The Wolf & The Witch

Their first day was peaceful: cool breeze, white clouds high in the sky skipping past like children playing hopscotch, birds in the trees and insects buzzing in the grass. The horses were happy- plenty of grass and clover, plenty of ponds and gurgling creeks. The wolf and the witch washed their faces and arms and legs in the creek- dried blood, red clay, white dust. They laid a blanket out under the stars, and though they did not go to sleep holding each other, that’s certainly how they woke: the wolf was holding the witch from behind, spooning her- one arm around her, the other under her head, like a pillow. And she had both his arms wrapped up tight with hers, and her legs were tangled up in his. The sun was just rising, and the witch moved in his arms, and her hair got in his nose, and he turned his head and sneezed, and woke. Then he smelled blood.

The witch stirred and blinked awake and looked down- she had his arm wedged between her breasts, holding it as if she was going to be swept out to sea. Goddamnit all. What the hell. Her body did not need to snuggle up against his- it wasn’t cold anymore. She rubbed her eyes, and looked out across the grass, sparkling with silver dew- this truly was a beautiful place. Then she heard flies buzzing.

They sat up together.

“Good-“ she started, then, “God! What the fuck?!”

Lestat followed her eyes to the dead horse, and the flies swarming its dead body. What the hell happened here? He hopped up and pulled her to her feet. The other horses kept their distance. Lestat walked over and looked at the dead animal- there was no doubt something had eaten it. Chunks were missing from its neck. Its heart was gone. Most of its internal organs had been pulled from its body and were piled in a heap. Its liver had bite marks in it and was laying in the grass. Lestat knelt down and picked up the liver.

“Could you not.”

He held the gray liver up to her and she pulled away. “The bite marks are human.”

Shivers ran from her ears to her toes and back up. What. What? “There is no fucking way someone killed a horse and ate it while we slept ten feet away. And never woke up?” She shivered again as if they were back in the snow.

“Either a woman, or a young man. Look-“ and he brought the liver to his face and started to bite down on it.

“No! Stop! Do not do that! What is wrong with you!? I don’t need proof. God.” The damn liver had blue veins running under a white mucus coating, covering what looked like gray sludge, with four chunks bitten out of it. Claire turned her head. Damnit all- this was just as creepy as that damn forest.

They walked around the horse and noticed its mane had been braided into knots. They noticed its tail, and hooves, were missing. They looked at each other, packed up, and rode hard that day. They rode their horses hard for two reasons: if there was any chance at all they might lose one horse per night, they needed to push these animals for all they were worth, and that’s what they did. Easily over a hundred miles the second day. And the other reason for riding hard- to escape whatever human was capable of killing, and eating, a horse in silence, in the middle of the night. While they slept nearby cuddled up.

They made camp that night and woke up to another beautiful day, holding each other. And another dead horse. Again, eaten, most likely by a human. Mutilated and devoured and how in the hell could the wolf and the witch have slept through that?

“Is it possible a witch is doing this?” Lestat asked.

“Maybe, but… damn… only a malefica would do this, and there aren’t that many around.”

“Malefica?”

“Yeah. The opposite of a priestess.”

“And what kind of witch are you- priestess or malefica?”

Claire looked up at him. He didn’t know much about witches. “Neither. I’m a village witch. Who knows a little magic.”

A village witch, huh? Out milking the goats? Making soap? Picking parsley? All breast-jiggling activities. “Do you own a straw broom?”

“Yes. Why?” She was starting to glare. It was too early for his shit.

Sweeping with a straw broom would be another one of those breast-jiggling activities. “Come on.”

They packed up their belongings and rode nearly two-hundred miles before stopping for the night. Nothing but beautiful fields of grass, and creeks, and streams. It was dark and they were exhausted- riding was better than walking, but it still hurt- especially when riding for fifteen hours. But they caught a couple fish in the stream, late at night, cooked them, and fell asleep warm, and fed, under a starry sky.

They woke up to another dead horse. Except this time, it appeared its hind leg had been torn off its body, and the poor animal had been beaten to death. With its own leg. And then eaten. While they slept fifteen feet away.

Lestat was starting to worry. They set traps. They stayed awake as long as possible. They tried to take shifts sleeping. They tied all the ropes from each horse to the blanket that was under them. How could a horse be beaten to death with its own leg and not tug on the rope? Try as they might, they woke cuddled up together in the long dew fields of flowing grass and the perfume of apples, and the sound of flies buzzing behind them.

Claire was starting to worry. This did not look like the work of a single malefica. This was supposed to be a land of wolves- not witches. What the hell. This had the potential to significantly impede her efforts to find a hot bath.

“Stand on my shoulders and look around,” Lestat ordered, scooped Claire into his arms, mounted a horse, then balanced himself, and slowly stood up on the saddle, and held her out in his arms- muscles rigid and hard for her to climb up.

“You know what, I’m going to be nice, because we’re supposed to be friends. How ’bout you ask, instead of command.”

He tilted his head sideways, and looked at her sideways. “I’m not-“

She heard it in his voice- that tone that got under her skin. “Wolf, I’m being nice to you. Put question marks at the ends of your sentences when you speak to me.” She was glaring. A fly got close to her face and she smacked it away, and growled. This was no way to start the morning- being given orders and another goddamn creepy-ass dead horse.

“Uhhh… Would you rather climb up my right shoulder… or left?”

The witch cursed under her breath- she cursed him, and the goddamn morning, and the beautiful blue sky, and the dead horse, and that fucking smell of apples. She cursed the scenic picnic spot up against the rocks. She cursed the pretty little shady spot, near the creek, where late-year tulips bloomed around the tree trunks. She climbed up him as she cursed, and accidently kneed him in the chest twice as she climbed, and when she was on his shoulders she brought her foot forward and rubbed the side of it against his cheek, on accident, then planted her foot on top of his head. “Alright, captain- what am I looking for?” Flies buzzed below her. The dead horse didn’t look any better from higher up.

The horse Lestat was standing on took a step, and he wobbled, and Claire nearly fell- but he held her calf in one hand, and their cuffed hand in the other. “Clues! Signs of… something…” He was wobbling. “A path through the… grass- could you stop fucking moving!”

Claire glared down at him and wished she had coffee to pour on his damn head. How stupid. There was no blood splattered around in the grass. No tracks. No indentions. Malefica can be extraordinary witches, and they don’t dirty their feet by walking through the grass. They also don’t pick off a horse here and there- if they want horses, they can get a herd. She sighed. As if standing on a man, standing on a horse, was going to help them figure any- then, out of the corner of her eye, Claire saw a young woman, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, running through the grass, topless, and wearing just enough on her waist to not be considered bottomless. Just enough. Her hair bounced as she ran off towards a stand of walnut trees. Long red hair. Topless. Definitely a witch. Probably very pretty. There were two more witches, both young, both topless, one with red hair, and the other with long blonde hair, standing at the tree line, waiting for their friend. Between those three young witches there was perhaps enough fabric to make a single shirt sleeve. Huh.

“Well?”

“This is stupid. I don’t see anything.”