The Impaled Bride

by Rhiannon Frater

  In the fading light of the day, it appears a bit of the forest has broken off and waddled to the cottage. A child-size man stands on the threshold. His bushy beard and clothing are covered in thick green moss and his skin is the color of the forest floor.

  My mother’s shoulders relax at the sight of one of the moss people that inhabit the forest that surrounds our home. Bowing her head, she says, “Greetings, sir.”

  “Greetings and a warning, fair Viorica,” he says politely. “Der Leibhaftige has been seen on the path approaching the village.”

  My sister swears in German under her breath. When she directs her gaze toward me, I observe the fear dwelling in her eyes. Her hazel eyes have turned a vibrant green, a sure sign she is about to unleash her magic.

  “The devil?” I whisper in Romanian.

  Ágota nods. “Do as I say. Do not disobey me. Mama and I have planned for this.”

  “But the devil?” I gasp. “Why?”

  “He wants Mama,” Ágota answers, “and now he has found her.”

  Below us, the moss man and my mother speak rapidly in German.

  “The wards on the road are weakened. Earlier today two women from the village, bewitched by the alp, dug up many of the charms you buried.”

  “Why was I not told?” my mother demands. “We agreed—”

  “An alp saw me and I had to fight the demon all day. I only escaped when it scampered to the side of Der Leibhaftige when he appeared. I rushed here as fast as I could. There are a few charms still on the road. He will have to break through them, but it will not take him long.”

  “Then there is not much time,” my mother says, her voice trembling.

  The moss man bows his head. “We will do as we promised.”

  He departs with those words.

  My mother shuts the door, her long hand splayed against the aged wood. Lifting her blue eyes, she stares at us with tears in her eyes. “Agy, promise me you will do what we planned. Do not falter in your task.”

  “We should run now!” Ágota replies. “All of us!”

  “There’s no time. He will follow and catch us. I must do as I planned so that we can all escape together.”

  I am drowned in the fears of little Erjy. My adult mind, trapped within the confines of my younger one, struggles to scream out that she will fail, but I cannot change what has already happened.

  “Mama, please. Let us run now!” Ágota never sheds tears, yet she is weeping.

  “Then he will not have just one prize, but two. And I do not ever want to know what he will do to Erjy. We do as we planned.”

  Ágota wipes at her face with the bottom of her dress, spreading dust across her cheeks. “Mama, please, I am afraid.”

  Our mother pulls herself up on the ladder to peer into the loft. It is dark and cool in the small space. With gentle fingers, she cleans off Ágota’s cheeks and kisses her on the forehead. A swirl of golden magic glows on Ágota’s skin before fading.

  “Ágota, I trust and believe in you. Promise me you will do as we planned and do not falter.”

  “I promise. Witches oath.” Ágota lifts her chin, blinking away tears.

  My mother smiles. “Thank you.”

  I crawl forward and my mother kisses me. Her lips are warm against my skin. I raise my hand to my brow, wondering if magic lingers there, too.

  “Erjy, a very cruel and evil man is coming. He wishes for me to serve him, but I will not. I have laid a trap for him, but it will hold him only for a short time. You must obey Ágota. Everything she says you must do.”

  “I do not want him to hurt you,” I sob.

  “I will do my best to stop him from hurting any of us, but you must be brave and obedient.”

  I nod, tears dripping from my chin.

  Reaching out, our mother presses her palms to our cheeks. “My beautiful girls, I love you.”

  The knock on the door breaks our tender moment.

  Inhaling sharply, our mother whispers, “He is here. I will deal with him. You stay here.”

  She steps down off the ladder, snaps her fingers, and the wood shatters into kindling. Another wave of her hand and the pieces scamper into the hearth. Raising her head, she gazes at us, eyes glimmering with tears and then whispers under her breath. A wall forms over the opening to the loft, enclosing us in utter darkness and shielding us from view.

  “Agy,” I whimper.

  “Shh,” she answers.

  A moment later, a wisp of light forms in the air, revealing Ágota bent over a small tin cup filled with water. It is always kept on a shelf over her bed. I assumed it was for when she grew thirsty during the night, but now I see I was wrong. Reflected in the water is not her face, but our mother standing near the door to our cottage. I crawl forward to stare at the image as it becomes clearer.

  Smoothing back her hair, our mother hesitates as an even more demanding rap on the door reverberates through the cottage. I can feel the force of the knock vibrating through the walls and into my bones. My mother stretches out her fingers, crosses her middle and index fingers swiftly and the elaborate spell under her feet glows briefly. I gasp, for all of it is bright red. The magic recedes into the earth.

  Satisfied, our mother opens the door.

  I had heard stories of a goat-legged, horned man from the villagers. I am disappointed that the devil looks nothing like they described. Tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and very fair-skinned, the man on my mother’s doorstep looks more like a prince from the fanciful stories old women like to tell small children. I have never seen a man dressed so finely. Clad in black and crimson, his doublet is embroidered and his cloak edged with dark fur. The chaperon on his head is artfully arranged on his golden curls with the end dangling jauntily over one shoulder. His smile is radiant and it is difficult to believe he is the devil. Yet, behind him, crawling on all fours, is a hideous creature with a smashed face, gray skin, and long black claws. It perches behind the man and glowers at my mother while drool falls from a mouth filled with sharp yellow teeth.

  “The alp,” Ágota whispers.

  “Viorica, at last,” the devil says.

  His voice is faint for I am hearing it through the walls.

  “I denied you before and I do again,” my mother says sternly.

  With a charming chuckle, the devil says, “But you must change your mind. I have come all this way and not without some difficulty. I never expected you to flee to Germany.”

  “Which is why I came here.”

  “You weakened yourself being so far from your own land in the futile hope to escape me and yet, here I am.”

  “The alp found me, I see.”

  “Plucked your image from the dreams of the village women,” the devil answers, smirking.

  “Clever.”

  The devil gazes past our mother into our home. The ripples in the water caused by Ágota’s trembling hand distort his image, but I can see his displeasure with our humble cottage.

  “How you have fallen, Viorica.”

  “Just as you once did,” my mother replies in a curt voice.

  “I do not live in squalor.”

  “It suits my needs.”

  “Playing the village witch instead of claiming your exalted title among the witches. How disappointing, Viorica.”

  “My world is no more. Its corpse lies in the shadow of this one. The titles of that world are meaningless in this one.”

  I lift my gaze to stare at Ágota. What do my mother’s words mean? She has told us many times the story of how the witches fled their world when magic was drained from its veins by evil sorcerers. The witches had burrowed doors into this world and escaped before they could be destroyed. They had been relieved to find a mirror image of the Witch World in this one. Our mother had been Romanian in the Witch World, too. She was very young when it happened and her parents had not survived. She never told me that they were anything more than common witch-folk, but now I wonder.

  Ágota shakes her head, silently imploring me not to speak.<
br />
  As the devil leans toward my mother, I see the serpent from the Garden of Eden in his eyes. “But the title is yours even if you deny it, Archwitch.”

  Startled by his words, I toss a questioning look toward my sister. How could he know who our mother truly is? I have been taught, since I was a very little girl, to never speak of our true origins or our mother’s exalted status among the witches outside our small home. Our race escaped the witch world when it was destroyed and live in the shadows of this one. Our mother is the only surviving Archwitch, and the most powerful among our kind. It was her choice to raise her daughters far from the other surviving witches and to deny her rightful high position among them to protect us. I comprehend now that she never divulged who she was hiding from.

  “I will not serve you, Lucifer. I will not go the Scholomance. I am but a poor humble witch.”

  “Humble? Perhaps. Witch. True. But poor is an understatement.”

  The devil steps into our home and Ágota tenses.

  The alp lingers in the doorway and my mother shuts the door on its gnarled face. Turning about, she clasps her hands before her. In the tiny image of her dancing on the water, her beauty is otherworldly with the dangerous resolve on her face. I understand that my mother is much more than I ever truly realized.

  “I made my choice. Leave now. Respect that you have been rejected, Lucifer.”

  “I respect nothing,” Lucifer says, taunting her. He looks about him with disapproval, noting the poppets hiding behind the water bucket. They cower before him, which makes him even more arrogant. “So it is true. You have a daughter. Another Archwitch.”

  “I use those as servants,” my mother answers swiftly.

  The poppets scatter, rushing about in a panic.

  The devil laughs, following them deeper into the room until he is standing on the edge of the buried spell. “The alp pulled your daughter’s face from the dreams of the women, too. She is lovely. Where is she? Hiding in the forest?” His blue eyes sweep about the room, searching every shadow.

  Ágota frowns and whispers, “Hurry, mother.”

  “I am here alone and I wish to remain alone. Leave!” My mother walks after him, hands dropping to her sides. There is growing panic in her eyes for her plan is going awry.

  The devil walks across the floor, still on the edge of the spell, his gaze narrowing on the newly created wall. “What is this?” Stretching out a gloved hand, he strains to reach where we are hiding.

  I glance toward the new wall to witness tendrils of smoke rising from the surface.

  “I am alone,” my mother insists.

  “Here she is,” the devil says with delight. “My second Archwitch to claim.”

  Surging forward, my mother grabs his arm and wrenches him back so that he is standing in the center of the spell. “I will do what you ask, Lucifer. Just let her be!”

  “So the little witch is up there.” With a sneer on his lips, he turns to look toward the wall that obscures from his sight. “Come out, little witch. I want to see you. Are you as pretty as your mother?”

  My mother’s fingers flex and twist rapidly at her side, her magic unfurling from her like shimmering ropes of light. A second later, the red glow of the spell carved into the floor of our cottage fills the reflection in the water cup and paints our faces in an eerie light.

  The devil pivots toward her, visibly surprised. “A trap? You set a trap?”

  My mother, the Archwitch of a dead world, darts away from him. Before she can escape the ring of the spell, Lucifer grabs her arm. Smoke rises from his scorching touch, forcing a scream from her lips as her flesh blackens.

  “Release me! Or I will burn this place to the ground with you and your child in it!”

  Unable to escape his hold, my mother presses her hand to his chest and unleashes her magic. The devil staggers under the power of the assault and falls against the edge of the spell scrawled on the hard earth. There is a loud thunderclap as he is knocked onto the ground, deflected by the invisible barrier around him. Freed, my mother scampers to escape the brightly glowing spell. She almost accomplishes it when the devil catches her by the ankle, dragging her toward him. His touch burns her skin and she howls in agony.

  The beauty of his face is marred by his absolute rage. The devil holds my mother to the ground and yells, “Release me! How dare you trap me, you whore!”

  My mother does not answer, but casts another spell, reinforcing the trap.

  “I will kill you and claim your daughter! Release me and I will forgive you!”

  I am weeping, but do not dare make a sound. Huddled over the cup of water with my sister, I am frozen by the fear coursing through my blood. I can smell flesh burning and hear my mother’s cries.

  Tears staining her face, Ágota says, “Erjy, we need to leave now.”

  “But Mama,” I whimper.

  Raising her hand, Ágota rotates her wrist. The roof peels back, revealing a darkening sky. It is dusk and we must flee in the growing gloom.

  My mother’s shrieks of agony intensify as Ágota throws the cup away. Seizing my hand, she crawls through the opening and onto the roof of the cottage. I see why we must flee. Fire is spreading rapidly along the walls and creeping toward the roof. My sister pulls me to the edge and we jump down into the garden. Sweeping her hand over the dirt near the well, a bag is disgorged from the ground. She slings it over her shoulder and drags me forward once again.

  Our little cottage burns brightly, the flames destroying the life we had shared with our mother. The horrific shrieks of her burning alive are unbearable. I try to turn back desperate to somehow save her, but Ágota does not release my hand. She relentlessly pulls me along behind her toward the forest.

  The alp leaps from the shadows of the oak tree and blocks our way. Its thick claws burrow into the soft earth of our garden. Red eyes glinting with malice, it hisses at us.

  “Nowhere to run, little girls,” it wheezes through its gnarled teeth.

  Ágota does not reply. She lifts her hand, fingers flexing, and the creature squeals as it is flung over our heads and onto the roof of the burning cottage. I gape at my sister, surprised at her power.

  Tugging me forward, my sister hurries us toward the forest.

  “We need to get Mama!” I wail.

  “Mama told me to escape with you no matter what happened,” Ágota answers through gritted teeth. Tears glitter on her cheeks and the pain in her voice echoes the pain in my heart.

  “He is burning her!”

  “Yes, he is! He is trying to burn away the spell so he can escape and find us!”

  In the sky above, the first stars begin to appear just as we reach the edge of the forest and plunge into the murk.

  “The poppets...” I sob, feeling foolish for mourning them.

  “They did their job. They tried to distract him while Mama sprung the trap. But he was standing in the wrong spot and she could not escape. We knew it might happen. She told me that if she was trapped with him that I must take you and run. And that is what I am doing.” Ágota speaks in a rush of words. I comprehend she is convincing herself not to turn back. “I will make you more poppets later. When we are safe.”

  “But Mama...” I am inconsolable. My legs feel weak and my feet leaden. I trip over every root in my path.

  Ágota whirls about, her fingers clutching mine so tight it hurts. “Erjy, listen to...”

  The air sizzles with powerful magic, distracting us. A moment later my sister is struck in the chest by a ball of white light with silver crackling over its surface. Ágota is thrown away from me and lifted high into the air. The orb of magic bursts apart, encapsulating her in silver threads that snap sizzle over her skin like lightning. Suspended above me with her head thrown back, Ágota shimmers in the throes of power. I can only gape at her in wonder before I realize what it means.

  Distraught and overwhelmed with grief, I race toward the cottage. “Mama!”

  I trip over a root, sprawling onto the ground. Lifting m
y head, I see a wall of blue mist flowing toward me from the direction of our little home. I cannot see past the trees to the clearing as the thick fog billows through trunks.

  “Mama!”

  I blink and Ágota stands before me. Without a word, she takes my arm and heaves me upward, but my feet do not settle on the ground. Instead, I am lifted up and forward at a great speed. The trees stream past us and when I look back over my shoulder to see the mist following.

  Is it the devil pursuing us?

  We come to a halt at a circle of trees. It is a place that my mother forbade me from ever visiting, so I cling to my sister in fear.

  “We have come to fulfill our agreement,” Ágota announces.

  From behind a tree, a tiny woman dressed in flower petals appears. Her honey-colored hair flows around her shoulders as though caught in a perpetual breeze and her large lavender eyes peer up at us from her delicate face.

  “Payment, please, witch” she says, her voice filled with sweet laughter.

  My sister reaches into the bag and pulls out a gold ring adorned with a giant emerald. “As my mother promised.”

  “A ring from the Witch World,” the small woman whispers in wonder. Her small fingers take the jewelry from my sister and she lifts it to her head to wear as a crown. “Payment received.”

  “Hurry,” my sister’s voice whispers, but the words do not flow from her lips. They sound as though they are behind me.

  I turn about to see me and Ágota running through the trees.

  I gasp, startled by the apparitions.

  “Ágota, we must go back,” I hear my voice say.

  Again I turn about and see us disappearing once more into the mist.

  The clearing is suddenly filled with many duplicates of Ágota and me rushing into the forest. It is strange and upsetting to see my frightened, tear-stained face multiplied so many times. When I look to where the fairy had been standing, she is gone.

  “They are the fairies in disguise,” Ágota explains. “Mama made an agreement with the fairy folk. They shall keep the devil distracted while we escape.”

  “The mist,” I say, pointing.

  “It is mama’s last spell. To hide us,” Ágota replies.