathing. Five seconds: she needed to heal him, but how? Their horses were gone, their packs- Four seconds: The villages were gone, and the houses- supplies; she had plenty of items at her house, but- Three seconds: what were the odds her house, or her jars and potions and ointments had survived? Two seconds: she felt a drop of rain hit her arm, and knew moss was coming.

One second: Home, she wrote, and the ‘e’ trailed down his palm. Claire’s body slumped, and stiffened, and she knew, for at least the next half hour, she was locked in place- paralyzed from the secretions of the black newt. The same toxin that had frozen olive in place.

Lestat shifted, and groaned from the effort. Half his head was wrapped, and he glared down at Beverly. “Where did you get... the cuff?”

Beverly wasn’t dead. Yet. “Fuck... you... wolf.” But she felt it coming- the white fangs of death, and his long, gray sickle, sinking into her spine, and threshing her heart. How? Her mouth tasted like bile and salt. How had this happened? She spilled out into the ashes and the knife slipped from her fingers. “I… curse… you… witch. Still… ness… shall... follow-“

Lestat brought his torn boot down and caved her skull in, and her words ended in a puff of ashes.

He still had the knife in his left hand, and Claire over his shoulder. He turned, and saw fear in the eyes of the witches- frozen solid, like living statues. He walked up to the first and slit her throat and the fear never left her eyes- blood ran out of neck, and down into her lungs, and she choked, and crumpled like poles held together by plaster- cracking, breaking.

A gust of wind kicked ashes into his eyes, and a wall of rain fell from the black sky; steam hissed, and all around him, the pelting and shattering of drops against the black and white earth- blank pages and binding was all that was left. He slit another throat, and another, and then stumbled, and his vision swam for a second. He finished off the last of the witches quickly, and turned to run to Claire’s house, but then did not know which way. Darkness, and wind, and driving rain, and white smoke hung in the air like bandages off the edge of a table. No moon, no stars, no sun, no landmarks. He felt Claire very lightly tap the front of his leg, and he turned in that direction. He felt her tap again, and turned slightly more to the left. No more taps.

The wolf ran forward. The fighting, and the heat, and the exhaustion from blood loss had eaten the life out of him, and hollowed him, the way fire hollows a damp log- tunnels and holes, and the many incisions that riddled his body bled as he ran, as the ice on his leg and back and chest melted. His vision was white, the color of ash, and the throb in his right arm slowed, and dulled, and he could no longer feel his right hand.

Lightning flashed in the black clouds, and rain cooled the fires, and water killed the embers, and thick ropes of steam and strings of white smoke hung in front of him as if from tree limbs, and the wolf ran through them, his feet thudding the black mud. One mile, two, forward into darkness and steam and rain and his right leg buckled, and he sprawled into the mud. He shielded the witch-he took her in his arms left arm and cradled her as he fell and slid through the mud. He groaned, and his body started to shift on its own- back to man, and he fought it, and stood on legs made of sticks and twigs, and hobbled forward. Rain washed blood off his face, and hair, it washed the blood off what was left of his leather pants, and shredded shirt, and muddy boots.

Another mile, gasping, wheezing, and he fell again with a thud.

Claire could only watch as the world bounced monochrome in her vision- she felt rain run down her body, from her hips, down her stomach, between her breasts and off her chin. Mud splattered her face from his feet as they smacked the ground. She tried to move- a finger creaked like a tree limb in the wind; her wrist moved as if made of braided hangars. The witch fought the toxin, trying to breathe heavy, trying to move her joints- he needed help, and she needed to help him. Claire had been stabbed by the ribs of goddamn black newts at least fifty times. The first was the worse- she was frozen in place for nearly three hours, defenseless, and it took a day to walk normally after that. But the next time, not as bad. And the time after that she had collected jars of the thick black-red toxin, and as the jars filled one by one she had slowly built up a resistance- not immunity. Claire didn’t think there was an antidote, or immunity, to this toxin, but there was resistance. And she was resisting it, fighting it.

Lestat no longer knew direction, or if he was running forward. His arms felt heavy, his head felt heavy, his eyelids were made of wood shingles, and his feet were cement foundations- he slipped, and caught himself and every muscle from his hip to his neck strained at the art of balance, and four separate stab wounds spilled blood down his body. The wolf took one more step, and fell into the ground- he turned as he fell, so that Claire crashed into him, and he sunk in the black mud up to his ears.

Claire felt him buckle and collapse like ribbons dropped to the ground. She forced her body to move, joints and limbs cracked like plaster, and she reached out and caught his left hand in hers, and locked her hand down tight. The witch laid in the mud, breathing, locked in place, and heard the wolf breathing- labored, and tired, and slowing.

Lightning flashed, and Claire lifted her left eye over the rim of black mud and saw the moss, sparkling green in the dark as it followed the water, looking for the dead, looking for the dying.