The Near Witch

by Victoria Schwab

  No evidence. I am no longer surprised. The wind came in and stole Emily from her small bed. I can picture it. A quilt peeled back neatly, exposing the pale sheets, cool and empty. Maybe they found her charm on the bedside table, cast off like blankets on a warm night.

  Wren wiggles out of my arms, her own pouch still around her wrist, smelling sweet and earthy. I bring my fingers up to it as a breeze weaves through.

  I shiver and see that the front door is open.

  That’s when I realize how late it is, the sun already too high. As if on cue, I hear my uncle’s heavy tread across the threshold, and my breath catches in my throat.

  Cole.

  The planted evidence.

  Wren escapes, flitting down the hall to Otto. She nearly runs into him, throwing her arms out at the last minute for a hug. He catches her, lifting her up and wrapping his heavy arms around her.

  “Morning, Wren,” he says into her hair before setting her down.

  His eyes meet mine for a moment, and then, to my surprise, he smiles.

  “Good morning, Lexi,” he says, his voice even.

  I try not to let the shock make its way into my face. “How are you, Uncle?”

  Then I notice his sleeves, pushed up and dirty, a long scratch down one forearm.

  “What did you do?” I ask, eyes narrowing.

  Otto rolls down his sleeves carefully. “I did what had to be done.”

  I try to rush past him, but his hands are too fast, grabbing my wrist.

  “Did you go to him? Try to warn him?” he asks.

  “What are you talking about?” I pull back.

  His fingers tighten and I wince, trying to break free as Tyler spills into the hallway.

  “So help me, Lexi, I told you not to disobey me.” Otto’s voice is choked. “Don’t you see what you’re doing? What you’ve already done?”

  “Otto,” says my mother behind him, her voice stronger than I have heard it in months. “Let her go.”

  My uncle abandons his grip at once, as if he did not notice he was hurting me, and I stumble back into Tyler, who seems all too eager to catch me.

  I swallow all the curses rising in my throat as I push past him out of the house.

  “I cannot save her now,” Otto mutters as I go.

  There are red finger-shaped lines on my wrist, but I can’t feel anything but anger and frustration and most of all fear for Cole and the sisters. I take my boots from beneath my window, abandoning my father’s knife and my cloak, ignoring the brisk late summer air. I can’t go back inside. I don’t have time.

  Otto’s threats rise in the air behind me, but I don’t look back.

  The first thing I see is smoke.

  But as the cottage comes into sight, I realize it’s coming from the chimney; the air has gone from cool to cold in a matter of days. The front door hangs open, and even from the path I can see the table overturned within, the floor littered with cups and bowls and leaves and other things that blew in. One of the kitchen chairs is sitting in the front yard, and in it, Magda. At her feet is a basket of sticks and stones, and she hums to herself as she works, as if nothing is amiss. Her tune mixes with the wind, so entangled that I cannot pick the two melodies apart. As I get closer, I can make out a few of the words of her song. They slip between her wrinkled lips with almost no consonants.

  “…village door, watchful eyes turned out at night, keep the evils out of sight…”

  She is building birds. Her gnarled fingers peel thread-fine strips from short straight sticks, and wrap the string around and between stones and scraps of wood. I hurry toward the house, scanning the moor for a swatch of dark gray between the pale green world and the pale blue sky. But all I see are rolling waves of grass. A fog has settled over everything. The backs of the hills bristle up from it like sleeping beasts.

  “Magda!” I call as I draw near. “What happened? Where’s Cole? Is he—”

  From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse, a shadow. And then he’s there, in the doorway, waiting for me.

  I run up the path and throw my arms around him. He staggers back a step but doesn’t push me away. His arms encircle me gently.

  “You’re here,” I say, breathless with relief. “I thought…I don’t know what I thought. Otto came home and was saying these things…about doing what had to be done. He accused me of warning you.”

  “I’m here,” he says. “It’s all right.”

  “What happened, Cole? Last night…and then this? I thought…” I fumble my words and tighten my grip, inhaling the scent of his gray cloak, fresh air with a hint of smoke.

  He bends his head, kissing the curve of my neck gently. I look past him into the house. “I warned Magda and Dreska,” he says into my shoulder, “but they refused to leave.”

  “Of course we did,” snaps Dreska, sweeping up a few broken plates, using the broom at once as a crutch and a tool. She stoops to grab the leg of an overturned stool and rights it by the fire.

  “What happened?” I ask, bending to pick up a basket.

  “What do you think happened?” says Dreska. “Your uncle and his men came up here looking for our guest, and when they didn’t find him, they made a mess of things.” She picks up a bowl. “As if he could be hiding under dishes.”

  “They came to the shed,” Cole adds, shaking his head. “I shouldn’t have removed their evidence.”

  “All the things they knocked around have been knocked around a hundred times before,” Dreska grumbles. “Put the basket on the table,” she adds, “once Cole has set the table right.”

  Cole slips away and turns the wooden table on its feet. Its surface is a web of scars and burns, but aside from the groan it gives at being set upright, it seems fine.

  “That’s why he asked me if I’d warned you,” I say, rubbing my arms for warmth. Cole notices and pulls his cloak off, settling it around my shoulders. It’s surprisingly soft and warm.

  Dreska hauls the kettle over to the hot fire.

  A few moments later, Magda toddles in with her basket of finished stick-and-stone birds. She lets it fall to the ground beside the door with a rattle. “Their eyes were full of dark things. That man is the worst,” she says.

  I feel the unexpected need to defend my uncle, even though he’s letting this happen. Even though there are still red marks on my wrist from his heavy fingers.

  “Otto doesn’t—” I begin.

  “No, not Otto,” says Magda, waving a hand. “The other one. The tall, bored-looking one.”

  “Bo,” I say, and the word comes out like a curse. “Bo Pike.” Behind my eyes I see him kneeling, planting the scraps of children’s clothes, his nose and his hair both pointing down at it.

  “This can’t go on.” I turn to Cole. “You can’t keep hiding from them. If Otto’s men manage to turn everyone against you, there will be nowhere to hide.”

  “I’m not leaving, Lexi.” His stubborn expression leaves me no room for argument.

  “Magda,” I say, meaning to change the subject. “Dreska.” The sisters do not look at me or stop their bustling, but I know they are listening, waiting for me to go on.

  “The Near Witch didn’t just fade away on the moor, did she?” I ask, my voice shrinking. “Something must have happened. Something bad.”

  Magda takes a deep breath and blows the air out. “Yes, dearie,” she says, slipping into a chair. Her body cracks like dead branches as she bends. “Something bad happened.” She casts a glance out the window at the rolling hills to the east, as though she’s afraid someone might be listening.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  Dreska stops sweeping, but only for a moment, and then redoubles her effort, the swoosh swoosh of the broom filling the room like static. The metal top of the kettle whistles as the water boils. Magda grabs a towel and, with both hands, hoists the kettle from the fire.

  “Tell me the end of the story.” I hesitate, then add, “The real ending.”

  The cups clank against each other as t
hey’re put on the table with the kettle and the sliced bread.

  Magda looks at me as if I’ve gone mad. Or I’ve grown up. It’s kind of the same thing. She opens her mouth, revealing the gaps where teeth are missing, but before she speaks, Dreska shakes her head.

  “No, no, no reason for that, dearie,” Magda says, fidgeting with a wooden stick she’s found on the floor.

  “I need to know,” I press, glancing at Cole. He’s taken up a place beside the open window. I wonder if it’s hard for him to be confined, if he needs fresh air. “If the Near Witch is stealing the children—”

  “Who said she was?” cuts in Dreska.

  “How could she?” adds Magda. “She’s dead and gone.”

  But the way they say it, it’s so guarded. They don’t believe a word of it. Cole gives me a small nod of encouragement.

  “I know you think it’s her, Dreska,” I say, trying not to crack under her stony glare. Neither sister speaks, but they exchange a series of glances. “I heard you with Tomas, in the village. You tried to tell him, and you both tried to tell Otto. They don’t believe it, but I do.”

  All the sound has gone out of the room.

  “And if we don’t find the culprit and the children soon…” My eyes flick to Cole beside the open window. Then to Magda, busying herself with tea, and Dreska, staring straight at me, almost through me, with those sharp eyes. This is my chance to persuade them.

  “Things are going to get worse. No one can figure out who’s taking the children. They’ll blame Cole, but it won’t fix anything. The children are going to keep disappearing. Wren is going to disappear, and I can’t sit by and wait for that to happen while they look for someone to blame!” I stare up at the ceiling, trying to compose myself among the wooden eaves. “We have to give them proof. We have to put things right.”

  Dreska gives me a heavy look, as if she can’t decide whether to tell me to go home, or confide in me.

  “Magda. Dreska. My father spent his life trying to make Near trust you. Now please trust me. Let me help.”

  “Lexi is the one who warned me, warned us about Otto’s men,” Cole finally adds.

  “And why are you so convinced it’s the Near Witch, Lexi Harris?” Dreska asks.

  “She could control all the elements, right? Even move the earth. She could cover tracks. And there’s this strange path, like a trail, on the tops of the grass.”

  Dreska’s eyes narrow a fraction, but she doesn’t interrupt.

  “So the only thing I don’t know is how she came back, and why she would want to steal the children in the first place. Will you tell me or not?” The words come out louder than I expected. They echo off the stone walls.

  Dreska’s face wrinkles, all the cracks working in toward the center, between her eyes. Magda hums the Witch’s Rhyme as she pours hot liquid over the old wire mesh strainers and into the cups. Steam winds up through the air, curling around her.

  Dreska casts one last glance at Cole, leaning up against the wall by the window, and shakes her head. But when she speaks, it’s to say, “Very well, Lexi.”

  “Might as well sit down,” adds Magda. “Tea’s ready.”

  “THE NEAR WITCH LIVED on the edge of the village,” Magda begins, “on the seam where Near met the wild world. This was many, many years ago. Perhaps before Near was even Near. And yes, it is true that she did have a garden, and it is true that the children liked to go and see her. The villagers did not bother her, but they did not befriend her either. One day, so it goes, a little boy went to see the Near Witch, and didn’t come home.” Magda stares into a corner of the room.

  Dreska is shifting around the space, clearly uncomfortable. She pulls the windows closed, and Cole winces, but she continues on, fiddling with the kettle and looking out through the glass at the darkening moor. The rain breaks at last, comes down hard and heavy against the house. Magda continues.

  “As the sun sank, and the day wound down, the boy’s mother went to find him. She reached that little cottage on the edge of Near, just over there.” And now Magda points over her sister’s shoulder, out past the house. “But the witch wasn’t home. The boy was there, though, in the garden, among the red and yellow flowers.” Her fingers grip her teacup.

  “He was dead. Dead as if he’d fallen asleep in those flowers and never thought to get up again. The mother’s screams could be heard, they say, even over the moor wind.

  “Later, the Near Witch returned home with her arms full of tall grass and berries, and other things that witches like to gather. Her house was engulfed in flames, and her precious garden stomped and scorched. A group of hunters was waiting.

  “‘Murder,’ they cried,‘murder!’” Magda’s voice cracks as she says it, and I wince. “And the hunters swooped down like ravens on the Near Witch. She cried out to the trees, but they were rooted and could not save her. She cried out to the grass, but it was small and flimsy, and could not save her.”

  The rain pounds against the stones of the house, and Dreska seems to be listening to her sister’s story with one ear, and the storm with the other. Cole stands in the corner and says nothing, but his jaw is tense and his eyes unfocused.

  “At last, the Near Witch called out to the earth itself. But it was too late, and even the earth couldn’t save her then.” She takes a long sip of tea. “Or so they say, dearie.” I can see it just the way she says, only it’s not the witch behind my eyes, begging the moor for help. It’s Cole. I shiver.

  “Goodness, Magda, the stories you tell,” Dreska says from her place at the windowsill. She turns away then, continues to busy her hands, moving a pot, pushing away a few stray leaves with her cane.

  Magda eyes me. “They killed the witch, the three hunters did.”

  “The three hunters?” I say. “The men who formed the original Council? They were given their title for protecting the village.”

  Dreska gives a short nod. “Weren’t the Council then, just young hunters, but yes. Men like your uncle, like that Bo. The hunters took the witch’s body out onto the moors, far, far out, and buried it very deep.”

  “But the earth’s like the skin, it grows in layers,” I murmur, remembering Magda’s nonsensical words in the garden. The old woman nods.

  “What’s on top peels back. What’s underneath works its way up, eventually,” she says, this time adding, “If it’s angry enough.”

  “And strong enough.”

  “It was a very wrong death for such a powerful witch.”

  “Over the years the body grew up and up until at last it reached the surface and broke through,” says Dreska, darkly. “And now at last the moor has been able to save its witch.” After a long pause, she adds humorlessly, “Or so we believe.”

  Again the sisters speak in their intertwining way.

  “She climbed up and out onto the moor,” says Dreska.

  “Now her skin really is made of moor grass,” adds Magda.

  “Now her blood is made of moor rain.”

  “Now her voice is made of moor wind.”

  “Now the Near Witch is made of moor.”

  “And she is furious.”

  The sisters’ words echo through the cottage, winding like steam around us. I suddenly wish the windows were open, even if the rain poured in. It’s hard to breathe in here. The dirt floor of the cottage seems to ripple as Magda speaks. The stone walls jostle.

  “That’s the reason that the children are disappearing now,” I say quietly. “The Near Witch is taking them to punish the village.…”

  Magda is still nodding, as steady as a water drip.

  The words from my father’s book, Magda’s words, slip back to me: The wind is lonely, and always looking for company. That’s exactly what the witch is doing, drawing them from their beds. I shudder.

  “But why only at night?”

  “Powerful though she is, she is still dead,” says Dreska.

  “Dead things are bound to their beds until dark,” says Magda.

  But there’s
something in their tones, something I’ve been trying to pinpoint this entire time. A softness when the sisters speak of the Near Witch.

  “You liked her,” I say, only realizing it as the words leave my lips.

  Something almost like a smile flickers on Dreska’s face. “We were children too, once.”

  “We played in her garden,” says Magda, stirring her tea.

  “We respected her.”

  I press my fingertips against my teacup until the heat radiates up my hands. All this time Cole has stood like a shadow on the wall, silent, unreadable. I wonder if he sees himself in the story, his own house burning to the ground. Or if he is witnessing darker things behind his eyes. But when he looks up from his corner, and meets my eyes, a sad almost-smile passes across his face. It’s thin, more for me than for him, but I mimic it, and pull my eyes back to the sisters.

  “She didn’t do it, did she? Kill that boy?”

  Dreska shakes her head. “Sometimes a life gets cut short.”

  “And we need someone to blame.”

  “The boy, he had a very bad heart.”

  “He lay down in that garden and went to sleep.”

  “And they killed her for it,” I whisper, teacup pressed to my lips. “You knew? All along you knew? Why didn’t you tell me? Why haven’t you done anything?”

  “Believing and knowing are different things,” says Dreska, returning to the table.

  “Knowing and proving are different things,” says Magda.

  The sisters are wearing matching frowns, deep and creased. In the corner, Cole’s face is cast in shadows again. And beyond the window, the rain is ebbing, but the sky is still dark.

  “We don’t know where the witch is buried,” says Dreska, with a long sweeping motion of her hand.

  “And we tried to tell them,” says Magda, tipping her head back toward the village. “Tried to tell the searchers right from the start, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  “Stubborn,” says Dreska. “Just as they were back then.”

  “As you said yourself, Lexi.” Magda turns her cup in small circles on the table. “The villagers will never believe it. Otto’s men will never believe it.”