Oliver Crum and the Briarwood Witch

by Chris Cooper

  After several tense moments, the back door slammed open. Perhaps the Witch assumed they had escaped out the back.

  “Light the lantern.”

  Oliver couldn’t tell who the woman was speaking to, but a moment later, he heard a noise that sounded as though someone was scraping two rocks together, accompanied by several sparks. After a few strikes from the flint, the wick of the metal lantern caught fire and cast a warm glow over the small earthen room and its inhabitants. Now that Oliver had a clear look at her face, he recognized the woman who had saved him. She was the one who’d called Elias a ‘weasel’ in the town meeting. But why did she save me? The question still lingered. Several wooden barrels lined the walls, some filled to the brim with a variety of root vegetables and others capped off with wooden lids, obscuring their contents.

  “How long should we wait here?” Oliver asked.

  The man shuffled to the other side of the room and slid one of the wooden barrels out of the way, revealing a small tunnel, carved out of the dirt wall behind it.

  “The tunnel will take us next door,” the woman said. Oliver had no clue who these people were, but they’d already saved him from certain death, and the tunnel was a much better alternative than facing the Witch, who had ravaged the storefront above them. The tunnel itself was just large enough to squeeze his body through, and he had to army crawl his way to the other side. The walls had been reinforced with a basic wooden frame, but his mild claustrophobia made them feel as if they were collapsing in on him, slowly surrounding him in a mud tomb. When he made it to the other side, he was relieved to find a formal basement, much like the one underneath Izzy’s bakery. The stone floor was cool against the palms of his hands as he pushed himself up onto his feet.

  The trio gathered around a large wooden table placed in the middle of the room. For a moment, Oliver sat there, facing the two complete strangers who had just risked their lives to save his.

  Perhaps due to the throbbing pain in the back of his head or the trauma of what had just happened, the only thing he could think to ask was, “Who are you?”

  The woman shot a look at the man across the table.

  “I’m Mercy,” she said, leaning over the table to shake his hand. She must have been in her early thirties, but her hand was coarse and calloused, as though it had seen decades of physical labor. “And he’s my brother, Gideon,” she said, nodding her head toward the beefy fellow across the table.

  He appeared to be the same age but was three or four times her size. He said nothing but replied with a simple smile and nod.

  “Don’t expect much of a conversation with him. Took a blow to the throat a few years back. His voice never recovered.”

  Gideon nodded in affirmation.

  “And your name?” Mercy asked.

  “I’m Oliver.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Oliver,” Mercy said.

  “Why did you save me?” he asked.

  “Didn’t have much of a choice now, did we?” she replied. “You are the only one, aside from Hale and the Witch, who has ever crossed the briars—the only outsider to enter the town since I’ve been alive. Thought maybe you could show us a way out.”

  “Simon Hale? Why do you call him Hale when everyone else calls him ‘the glorious leader’?”

  “It’s mostly for show. Most in this town hate the man, but he’ll sic the Witch on you if he gets wind of disobedience. Hale runs this town—has for the last few decades. Comes from a long line of great leaders although that trait seems to have skipped right over him.”

  “A line started by Nathaniel Hale,” Oliver filled in.

  “Correct. The family has passed down control of the town for generations, but Hale is the last in the line, aside from his daughter, but she could hardly pass as human.”

  “His daughter?”

  “The very same witch who’s been giving you hell,” she replied. “She’s Simon’s daughter. There are whispers the man is magically impotent. With the family name comes family magic. It flows down the bloodline but must have skipped a generation with Simon. Hale struggled to keep control of the town until the birth of his daughter. The Witch has more power than all of the Hale ancestors combined, but something isn’t right with her—not enough air to the brain during childbirth. Still, she can bend the world around her—control things with her mind.”

  Oliver could still feel the odd sensation of being lifted by his insides. “All the Hales could do this? Except for Simon?”

  “Not exactly. Magic shows itself differently for everyone. Thomas Hale could cause others to see things—unimaginable horrors.”

  Oliver’s mind was still struggling to follow. “So, this magic—is it just the Hales, then? What about you? Can you do it too?”

  Gideon put his hand to his mouth but couldn’t keep the snicker from escaping through his fingers.

  “Heavens no!” Mercy laughed. “There have been rumors of others like the Hale family, but those children rumored to show similar traits tend to go missing. Simon doesn’t like to be challenged.”

  “What about Simon’s wife? What happened to her?”

  “She died in childbirth. He could have saved her, but he insisted on saving the children instead.”

  “Children?”

  “The Witch was a twin, actually. They managed to save her although ‘saved’ is a relative term, but the boy only lived for a few years. Simon chains her like a beast during the day and sets her loose on the townspeople at night—anyone who dares to disobey him. Only one or two have come into contact with her and lived to tell the tale, but most simply vanish.”

  “I still can’t get her eyes out of my mind. One of them is—”

  “Stitched shut.” Mercy looked up from the table, face solemn. “I remember them too.”

  “You saw?”

  “A long time ago. I’ll never forget that wretched tapping sound. The three of us were working late in the shop one night.”

  “Three of you?”

  “My husband, Ezekiel, Gideon, and me. We all pay a protection fee, a kind of tax Elias collects throughout the year. Business was slow, and we couldn’t pay the increased fee. Didn’t go over well with Simon. It’s the scratches in the door. That’s how the Witch knows. He scratches a pattern in with the tip of his cane, like a curse, and that somehow draws her. Once he’s marked your door, you are destined for death. We heard the tapping at the door. Must be her fingernails, tracing the pattern. But then we heard the tapping everywhere. We knew for certain the Witch was coming for us, but there was no place for us to run, no place to hide but this very basement.”

  “He charges a fee to protect you from his own daughter?” he asked.

  “The fee pays for our protection from those outside the briars—protection from you, actually. According to Hale, we’re under constant threat from those outside the woods. That was one reason why you received such a harsh welcome. He claims there is an evil force trying to break into the town—trying to kill us all. But some in the town have grown skeptical. The only threat seems to be from Simon himself and his wretched daughter.”

  “So he set her loose on you,” Oliver prodded for her to continue the story.

  “When she came bursting through the door, she sent Gideon flying like a rag doll. The last thing he would ever say was ‘Run!’ He hit his neck on the wooden table. Ezekiel made me hide in the basement. I can still remember his face, pressed against the crack in the door, just before he pushed it shut. I knew I would never see him alive again, and I was right. Everything important was to be stripped away. His scream—it still haunts my dreams. I’m not sure exactly what happened next, but I could hear him being dragged across the floor, the heels of his boots catching the edges of the floorboards. So, like a fool, I opened the door. I just couldn’t sit there and wait, so I cracked the door to peek out into the store. When I saw his face, I nearly fainted. His jaw looked as if she had tried to tear it off. Just before she vanished into the night, she whipped her head round, as
if she knew I was watching. That’s when I saw her eyes, one stitched shut and the black of the other runny like a broken egg yolk. I don’t know why she spared us—maybe she had gotten what she came for—but I swear she saw me. Eventually, she turned round and faded into the night.”

  Mercy stopped. Although she was sitting with two others in the basement, she appeared to be alone, isolated by anguish. She was a million miles away, thoughtlessly stroking her long brown locks. Somehow, her features had softened in that moment, revealing a vulnerability hidden behind a mask of austerity. Oliver wasn’t sure what to say, so he said nothing but just sat with them in the impromptu moment of silence.

  Gideon reached across the table and put a hand on hers. This seemed to lull her out of the temporary daydream.

  “Sorry,” she said. “Somehow we managed to keep the shop going—I don’t know how. But something started to happen after that. I began to notice subtle gestures, mumblings of discontent when people would visit. There were others who wanted to break free from Simon’s oppression—those who had lost loved ones because of him. So I began to pry, very cautiously. A few groups of people exist in this town, those who want to bring their glorious leader back, who fear what will happen without his protection, and those who rejoiced when he stepped through the briars a few weeks ago and never returned.”

  “Which side has the coin, then? The coin is the only thing keeping him out of Briarwood,” Oliver said.

  Mercy looked down at the table. “Not either side, unfortunately. The man who nearly broke your nose… he’s Richard Bennett. He sits on a third side, those who recognize the tremendous opportunity that presents itself when a tyrant leaves an empty throne behind.”

  “He wants the power for himself?” Oliver asked.

  “And he’ll be testing the key in short order.”

  “But why leave if he’s vying for power?”

  “The power to leave is the greatest power one can have in this town, aside from control of the Witch. It brings true freedom and access to all the knowledge of the outside world,” she replied. “Simon brings artifacts back whenever he crosses over. Sometimes it’s new technology, seeds, medicine, and other things we need to live. If Bennett is able to cross over—if he has the key-it’s only a matter of time before others rally behind him.”

  “Then we have to get it back,” he said.

  “Absolutely right,” she replied. “Fortunately, we have a few eyes and ears around town who will let us know when he wanders to the woods. He’ll use the Witch as an excuse to take control, promising to keep the townspeople safe. If he’s smart, he’ll find Simon when he’s on the other side and do away with him. If rumor is true, Simon is useless without his witch, and they are currently separated by the briars.”

  “And what are we going to do when Richard goes to the woods?” he asked.

  Oliver had forgotten Gideon was in the room with them, his silence causing him to disappear against the stone backdrop of the cellar. But at this question, Gideon hopped up and walked across the room. A heavy canvas sack of flour dangled from an old rope anchored to a ceiling beam. With one heavy swing, he brought his fist crashing into the flour sack, snapping the rope and sending the makeshift punching bag flying. It burst on the hard floor, flour spewing into the air like dust escaping from a beaten rug.

  “I may settle for a sword myself, but I believe Gideon has captured the general spirit of what we intend to do. If we don’t take the coin now, we may never have another chance.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Word came of Bennett’s planned march to the edge of the woods as the sun slowly crept over the horizon. A young boy tapped on the front door of the shop, and Mercy brought the news to Oliver and Gideon in the cellar.

  “It’s time,” she said. “We must go back through the tunnel.”

  Oliver held his breath as he moved through the narrow space as quickly as he could. He had no idea how Gideon managed to squeeze through since the walls nearly touched his shoulders on either side, but somehow, he managed.

  After the journey through the tunnel, Gideon attempted to lift the wooden hatch. He strained against it, but something must have fallen on top of it. He took his fist and pounded it against the planks.

  Oliver heard the cautious creak of floorboards above his head.

  “Mercy?” someone asked through the slats.

  “We can’t lift the door,” she replied.

  “Oh, praise be! I was worried sick,” the person responded. “The cabinet’s toppled over, and I can’t lift it. Come round front.”

  After another claustrophobic trip through the tunnel, Oliver climbed the basement stairs to enter the storefront above them. He had been curious to discover the business in which Mercy and Gideon dealt and was somewhat surprised to find the walls of the store were lined with clothing.

  “We must go next door. I’ll check to make sure no one watches. Gideon, find Oliver something to wear,” Mercy said, stepping outside.

  Gideon tapped Oliver on the shoulder and held out a set of clothes. Certainly, the townsfolk would recognize him in his normal garb, which was horribly out of place amidst the town’s odd fashion. He took the pair of brown cotton trousers, the olive-green button up, and the overcoat draped across Gideon’s massive forearm and changed in the corner of the store. Gideon had also set aside a pair of dark leather boots, which would surely hold up better in the woods than Oliver’s old sneakers. As he finished buttoning his shirt, a black derby caught his eye, hanging on the wall next to him. He wouldn’t have been able to pull off the hat back home, but this wasn’t home.

  “What about that?” he asked, pointing at it. “Need something to cover up my face, right?”

  Gideon shrugged, and Oliver grabbed the hat from the wall.

  After a few moments, Mercy returned and beckoned them to follow. They quickly shuffled outside and to the building next door. Oliver caught a brief glimpse of the sunrise, which cast a peaceful glow on the square. It probably wouldn’t be long until it was speckled with townsfolk going about their daily errands. He wondered if they lived their lives like the people in Christchurch, deadly witch and murderous leader aside. He read the wooden sign above the storefront, one he had been too in a hurry to notice before. A painted pocket watch adorned the front, and its chain underlined the sign’s text, which simply said Clockmaker. Oliver could only imagine the damage the Witch had caused amidst such a delicate operation.

  Mercy knocked on the wooden frame that had once held a door. A vibrant-red sheet hung in place of the heavy oak. The fabric was a flimsy replacement, and she brushed it aside to enter the store. The door itself still lay on the other side of the room, broken into splintered pieces scattered in a sea of glass and intricate watch mechanisms. Oliver felt a slight pang of guilt, knowing all this damage had been caused in an attempt to save him.

  He hadn’t been able to see the contents in the darkness, but now the sunlight from the window illuminated them, bouncing off glass faces and polished metal. The room was lined with ticking clocks. Wall clocks of various shapes and sizes hung on the patterned wallpaper, and several taller grandfather clocks sat on the floor, causing flashbacks to Oliver’s office cube and Mr. Sally’s angry spittle shower. His days in the city seemed so far away now. These clocks were different, though. The bodies were sculpted metal, and the intricate inner workings, typically hidden behind a box of carved wood, were on display for the world to see. The grandfather clocks had moving gears running down the lengths of their bodies. He knelt to get a closer look. As the gears rotated and shifted in the clock’s body, they created the illusion of a pendulum swaying back and forth. But the pendulum was just that, a mechanical illusion.

  The Clockmaker stood in the center of the room, sweeping his professional life into a heap on the wooden floor. His wispy gray hair billowed from the sides of his head like puffs of cotton candy although the top of his head was slick and barren.

  “I’m so sorry, Father,” Mercy said.

 
At first, he didn’t respond but simply stared into the pile.

  “Just things,” he said, after a long pause. “Things are replaceable… daughters are not.” He looked up at her with tired eyes magnified by a round set of wire-framed spectacles and underlined in bags undoubtedly caused by his daughter’s well-intentioned rebellion. The man had a slight hunch, perhaps caused by hours of tinkering with tiny gears and cogs. His apron hung loose from his body, somewhat masking his frame behind a curtain of forest green.

  “Bennett is going to the briars. We came for weapons,” she said.

  The Clockmaker let out a sigh and gestured toward the back room. The walls were lined with shelves of tools and containers of tiny pieces and screws. Half a dozen wooden barrels sat inconspicuously in the corner. Gideon wrapped his thick fingers around the cap of one of the barrels and jostled it loose. The old oak container had been filled to the brim with rice. His hand disappeared, up to the elbow, into the sand-like grains. He fished around for a moment, and the shuffling rice sounded like a warm spring shower. Then he pulled his hand out, gripping the handle of a long metal broadsword. After another search of the barrel, Gideon’s hand emerged again, holding a leather wrap.

  “I have a gift for you too,” the Clockmaker said from the other room. When they returned to the front of the store, he was fiddling with the side of a mahogany display case. With a slight tug, he pulled off the dark wooden back panel, revealing a compartment hidden behind the cabinet’s false back. The light caught the bottom of a purple velvet bag, which he carefully removed from the secret cubby. They followed him to the counter as he removed the object from the bag. At first, the weapon appeared to be just another blade, about a forearm’s length, with the same detailed designs and carvings as the clocks adorning the walls. Upon closer inspection, Oliver noticed the flourishes on the blade guard were actually gun hammers, and the decorative metal rounds, which extended along the sword like pipes from an organ, were barrels. The handle was curved, not quite as much as a handgun, but still enough to allow for comfortable aim at a target.