Of Thorns and Hexes

by C. J. Canady

  “You’ve got me locked in here with a witch!” My cellmate tugs against the chain, keeping her prisoner. “Get me out of here—”

  “Silence!” The Vicar smacks his hand against the bible, successfully shutting the woman up. Slowly, like an animal stalking his prey, the Vicar lowers to my level, squatting. He thumbs through the pages of his worn-out bible and reads a passage to me. “The wicked shall perish, for they are enemies of the Goddess. Her enemies shall perish like flowers in a field; they will disappear like smoke.” He wets his lips and sighs. “Who knew such a smart girl like you had such a wicked soul. So much potential gone to waste. Shall the hellfire of Parnissi welcome you into its eternal flame. May the Goddess have mercy on your soul, Elyse.”

  Chapter 5

  “DO ALL WITCHES LOOK like... you?” my cellmate asks. She gobbles down on a loaf of bread and slurps the water the guard provided for her.

  I wasn’t given a meal. Not a morsel to alleviate the hunger pangs twisting my stomach to knots or a drop to quench my dry, hoarse throat. Isn’t it customary for a prisoner about to be executed to be served a final meal? Or does that only apply to humans?

  “Are you deaf or something?” My cell mate has been pestering me since the Vicar left, asking me a boatload of questions to which I have no answers. Through a mouthful of bread, she repeats her question, but this time adds, “Are they all bald? I thought witches had golden locks like mine.”

  My head snaps in her direction, concern bunching my brows together. “What do you mean, bald?”

  Wiping her mouth, she says, “Are you sick or something? Can’t you, I don’t know, heal yourself?” She rakes a hand through her hair. “The bald look kind of works for you.” She squints at me, turns her head at odd angles.

  Startled, I reach for my hair but find not a curl or a coil. I palm both sides of my head, fingers nearly burrowing in my scalp, searching for my hair. I gasp, “M-My hair. It’s gone.”

  “And your eyebrows.” The mouse-voiced, annoying woman blurts out.

  Curling into a ball, I cover my face with my hands and burst into tears. I’m bald. This is how the citizens of Yardenfeld will remember me: a bald, unsightly witch. My face will be plastered on every newspaper, immortalized in pictures for all eternity. They’ll surely use my image to scare misbehaving children with threats that the bald witch will have them for supper should they disobey their parents. I can only imagine the horrible possibilities.

  Thoughts of my mum enter my already chaotic mind, mixed with the haunting image of Igbob’s melting flesh. His attempt to violate me. His dead body. I wonder if my mum hates me with every fiber of her being. Loathes me for murdering the man she was about to marry. Can she find it in her heart to forgive me?

  Should I really care, though? She stood there while he attacked me and almost... he almost...

  I curl into a tighter ball, hugging my legs to my chest. I’m not certain what time it is, but I’m praying death comes soon. That death is swift, easy, and painless. Death sounds promising in comparison to my challenging and pain-filled life. Death is more than welcome to take me away from my pitiful existence.

  I welcome it with open arms.

  “Here, kitty.” My cellmate makes clicking noises with her tongue. “What are you doing here, little guy?”

  Gently rolling on my side, I am met with yellow cat eyes that lower to slits as the black cat seemingly glares at me from behind the steel bars. It’s the same cat who’s been following me around. The same cat I saw last night—Vahilda’s cat.

  “What are you doing here?” I grumble at the feline.

  His tail swishes left and right as he belches a white, fluffy material, like a dandelion blowball. The blowball dances in the air and swirls to my cellmate, who reaches for the floating seed.

  “Make a wish,” a honey-smooth voice says from down the corridor. A clicking of high heels to stone reverberates through the prison. A deathly silent prison.

  I hadn’t noticed the noise of all the prisoners pleading for freedom, and the guards threatening to beat them into an early demise had disappeared. I was too caught up in my own worries about death, about my mum and Igbob’s dead body, that nothing else mattered.

  My cellmate’s head thumps against the floor with a bang, and loud snoring erupts from her tiny body.

  Vahilda appears, dressed in all black from head to foot. Even her lips and eyeshadow are a deep obsidian color. Her hair is wrapped in a silk cloth that accentuates her cheekbones, lifting and sharpening them like knives. Her curly hair is bunched together like a bouquet of coils.

  “Elyse,” she says, drums her fingers on the steel bar. “We meet again.”

  “W-What are you doing here?” I climb to my feet but press a hand against my sore ribs. Gently padding my way to the bar, I fight against the hurt racking through me and lean my full weight against the cell door.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” She smirks, reaches a hand to cup my cheek. “Elyse, I’m here to save you.”

  “R-Really?”

  “I didn’t come all this way for nothing.” She tsks at me, shakes her head as her eyes scan my bald head and says, “A witch must never cast a spell without the aid of a medium. In Parnissi, we use flowers. In other parts of the world, those of magical blood use wands or gemstones.”

  “I... I didn’t know.” I cast my gaze to the prison floor, ashamed of my new, unexpected look. “I didn’t mean to... Igbob tried to...” my voice falls to nothing but a whisper.

  “I know, Elyse.” My name carries a motherly weight on her lips. There is something about Vahilda that is warm and kind. And something... dark. But maybe that’s just the witchy energy she exudes. “Before I can free you,” she says as she rolls up her sleeve and shows me her tattoo. Upon closer inspection of the star-shaped drawing on her arm, I noticed that the star has numerous points, and interconnecting triangles with tiny, cursive writing within them.

  Vahilda magically conjures a rose with her left hand and leans the flower stem through the gap between the bars. “Prick your finger on the thorn and tap that same finger in the center of the star.”

  I hesitate, taking a single step back from her. I wish my knowledge about witches was more extensive than the little I do know about their kind. About my kind. Something about pricking my finger to draw blood is unnerving. Disgusting. Final. This whole thing feels like some sort of contractual agreement. Some sort of bond. If I don’t ask the right questions, then who knows what I’m in for. Can I really trust Vahilda? I know she intends to free me from my certain death, but, as with all contracts, there is a price to pay. A deal I must uphold.

  “I don’t know.” I hide my hands behind my back and chew on my bottom lip with concern.

  “What do you mean by that?” Vahilda lifts her chin and quirks a brow. “You’re about to die come nightfall, and I’m doing what your father asked of me—to save you. His daughter.”

  “I-I know.” I shrink back a step more. I’m grateful, yes. The father that I never had the chance to know has sent Vahilda to save me. If I’d taken her offer yesterday, I wouldn’t be here. “But I don’t know if I fully trust you. That tattoo on your hand is some sort of contract, right?”

  “Why, yes, it is.” Vahilda is honest with me, at least. She doesn’t even try to hide the fact, doesn’t even try to lie.

  “What does it mean?”

  “This contract allows me to bring you to Parnissi. Witches born outside of the magical world are forbidden to enter unless a witch or wizard brings them there.”

  I lock eyes with her, searching for an untruth. She’s holding back something else; I can almost sense it in the way her face twitches. “There’s something more, isn’t there?”

  “As much as you need my help—”

  “I never asked for your help.”

  “Don’t interrupt me while I am speaking.” Vahilda bares her teeth at me. “Have you no manners?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say softly.

  “Venturing to Parnissi is n
ot a free ride, Elyse,” she continues; the warmth that vanished seconds ago is back and brighter than ever. “As a witch, you must practice, practice, practice. And you must enter the Flower Trials. All witches and wizards of about your age participate in the flower trials whenever an Elite steps down from their seat at the council.”

  “The Flower Trials?” I want to ask her more about this, about everything, because I can’t contain the buzz of excitement bubbling inside of me. I’ll learn how to use my magic. I’ll meet others who are just like me. I’ll have a fresh start. A new beginning. It’s exactly what I wanted. Well, minus the magic parts of it. But I’ve always dreamed of running away to a far-off land where no one knows my name.

  “I’ll explain more once we’re in Parnissi.” Vahilda winces and grits her teeth. “We must hurry. My magic cannot be sustained for so long. With age comes lesser magical capabilities. And you, Elyse, are at that prime age where all things are possible. You have so much potential, so much untapped magic flooding through your veins. All I need for you is to do this one thing for me.” She stretches the thorny stem of the rose further into the cell, a pleading smile on her face.

  Reaching for the stem, pointer finger outstretched, quivering, I ask, “What’s in it for you? Surely, you want something out of this, correct? The Flower Trials sound like a big ordeal. I assume that you’re going to train me, but at what cost?” My mind is scrambled with more questions and concerns, but for now, I believe I’m in the clear. I think I’ve asked her all the right questions...

  Vahilda sighs a breathy sigh. It’s one that carries whatever weight has been on her shoulders, of which she rolls backward and relaxes. “For over a thousand years, since the inception of The Flower Trials, a wizard has always claimed the coveted spot of the Elite. Nineteen years ago, your father, Edwin, successfully completed the Flower Trials. I, however, did not. I came in second place. But there are no trophies for those who come second...,” she pauses, cranes her neck to her left and right, and mutters a curse under her breath.

  The din of the prison slowly crawls back to life. Guards frantically bumble about what happened, about why they had fallen asleep on the clock. Prisoners begin to call for the guards, concern rising throughout about the lunch they’ve eaten and if it was laced with sleeping additives. Or poison.

  Vahilda continues, but hurriedly so, “After Edwin’s death, I assumed that I’d be picked to become an Elite... I was wrong. The wizard who had surrendered his seat reclaimed it once more because he—as well as all other wizards—did not feel like a woman, a witch, deserved the title of Elite.” She thrusts her arm deeper between the bars, her shoulder squeezing through just enough to bring the stem of the rose closer to my finger. “You and I can change history, Elyse. We haven’t got much time.”

  “Hey, you!” A guard screams.

  Fear floods Vahilda brown eyes that beg me to take the offer.

  A clattering of armor plating and unsheathed swords erupts from down the corridor. Steel-laden footsteps clang against the stone floors, birthing anxiety in Vahilda’s entire body. A stream of tears slips down the witch’s beautiful visage, a silent plea for my cooperation.

  Pricking my finger on the thorn, I cringe from the slight stab of pain—blood pools on the tip of my finger, a crimson droplet that will seal my fate. Vahilda heaves a breath, quickly flourishes her right hand into the cell.

  “Quickly, Elyse.” She shows me her tattoo. The black, inky drawing of the star glows with white. This beckoning white light promises freedom to a girl about to face her execution.

  Tapping my bloodied finger in the center of Vahilda’s tattoo, it emits a wave of sparkling spirals of powdery pearl that wash over me. Floral aromas assault my nose in breathtakingly pure smells of a garden full of thriving plant life.

  In the blink of an eye and a few meows from Vahilda’s cat, I am transported to a world alive with a prism of beautiful flowers. I stand firm atop a bed of lush, green grass, bare feet digging into the brown soil. A gust of warmed wind whips at my face, caressing my skin. A chill runs through me. I am speechless as I gawk dumbfoundedly at the flowery landscape around me. The sun, a bright orange ball of joy in the clear blue sky, shines a heavenly light on a town bustling with movement. A town alive with the thrum of magic in the air. A town filled with witches and wizards.

  Parnissi is marvelous.

  Chapter 6

  THIS IS PARNISSI? THIS is the underworld where all the evil magical beings are born? This is the place where I, a newfound witch, was supposed to burn for all eternity? Yet, the only warmth this world has to offer is from the noon sun high above. There aren’t screams of endless torture or pleas for the Goddess to forgive the damned of their sins. I hear laughter from children who frolic about in a nearby playground. There are cheers of celebration from a nearby sanctuary of some sort packed with well-dressed people. A bride, clad in a flowing white gown, and a groom in a dapper blue suit, are met with a downfall of rice and confetti.

  The confusion on my face and the gasp that leaves my body is all that I can muster as I try to make sense of Parnissi. Parnissi is not what I’ve been told it should be. Parnissi is... captivating. Parnissi is a wonderland of flowers, people, shops, and fruit stands. It’s like... It’s just like Yardenfeld but bigger, grander, and fresher. My lungs aren’t clogged with the heavy stench of horse manure or smog from the textile factories.

  Inhaling a breath, I am not only greeted by the smell of flowers but by the zest of something magical. Something akin to watching the sunrise on the horizon. I always get goosebumps whenever I witness the golden-yellow sphere yawning awake. But, still, everything I can think of to adequately describe Parnissi is not enough. Everything I thought would exist here... doesn’t.

  Everything I’ve read, everything I’ve been told, is a lie.

  Vahilda eases down the grassy knoll, flowers tilting politely away from her as she ambles toward the pavement buzzing with life. Fruit vendors wave at her as she passes by each stand, offering her the best quality fruit in all of Parnissi. Vahilda’s cat bounds from one stall to the other, its nose twitching as he smells every odd-shaped fruit.

  “We’ve got fresh dragon fruit here.”

  “Plums. Plums. And more Plums.”

  “Kiwi’s and bananas.”

  I trail a few steps behind Vahilda. I’m still captivated by pretty much everything happening around me. The smells. The sights. The sounds. A harpist strums a melodic tune that’s music to my soul. The harpist is surrounded by men, women, and children smiling from ear to ear as they bob their heads side to side. I find myself even feeling the music; rocking on my heels as I try to keep up with Vahilda. She moves easily on her feet, almost like she’s in a rush.

  Vahilda, the cat, and I walk for what feels like fifteen minutes before we reach a one-story, gothic home. The house, coated in a deep obsidian black, rests on an isolated plot of land far away from the noise of the town. Vahilda descends a smoothed, pebbled pathway that snakes toward the stained-glass front door of a rose in bloom.

  Opening the door, Vahilda announces, “Welcome home.” She points a finger to a door down a short hall. “Please freshen up before supper.”

  I nod my head, turning this way and that as I enter the witch’s domain. The floorboards creak beneath me, giving away the age of the house, which must be over a hundred years old. The home’s living area features a velvet loveseat with plush, tasseled pillows at both ends and a coffee table lit aglow from a quartet of white candles atop. And my favorite, a bookshelf that’s twice my height, is stocked with so many books that I stop to observe Vahilda’s fascinating collection. The spines of most of these books are worn and falling to pieces, which means they have more of a story to tell than the newer, shinier ones.

  Reaching for the bookshelf with eager fingers, I am startled by Vahilda as she clears her throat.

  “You’ll have plenty of time to read, Elyse.” Vahilda comes to stand beside me and lays a hand on my shoulder. With her free hand, she
plucks a rather thick book from the shelf. Blowing off the years of dust, she reads the cover. “The Floret Tome is required reading for any witch or wizard. With the Flower Trials in two weeks, I say you haven’t much time to waste.”

  My head snaps to her. “T-Two weeks?” I’m practically breathless as I speak, “How in the world can I learn so much in such little time?”

  “Fear not, young witch.” Vahilda holds her head high, poised. “Are you forgetting that I completed the Flower Trials nineteen years ago? With my help, you’ll be a winner just like your father.”

  Just like my father? I don’t even know the man, and yet hearing about his success stirs something confident-like within me. I have no clue what the Flower Trials entail, but I’m excited about the magical possibilities ahead. Excited to start my new life in Parnissi.

  After washing off the smell of death and prison from my body, Vahilda awards me with a wardrobe of exquisite dresses and nightgowns, which she used to wear in her youth. Slipping on a silk nightgown in my new bedroom, containing a single, twin-sized bed and a window overlooking a small flower garden, I hurry to the dining room.

  “Thank you so much, Vahilda,” I say, nostrils flaring, attempting to successfully uncover what Vahilda has cooked for supper. “I feel so much better after my bath—” I lose my train of thought and freeze the instant I round the corner to the dining room.

  A young man with golden curls, pearly white skin, deep ocean blue eyes, and a dashing smile greets me with a glass of wine in hand. “And who might this lovely lady be?” He scoots back. The chair he sits in scuffs the wooden floor beneath. On his feet, he bows at his hips in a suit too baggy for his thin frame. “I’m Percy. Nice to meet you.”

  I jump back, alarmed by the handsome man in Vahilda’s home. Covering my newly bald head, I tremble from my shoulders to my toes. “V-Vahilda. There’s a-a man here.”