The Witcher Chime

by Amity Green

  Finally, flame gave way to glowing coals in the shape of bones, so Savannah went upstairs and stood beneath a hot shower. She cried, but stopped quickly. Her mind went in different directions. She’d never be herself again. A person couldn’t “unsee” what she’d seen, or what she’d done. She’d go to hell for murdering her father, no matter the excuse. There would be no way to make anyone else understand why she’d done it. Molly might back up her story, given the chance, but her little sister needed to stay away.

  The thought of Molly forced her to tears faster than any other time she could remember. Her sister would do the right thing and try to save her, but that wasn’t what was best. Molly needed to forget about everything. A fresh start was in order for her sister. Maybe their mother would come around if she could be reached and Molly could stay with her. Or the girls could possibly stay together since Savannah was 18. She could be her sister’s guardian, if only she could get them both away from Witcher. It seemed hopeless, though. If she wasn’t nuts before, she was full-on crazy after hacking her father’s body to pieces and then getting naked while watching them burn. Molly was better off far away.

  Savannah fumbled through tears and nearsightedness to find the shampoo and soap. Her body trembled, echoing the way her heart felt like it was encased in ice. Once the water ran cold, she dried, put on a clean shirt, and went to bed, despite the way her room still carried the dead smell from when Witcher talked to her. She drifted in and out of fitful sleep, her mind refusing to quiet long enough to rest. She forced her eyes closed each time she woke, waiting for exhaustion to claim her and looking forward to the sleep of the dead. Every little creak in the old house made her bolt upright in bed. It became obvious it was Witcher using sleep deprivation as his latest tactic to break her down. She could go without eating for days, but her mind and body gave in to lack of sleep. She was anchored to the mattress and couldn’t find a way to stay awake long enough to try to move.

  “Next time you attempt to seal a doorway, make sure what you want to trap is on the other side. The painting is merely an invitation without an open door. There will be no more burning things, understand?” Witcher spooned behind her, using one hand to smooth damp hair from her brow. He kissed the tender flesh below her ear.

  “There’s only one doorway left to seal. I won’t make the mistake again.”

  “Remember, you promised. You’re upset, so we’ll pretend you didn’t say such a thing.” Bare skin brushed against her shoulder as he pulled her close with an arm around her waist. Witcher’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Close your eyes and think of your beautiful horses and beloved spring time.”

  ***

  Chapter 14

  Contemplating church and devotion to God were a struggle, but it was Sunday. Bright sunshine warmed her bedroom. Witcher had worn her down and won the last round. She’d fallen asleep with him holding her, letting his comfort ease her to sleep. Blessedly, he was gone. Maybe he’d disappeared because it was the Sabbath or something. It had been years since the family had gone to service and weeks since Dad tried dragging she and Molly along with him. In the past, their parents worked diligently, waking her and her grumbling siblings early Sunday mornings, Caroline ironing dresses for the girls and combing Chaz’s hair with a perfectly straight part in the middle. Chaz would complain about his tight collar and stupid, shiny black shoes, and Savannah couldn’t wait to get home to trade the things she couldn’t wear boots with for something more suitable. Molly loved her dresses and wore them all day long. She would have slept in them, too, but Mother wouldn’t let her. That was a mystery. What harm would have come of Molly being able to sleep in one of her dresses? The stupid outfit would have to be washed one way or the other. Sometimes Mother’s rules seemed completely senseless, especially when breaking one was so harmless and would have made her sister happy.

  They all had their own bibles. Mother’s was a beastly white tome with notes on the sides of scripture, clipped newspaper obituaries marking pages, and family lineage written in the front and back covers. Daddy’s bible was a plain, black King James with a spindled spine and worn cover that puffed out at the outer top corner from all the dog-eared pages. Molly’s was white, like Mother’s, but a much smaller New Testament so it fit in the dainty purse she carried on Sundays. Chaz’s was a smaller version of Daddy’s, with bent covers from where he shoved it in a back pocket when he played with other boys between Sunday school and the service. Like Molly’s, Savannah’s bible was just the New Testament, but Savannah had read the entirety. It was a little book of tiny print containing verses that didn’t make sense. Mrs. McKellips would explain a new part each week in her lectures, which helped some. After that they sang songs like, This Little Light of Mine, holding up a finger during the song to show the congregation that their “lights” couldn’t be “blown out” by Satan.

  Most talk of angels happened early on in the scripture, and the New Testaments the kids were given didn’t have the old books. Mother had swiped both hers and Chaz’s bibles when she took off so all that remained around the house was Savannah’s and Daddy’s. Molly had stuffed her bible in her book bag to take to the Williams’. They’d once been a good family, God-fearing and kind to others in the small community. It was funny how recent happenings made the bibles important enough to take with them.

  Savannah pulled her aching body out of bed and into the hall. Her head swam and she shook inside from lack of food, but she stepped over blood stains to Daddy’s bed stand to get his King James Bible. The book was heavy, the covers blotched with patina from years of use. Her chin trembled and a tear fell down onto the cover, splashing into a puddle that was nearly as big around as a quarter. Any other time she would have tried to quit crying immediately. But what did it matter? Really, it felt sort of good. She missed her dad and would love him forever and ever. Witcher had killed him off far before she finished it up.

  The cat painting was rendered down to a frameless, flat canvas that slouched carelessly beside the fireplace. If she would have burned it as planned, there would be serious repercussions. Witcher promised he’d leave Molly alone. That was a deal worth respecting. Savannah paced through the house, looking for a place to sit, preferably one that wasn’t splattered with blood, which eliminated a lot. Molly’s room would make her cry more, and so would Chaz’s. Her room reminded her of how Witcher smelled. The mountain lion peered at her with oily, curious eyes. She placed the bible on a chair and flipped the canvas around so the cat stared at the rocks on the mantle.

  “Screw it,” she mumbled, and plopped down cross-legged in Daddy’s recliner, across the room from the crusted, stained couch, and pulled a blanket over her bare legs and feet. Sunbeams surged in through eastern facing windows, warming the room and providing good light to read by. She settled the bible in the crook of her legs and opened it up in the midst of the book of Genesis at one of the pages with a corner turned down. Several segments of scripture were underlined in black, which meant Daddy studied that part when he met with other adults at church meetings. One segment was circled in red ink, a color she’d never seen him use in his bible before. She read from Genesis, Chapter 6, Verse 4.

  “There were giants in the earth in those days; and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them, the same became mighty men which were of old, men of renown.”

  Witcher leaned against the arm of the chair. “I find it unfortunate only a small portion of history is written,” he said.

  Savannah jumped at the sound of his voice, but he didn’t acknowledge he’d scared her, just leaned on the top of the recliner, smiling with too many dimples.

  “So are you saying this is a lie?” She looked up from the scripture.

  “Not that part. It’s the absolute truth.” He dropped an apple in her lap. “Eat that and don’t argue.”

  Savannah picked up the apple, eyeing him. “And you’re an angel, right? With wings and a shiny halo.”

  “I don�
�t like the tone of your words, Savannah. If I didn’t know better I would think you’re being condescending.”

  “You’re quick.” She crunched into the apple, continuing to speak even though her mouth was full. “Angels are good. They don’t hurt people.”

  “Just what I meant. That book tells only partial truths,” he said. “Of course, you’ve been told what to expect of angels since your birth. Caroline and Jack were good parents, according to what level your society has made it to this far. They did what they thought was right. Taught you what they thought you need to know about us. They couldn’t have been taught what was removed from His book.”

  “Don’t talk about my parents.” She closed the bible and stopped herself from crossing her arms defensively. Instead, she looked out the window. Outside, sunlight glanced off the aspen leaves like stardust tossed in a wind. The breeze puffed in through the window screen, whistling softly. The tops of the ponderosas rocked until the wind died to a whisper. She closed her eyes, a stray sunbeam brushing warmth across her cheeks and flashing pink through her eyelids. His smell was suffocating. It was time for fresh air, so she dressed quickly, the kind of tossing on of clothes one does when someone might bust into the room any second, then ran outside to check the horses. Being outside and away from the murder scene helped to release the weight in her chest, but Witcher shadowed at a distance, impossible to ignore.

  She looked into the cloud-dotted sky as her boot soles slid over gravel and soft tufts of grass. Dad said that nature was clockwork and strength. Witcher was a contrast of unexpected upheaval. She’d counted on the promise of summer each year, but everything was changed. The break of winter meant the end of cold, replaced by sunshine and warmth, good replacing bad. God made it that way, the seasons being some good and some bad, just like people. God made angels but they had to be good. There could be no bad. That one thing couldn’t change. Seasons could change. People did it by the moment, but angels, no changing for them. The thing in the woods with her, the Witcher, was no angel, even if he still claimed to be one. He had fallen.

  Leaves and grass crunched lightly beside her. She fought the urge to lash out and tell him to go die. Picking a fight wouldn’t be smart, and besides, they had an agreement. She kept her eyes on the trees, hoping he’d leave.

  He eyed her stance then followed her gaze.

  A moment passed and she couldn’t handle being near him anymore. “Please go away,” she asked, careful to speak in a nice tone.

  “I will if you eat this.” He grabbed one of her hands and placed the same apple in her palm.

  She looked at him and took a bite. What did it matter if she ate anything or not? It had been days since she ate a full meal. Apparently, he knew that. Her stomach roared to life at the arrival of food.

  He beamed at her. “Thank you.”

  Savannah stopped chewing. Sun danced on his features, the flawless skin of his forehead, the softened shades of light brown in his hair. She looked away, unwilling to witness the way something as vile could appear so beautiful, so wonderfully deceiving to look at. It was unfair, like little kids that got cancer or how the good people died when bad people lived to be in their shrewish nineties. She hated the injustice in the world and didn’t want to be in it anymore. In fairness, Witcher should look like a monster. He should have sores on his face and drag one leg behind him. At least he smelled the part.

  “What is it?”

  She shook her head, looking at the mountainside. “Nothing you’d get. Forget it.” She dropped the uneaten apple in the dirt.

  He looked hurt.

  Savannah pounced. “It’s hard to eat when I have to smell you.”

  Witcher looked slightly bewildered, but his expressions remained gentle. He looked down at his clothes and shoes, surveying his appearance.

  “You should look just like you smell.” She couldn’t help letting it out.

  “Like what? This image was taken from your own desires.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she snapped. “You smell like something dead the dog drug into the yard.” She tried to contain all the anger, but it grew to be too big to control. “You’re a horrible thing, a killer, a rapist, a liar, a thief—”

  He cut her off with a hand over her mouth. She scratched at him and swung her fists. He used his other hand to pinch her nose closed, clamping down on her head.

  “You will be calm,” he growled, squinting into her eyes. “You are my favorite of all, Savannah, but you should respect me.”

  She nodded, breathing deeply when he released her. She doubled over, huffing. “You make me sick,” she said. She stood upright, breathing in through her mouth with her hands on her hips, looking at the sky, waiting for her heart to stop racing.

  “Smell?”

  “Like something decaying, baking on the roadside. Like the rot inside you.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean. Just explain it to me and I’ll make it better for you.”

  “The air smells disgusting, like you, before you even show up. That’s how vile of a creature you are. You’re not a thing of light and goodness, no matter what you try to appear as. I don’t believe you were ever an angel at all. Just filth from hell.”

  He was quiet for a time, looking between her and the trees and the hillside she stared at.

  “I understand.” He frowned. “I will show you. You will then know me.”

  “Why does it even matter?”

  “Because time runs out for me.”

  “Good.” She looked up into his eyes. “Because you deserve to die more than anything I know of.”

  “You don’t understand yet. I can be good.” He smiled. “It’s easier than doing other things and letting anger change my nature.”

  “That’s the thing with you. You don’t get it. You do horrible things because you’re a terrible being. You’re evil and rotten and you don’t deserve to be here. You should be locked away. Trapped so you can’t hurt any one else.”

  Shaking his head, he reached for her hand tentatively. “I will show you and you will love me, too.” He went to a knee, gently grasping her other hand and watching her eyes. His large hands cupped under both of hers and he rested his head in her hands, his cheek in her palms. He closed his eyes.

  Stunned, Savannah held still, just watching as he enjoyed her touch, seeming like flesh and blood, a person with a wounded heart. Worse, he was trying to be a normal guy. The contrast with what she knew him to be was all so wrong. Her jaw locked and she envisioned twisting his head hard and fast until his neck popped and he fell to the ground, twitching. He deserved none of her comfort. Suddenly, she doubted her ability to endure.

  There was no way she could get out of bed each morning and deal with him, day after day, no matter what she agreed to before. Pulling her hands back, she turned away toward the house. He followed.

  “Stay out here. I don’t want you to come with me!” She broke into a run.

  “I want you to know me, Savannah,” he called.

  She kept running and he kept on. “I am not this ‘Witcher’ you call me. That man was here before you. James Witcher, a sinner. I tried to save him but he took his own life. The vilest of those below.”

  “That, would be you! It’s a perfect name,” she yelled over her shoulder. “It fits you and what you are.”

  “I tried to help the man, but he wouldn’t have it. It was my place here, as it was his. He wouldn’t see that I was here for him. He condemned me to darkness.”

  “Good for him. Tell me how he did it.” She didn’t bother stopping, just kept chucking nastiness at him all the way to the front door.

  “But he left me!” Emotion started to break through. Exasperation and frustration. “I would have helped him, but he took his own life in sin, leaving me to walk alone and finally return to darkness. Don’t you understand?”

  “Well that makes you The Witcher then, doesn’t it?” Savannah skidded on loose gravel and sand, coming to a stop before she walked straight into his che
st when he appeared in front of her. “Would you stop doing that?” she snarled.

  “My name, the title you asked me for, is Val-Kryel.” He picked up one of her hands, caressing it with graceful fingertips, looking from her hand and deep into her eyes. “No human has the gift of my name. I am an angel of your God. My Father. And I am running out of time.”

  Savannah opened her mouth, ready to tell him again that she just didn’t care, but he cut her off with a wave of a hand.

  “Please, Savannah. I don’t want to die a creature of darkness.”

  “Get away from me.” She was no one’s key to dodging the outcome of their own sins.

  “Too much time has gone by to wait any longer.” He stepped back, an obvious peace offering for her willingness to hear him out.

  “I fear if we waste any more time I will remain inside the mountain for all eternity, or simply perish. I made mistakes with the others, for I never cared for them as I do you. I love you Savannah, with all my existence. Allow me to prove this to you. I will show you. I will love you for eternity and care for you as the treasure you are.” His eyes plead with her and his voice held nothing but sincerity. “Please?”

  “Piss off.”

  He sighed, defeated. “I’ll give you space and some time so you can consider the fact you’ve been given my name. This is something you shouldn’t ignore. I will be with you forever. You owe me.”

  She shook her head, watching him. He was right. He wasn’t going to give up or go away. Her life was changed. This would be no way to live. Thank goodness Molly wasn’t around. She had to believe her sister would be safe with the Williams. He drew from her somehow, becoming more and more real. That had to stop. And now, to top everything, he said she owed him. That was all it took to push her to the edge. Might as well get it done.

  “Get out of my sight.” She stomped around him, heading for the barn to set the horses free. She had something to prove, too, and it involved a lot of gasoline. He deserved to die instead of being given a second chance. She wouldn’t be the reason he survived or became real. Hell probably had her number because she shot her dad, anyway. Being the judge and jury to ensure Witcher got what he deserved wouldn’t make her punishment any worse.