Cursed

by R D Blake

  Joined with these was the memory of a feeling, which raised the hair on the back of her neck, of something evil and sinister snuffling and creeping behind her lusting for her to only turn back into its foul grip. Marta quickened her pace, but then it seemed darkness descended fully upon the swamp as if a curtain had been dropped in front of her. Marta’s feet came to a stop of their accord. How would she ever find her way — back or forward? Suddenly, a flickering light appeared ahead of her. Without another thought, Maria hurried along, unmindful if she remained on the path or not. Her last steps were akin to pushing her way through immense, thick strands of cobwebs; but with her next stride Marta found herself in a small clearing, a broken down cabin taking up near half of its expanse. In front this derelict stood a woman who bore every appearance of having been waiting for her.

  Bent over, her face hidden mostly in shadows, the rest covered in a ragged bonnet, she took a shuffling step toward a smouldering fire over which a small cauldron bubbled. The green eyes of the hag glimmered red in the fire light and her body was wrapped in the mists and smoke and fumes as if they were her only garments. The fire too, glowed oddly, as if it was not of this reality at all — but of another world and time.

  “Come, child. I have expected you,” the old woman uttered in a crackle of voice. “In fact, I led you here.” Uncertainly, Marta stepped forward, her intentions losing their once firm foundations, now that she was here in this sinister, gloomy place. But the figure beckoned her closer. “I know the reasons why you have come to me, child. I have sensed the unfairness of your plight: the cruelty done to you — you who should be not denied the rewards of your youth. Yes, you are so lovely, so full of life and desire. Should it not be this way? Should you not have what you want? Not to be thwarted from the fulfillment of your simple needs? You have come to me for my counsel. I will give it to you freely if you will as freely accept it and bear it. Speak now. State what you wish of me.”

  Slowly, Marta began, as if her tongue were not her own. Stuttering, still unsure, but seemingly with each additional word that passed by her lips, her accusations grew firmer, stronger, harsher; for unbidden into her mind came images of Yorges and Ilena dancing after she had left, the two of them touching, and then suddenly leaving the crowds and the festival, seeking to be alone to share their own private embrace and to explore the delicious sensations of their lips touching each other’s: the kisses that were to be hers! Marta’s youthful feelings burned anew.

  So without further thought, with no sense of the invisible goading that had been ensorcelled upon her, Marta asked for a curse to be placed upon her sister and in the flame and fire of her heart, requested that for as long as Ilena lived, that she turn uglier each day — that as she awoke, Ilena would find herself less fair, less desirable and that it continue until her death. So Marta uttered these black, evil, merciless words — almost as if they were not her own. Yet she was not finished. Marta wished for Yorges to see plainly the error of his foolish ways: that he had chosen wrong — that his own desires had proved false to him — that he never would wish for any part of Ilena.

  So Marta asked. The crone hid her eagerness well, only giving by way of reply: “What will you offer for such a powerful curse, young one; for the powers that I will call upon are hard and not generous. They seek a payment: a profit for their efforts.”

  Marta hesitated. She had not thought of a price to pay. All she wished for was justice seasoned with revenge. Marta drew back to think and consider if she should simply leave: abandon this adventure, give up on this form of vengeance, and seek another way to reap it. She glanced about her; but the mists now enfolded her, and only the witch and the fire were visible to her eyes, revealed in the yellow-red glow of its embers. Only then did it occur to Marta that she has no idea of how to return.

  Suddenly, the hag was beside her, grasping her arm in her damp, bony hands. Marta stammered out: “I will give, I will give — a full tithe to the church.” The old woman screeched at the utter loathsomeness of such an idea. “Then, then a — a kitten, a dress…” The crone’s eyes only became angrier, turning from green to blackness. “The first full sovereign I ever earn.” A princely sum in Marta’s mind, as she grasped for some other idea.

  “No, no, no, not good enough by far, child. It must be something personal. Something of yourself. Nothing less will be accepted by the powers I serve!”

  Marta tried to pull her arm out of the grasp of the old woman; but despite her thinness and emaciation, so obvious now that the crone was up close to her, the hag proved too strong. “Oh, truly, I did not think of the need to give anything. Only that Ilena bear the same pain that she has caused me! To be rejected as I have been!” Marta cried out in her anguish.

  “Then let me, dearest child, let me chose for you. The cost will no be more than you can easily bear. Trust me, young one. Let me be the one to choose for you.”

  By now, Marta only wanted to go home — to get away. Hastily she agreed, though not until many months later, nay years later, among many things that Marta came to rue, this accord was one she would ever wish to take back.

  Released from her iron grip, Marta almost stumbled to the ground. But the witch ignored her now, turning back to her cauldron, stoking the fire with a few knotty, gnarled brands placed nearby. In the flare of the new flames, Marta watched the old crone search through several pots scattered about on the ground, muttering incomprehensively, taking a leaf here, a pinch of dust from there, a piece of root bitten off with her few remaining black teeth, a hank of cobweb from another. All was gathered, then tossed into the cauldron which the witch began to stir, continuing to mutter what to Marta’s ears could only be incantations, making odd, sudden motions with her hands, swaying about, legs shuffling in a bizarre dance, with her face heavenward and then down to the ground as if in an appeal. Shivers ran up Marta’s spine, down into her arms and her hands as other ghastly voices began to join in from about this small glade — sounding out from the mists that now were thick and impenetrable, gleaming in a pale, ill-looking, greenish glow.

  More ingredients were added. The frenzy of the witch grew to a higher pitch. Finally with a scream or a shout or was it someone else’s voice? — she stopped. The cauldron had grown from black to cherry red over this time, bubbling vigorously, ejecting a foul smoke. The witch gave it one final stir and then grasping a ladle scooped out a portion into a charred wooden bowl. Within moments, the vicious brew settled into complacency. The crone, with a quick glance at Marta, used a pair of metal pinchers to draw out a gleaming silver shape much like a rose thorn. The old woman chortled for a moment, a red light glistening in her green eyes once more. Then her countenance became more sombre, serious and she capped the sharp end of the article with a bit of bark and then wrapped a gauzy film of material about it. Then, without her permission, the witch reached and placed the tiny package within Marta’s bodice. A sudden cold emanation coursed through all of her, but it ebbed away as quickly as it came. Yet the presence of the thorn continued to press against her skin: now a reminder of Marta’s pledge.

  “One prick only, that is all that is needed,” the crone said by way of instruction. “And take care. It would work on you, dearest child. Once done, her fate will be sealed and all that you desire will come to be. As will your own fate. Remember that, young one. She will become as you wish and the change at first will be rapid, so that you can believe in your own heart that the powers have honoured your request.” The witch shut her eyes while her lips twisted into a semblance of a cold, dreamy grin. Then her green orbs snapped open. “Then its pace will lighten but know this as truth: each and every day that your sister continues to live she will become less fair, uglier, truth be told repulsive to all that behold her, and none will pity her or care for her. All will call her cursed, as she truly is, and she will be cast out from all humankind; for she will no longer be considered to be of your own race.”

  Marta swallowed hard. This was more than she wished for Ilena. No — not all of
this. But she felt herself in the witch’s power and could make no protest.

  The crone drew nearer and grasped the cloth of the arm of Marta’s dress and peered into her eyes. “But I must warn you. The powers that grant you this boon must obey a greater law; for the Creator of all, though we honour Him not, will provide a way, a miniscule means by which the curse may be lifted and overturned. I know not this way, but understand and accept this too, child; for we all, we who live within His World, live under His Power. There is a chance that He or fate will turn the curse away. Now go, leave me, for I have given all I can this dark night and must rest to serve mankind again another day as I have you. The witch turned away, laughing in a manner than caused Marta to shudder.

  Suddenly, she was alone again. In moments, the fire under the cauldron dwindled to embers. The damp, cold, clawing touch of the mists began to tighten about her. Frantically, Marta looked about seeking a means to flee this place. The murk of the night and the deepening, fretful silence only added to her growing fear of what had transpired scant minutes ago. Thus Marta remained locked in one place, for she knew not how long, until a hollow sounding breeze picked up and began to blow about her. The vapours within which she stood commenced swirling and twisting slowly, tenuously releasing their clammy grip upon her. First one, then two, then all the stars of the night sky appeared above her with the moon set within their midst. In its cold light, the path she had taken to arrive here reappeared.

  At first her steps were slow and careful, but as the distance increased Marta felt the icy grasp of that scant clearing leave her and she came to feel free to run. It seemed only after few quick steps and several turns, Marta found herself back out on the main road, with the evening much as she had left it and the sun still glimmering at the edge of the world and nary a star yet appearing in the east. Contrary to all sense, the sounds of the festival reached to where she stood, yet Marta was glad to hear them and see the soft glow of the town not too far off in the distance through the trees.

  Pulling up the hem of her dress, Marta raced back along the road, her lungs aching and her calves tightening into knots by the time she passed again through the empty gates. All, it seemed, were still at the celebration; but Marta had only thoughts of home and swiftly she returned there. Once safely inside she closed the front door firmly and then tripped up to her room and within its shelter drew out the wrapped pin. But she did not uncover it, only moving to hide it under a loose floor board and spent what remained of the evening staring at that place where it now lay concealed. Thoughts of her deed sawed back and forth within her. Could she do it? Should she? Did she truly wish it?

  ______Ω______

  Chapter Two

  By morning, despite an anxious and restless sleep filled with too many dreams of Ilena and Yorges together, Marta decided that she had been foolish and whether the witch truly had any power or not, she would cast the pin away, burn it or otherwise destroy it. She could not do this to Ilena despite her sister’s perceived callous cruelty. And Marta remained so determined until she was joined by other girls of the village as she travelled to the baker on an errand for her mother.

  These young ones who joined Marta talked of nothing but of the festival, of their own preparations, of their hair, of their dresses, of the boys whom they particularly liked or disliked, and of their own secret wishes: those that had come true, and those that lamentably would have to await another year. And as natural for their kind and of their age, they unknowingly and without malice, lightly teased Marta about Yorges; though none with her would ever admit to it freely, they knew of Marta’s infatuation with the miller’s son. The other girls tittered at his silliness and his gape-eyed watching of Ilena as she had danced. And one said in open innocence: “Oh, to be adored as Yorges adores Ilena. That would be more than one would hope for, do you not think, Marta?”

  Those foolish, ill-thought words caused Marta to forget all of her earlier choice. She was being mocked (but in truth Marta was not, though it was a long time, with much reflection, and requiring an older woman’s wisdom to understand completely). If Marta had only known that her sister had fled to their parents after she had left and had almost hid behind their mother to avoid Yorges again, she might have still acted differently. Or if she had been aware that her father had observed what had happened and had spoken firmly to the strapping youth, stating in no uncertain terms that Yorges had no business thinking and feeling what he was, and that he had no welcome at their home until such time as he learned truly how a man should treat and consider a young girl who was barely beyond the edge of childhood, Marta might have stayed firm in her earlier convictions. But none of that was known to Marta. All she knew was the hot flame of her jealousy.

  She hurried along. After carelessly purchasing what was needed from the baker, she rushed home looking for Ilena. But before she was turned out of the house once more, she retrieved the thorn, now fully intent again on her purpose. One might consider that Marta was ensorcelled herself and that might be as close to the truth as any other when evil lives and strives in the world.

  Marta was sent out to seek for Ilena. Her mother had asked her sister to pick flowers for the evening’s table, but now she was needed back home. Marta knew Ilena was more than likely outside the town down by the lower creek where the wild flowers still flourished despite the lateness of the autumn season. For all knew after games, dancing, and the animals of the forest, what Ilena loved best was the touch and the look of flowers. And the thought of bright blossoms only served to goad Marta on.

  It had only been last week when Ilena had weaved a crown made out of flowers. Marta had begged to have them, holding onto a hope that Yorges would see her wearing them — for their path that day would cross the miller’s home; but Ilena had refused, intending to give them to a mutual friend. Now, that free generosity of spirit only served as another example of Ilena’s plotting to have Yorges all to herself! Or so it seemed now as Marta’s fury grew. With only one thought, with one black feeling, Marta sought out her younger sister.

  And so Marta found Ilena down by the creek, sitting among the tall grasses by the side of the rushing, gurgling water, a vast mound of flowers already gathered by her side, more than what would ever be sensibly needed. It seemed Ilena was doing nothing at the moment, her head thrown back, her eyes shut, and her face to the sun, revelling silently to some music only she could hear. Her body swayed in time to a tempo perhaps prised out of the flow of the water near her and accentuated by the nearby fluting calls of some wild birds warbling out an autumn song.

  “What are you doing, lazing about?” Marta asked sharply, and then adding a lie: “Mother expected you home well before now, not sitting idly down here.”

  Ilena opened her eyes, dreamily looking up at her sister. “Oh, Marta, I lost track of the time; for the weather is fair today, is it not? And I wished to be away from the town.” Marta would not allow her sister to say more, ordering her to her feet and helped, intentionally, to gather up some of the long stemmed flowers. At the same time, she drew forth the silver thorn from her pocket, and after fumbling for a tight moment, freed its end. Marta handed the bouquet to her sister who had slowly gotten to her feet, first working at brushing off her skirts.

  “You are so kind, Marta,” Ilena said as she reached for them. But a moment later, she yelped out in pain. “Ow!”

  Marta had secured the thorn in such a fashion within the bundle of flowers and through the use of her own fingers that its point nicked the palm of her sister’s hand. As promised by the witch, a moment later the cursed article dissolved into dust. Dropping the blooms, Ilena sucked at the small wound. “It hurts, Marta — but I wonder what it could be. There were no thorns among the flowers I picked today.”

  Only shrugging her shoulders slightly, Marta made to return to the road leaving her sister to gather the flowers again and join her. “Perhaps there was thorn bush underneath where you placed them? It matters not. Now come; Mother felt it urgent that you return. And I ha
ve spent my free time looking for you. She has other tasks for me as well as for you.”

  As they journeyed home side by side, for the most part silent, with Ilena nursing her palm, Marta observed his sister sidelong, watching discreetly for any change. But there was none for the magic of the curse would only work in the dark of the night (for so do the powers that oppose the Creator choose to do their chief nefarious work) and unknown to both girls the end of the pin had broken off (as was ever the intention of the witch) and it now rested deep with the flesh of Ilena’s hand, its poisons now moving to penetrate all of her. So would the curse begin its first effects upon her body.

  ______Ω______

  A pair of black beady eyes surrounded by even blacker, oiler feathers rose from regarding the two young girls and with a flap of its wings, left its perch and flew onwards returning to its mistress, though even in its small dark mind, it knew its news would already be known to the one it served.

  ______Ω______

  During the remainder of the day and that night, Marta watched on but saw nothing, and in a fashion, Ilena’s sister felt a sort of relief. Now, she regretted her black thoughts; for Marta’s jealousy had cooled and Ilena had been kind to her, helping her with her own tasks, seeking to make up for Marta having to search her out by the stream. Just before they went to their rooms that night, Ilena drew Marta aside, apologizing for the acts of Yorges again, and admitting to being still confused by his words and deeds.