This was a deep need to know him and be close to him. He was her first thought in the morning, and last at night. Every contour of his face was visited in her mind, and of course when her duties spared her the time it was to him she turned. He made her supremely jubilant.
It was impossible for Morgund to be forever unaware of her feelings, for she made them obvious. Morgund however was too uncertain of his own to commit himself and he doubted if he could give her what she wanted. Coping with hardships robbed him of a softness and an ability to surrender himself. Needing all his resources to survive left little. For now, such giving was impossible and there was a second reason. He admonished himself for becoming distracted from his purpose, which was returning to the highlands and rousing them against Alexander.
An English girl would find it difficult in the highlands. That way of living was beyond her. And, should he fall in battle, she would be stranded far from her loved ones with no easy way ever to return to them. In the highlands she would suffer, he saw, so he distanced himself. As an excuse Morgund told her that he did not allow anyone, other than his trusted companions to become close to him. To them he owed a debt of loyalty so had to make allowances.
But in an unguarded moment he told her of his famous ancestry and the turmoil that had plagued him since the day his father had ridden out to meet the King of Scots. This he let slip, “I will not sleep peacefully until I have made amends for that killing.” His voice was fraught with even greater tension when he said, “So treacherously slain was he I loved. It was an ignoble end to a noble life.”
So swelled was her heart with pity for him that her eyes glistened with tears. And a secret voice whispered inside her head, “By kindness I will make up for his past.”
Though she tried, her efforts to change his attitude towards her were to no avail. With time realising that his secret soul would never be hers, she decided on an act that would effect a change, a love potion obtained from the physician who first attended Seward and Morgund. Her love for him made her, act thus, she told herself. If she could not capture his heart at least she could have a memory of his physical love and hopefully something of his for hers, a child containing his blood. One night she stole his cup away, adding an elixir to it. She waited. Meanwhile, Seward and Morgund were separated.
On the following day Morgund felt his resolve towards her weaken. Through dull clouded eyes he returned her long looks. His eyes searched for hers, his head followed her movements, loving glances made her way. He had allowed himself to be ensnared in her closeness. He reminded himself that one day he would leave and miss her. Though his befuddled mind failed to comprehend fully, she knew despite his reticence that her presence with him one night, would purchase her desired outcome.
She knew he was ready, his love escaped every pore of him, “His son will link us,” she told herself.
He was awake when she came to him. She wore a thin mantle that she slipped easily from her shoulders. He gasped. She was radiant, young, flawless. His gaze became transfixed on slight breasts with little pink nubs that were erect and suckable. Below them was a slight tuft that little covered her rounded inviting opening. Noble was her skin and she was shaped exquisitely. She entered Morgund’s bed then fierily and longingly she buried Morgund’s manhood deep within her and thereon every touch was sacred. Whatever the future held, these moments were theirs, she told herself and she crammed into them all the unsparing love she could. All too soon dawn arrived and the majesty of their shared union ended.
The elixir’s clouding effect upon his mind dissipated during the day. His sole goal was to be avenged on Alexander, this girl was a distraction he did not need. This he realised, finally. Although her friendship and body were welcome, it saddened him to think of the added complication his life now held. And she realised that by her actions she had incurred upon him yet a further injustice. Hopes that they wouldn’t drift apart seemed to be in vain. Even as a new life quickened inside her, destined to be nurtured lovingly as a descendant of kings, she told herself often whilst patting her belly in composed contentment, “His love is within me.”
Long after he had left to fight on the braes of Scotland from her lips passed the words, “Morgund is not now the last of his kind.”
ONE NIGHT AN oddly tasting broth they were served affected them. Their limbs felt heavy and sleep beckoned remorselessly. Stupefied, Morgund and Seward slept where they fell. A raucous laughter above finally wakened Seward. He looked at the sudden light that entered the room. The hag stood at the open door. By a winding stair, she led him up. The stairs became narrow and straight. The house was large and it would be easy to become lost in it, Seward realised. They walked towards a patch of light, noises coming from the other side of a door. Seward’s ears pricked up, detecting the sound of a ruckus. Both walked in. Seward’s pupils quickly took in images of naked cavorting women, dancing brazenly, displaying themselves, in shameless ways, their cursed bodies filthy and stained in what looked like blood. Turning to flee he found his feet rooted to the spot. He tried to loosen the bonds of drug induced weakness, to end the confusion and make sense of this, but couldn’t. Worse was to come. In the middle of the room was a pot. Protruding from it was a human arm soft and white and covered in a sour griminess. An overpowering sickening stench dominated the room, and the pot, its source. Seward retched violently. Here, was a room awash in infamy, morbidity, the ecstatic, gleeful celebration of evil and horror.
He started for his sword, but was unarmed. He was powerless! In horrified disbelief Seward, saw a group of women greedily consume a bloody substance from the pot. His spirits sank and sickened. He gasped. The wizened old hag stood in before him, shirking her robes to reveal her shrunken, skeletal frame. Gazing penetratingly into his eyes, the crone, their saviour, their benefactor, told him she ruled this coven, by her will. By her will alone, this macabre festival occurred. Seward found it impossible to avert or escape her. She seemed to see beyond his skin into his heart and soul. In his mind she screamed, she screamed, “Look at me!”
She did not avert her gaze. Instead she burrowed her very presence into his head. He wondered how he must look with his anguished ashen face. Her eyes and lips crackled with amusement at the sight of him, a wolf-grin. He got out, “Help me.” But the voice which said it wasn’t his. It was her voice.
“You approve me not.” She stared at him amused at his discomfort. “I read minds, too. And I can speak through your mouth, if I chose.” He wasn’t sure at first if she truly spoke or he heard a semblance of her. No words could be given to anything as horrible as this.
Her withered lips moved, her rasping, ready voice filling his ears. “It is a human they eat.”
He couldn’t abide her eyes. If only she’d look away. Deep inside his mind, he screamed to himself, squinting his eyes straining with effort, compelling himself … “Look away look away!
“I’ll look as deep into your eyes, as I like.”
So, she could read his mind. Then, there was nowhere to hide.
“That poor weak fool mocked and resisted me, and now here he is. Food. As you will be if you doubt me. You will be my humble servant and with time become one of us, for I claim you Seward. You are like us, your soul is ripe for the taking. Consider it taken.”
Seward frozen to the spot, watching.
The witches continued their insane dance. The occasional intonation and animal-like grunt was accompanied by the rattling of horrible necklaces, bracelets and corded belts, replete with the bones of small creatures and human teeth. Others bedecked themselves in feathers, or strange symbols painted upon flesh in human blood. Seward saw the girl. Who had assisted him, and who had grown so very fond of Morgund, prancing wearing nought but sprigs of woodland plants tied around wrists and ankles. Then he noticed they all had a metal coin, or medallion, on a leather thong around neck or belt or tied painfully tight around a thigh. It was the very same image he had received mysteriously, after he and Morgund’s encounter with Duibne. The cackling
crone before him wore it too, on a very long cord of tendon that dangled between empty, sagging breasts. Unconsciously he reached for his own, and felt the blasphemous image under his fingers in low relief. For now he knew the significance of the beast who played the played the cracked flute in clawed hands, prancing deer-like upon hooven feet. He knew, by some dim seat of reasoning more subtle than speech or thought, that the figurehead of Wicca was none other than Satan himself.
Now he knew the significance of that symbol and knew who played the flute, those great dangerous eyes on the figure intruded, they spoke inside his head, telling him, “I am Satan. Fear me not for I am all glory and power.” The voice which told him was male, it was not repellent, it was seductive, sounded, mesmerising. “I am the Anti-Christ. The soul keeper. The soul keeper.”
The terrible dawning of that realisation settled upon him, as ravens upon a corpse. Satan spoke in his head.
He wanted to hear that voice again. It remained silent however, allowing him to return to the horrified realisation of where he stood. The noise of the witches supping broke him from his thoughts. They were drinking from what might have been a flensed skull.
“Surely not.....not inside this house, not here.” He said.
“Forget that and listen to me Seward. He still lives whilst we eat his flesh.” The crone pointed her claw like finger to a darkened corner Seward had previously overlooked. A man, or what was left of him, lay there. His limbs were gone hacked off. The stumps were bound tightly with cloth and cord, the ends ragged. The man opened his eyes and looked at Seward who immediately fell upon his knees and vomited but he could not keep his eyes away.
It was true, for unbelievably moment the eyes of the man had flickered open, as if on command. “What an ugly, vicious hag you are,” Seward croaked, spitting strings of vomit and saliva.
The darkness swept in overpoweringly. In one horrifying moment Seward saw the moment of his death and knew its hour, an arrow would pierce his chest to kill him. He saw the future, irrespective of his efforts to divert it. She wanted his mind on this moment. His mind focused on the manner of his death, because his earlier premonition that an arrow would kill him meant he would survive this night and escape this room. His true vision returned though he remained paralysed through sheer terror whilst she implanted deep controlling thoughts within. Rarely did it fail. Seward appeared totally submissive, crouching as a craven before her, his self-will gone, and hers to bid.
His only purpose was to serve her, so he must. As would his companion, Morgund, who someone got and he then underwent the same terror the same enchantment. Although not possessed of any advanced psychic ability Morgund was needed to bind Seward, close to her. Reading Morgund could help her find what Seward thought.
Thus, the two were robbed of their free will by the collective power of the coven and suggestion and shock. Morgund, so well beloved by the young witch, disappeared and in his place, a stumbling husk. Morgund performed humble chores; cleaning and carting wood, delivering messages and being subjected to the grand witch’s temper, which often resulted in a beating. Morgund cut vegetables like a lowborn scullery maid. He dug out weeds in the vegetable garden and stood sentry a living scarecrow in the field over her produce - she had an acre of land. Morgund the scarecrow rooted to the spot, seeing off the birds. Seward, took part in rituals of spell making. She had Seward, delving into the lives of persons whom she thought it well to know things of, to influence events and profit from the knowledge. Having Seward close brought substance to her own particular predictions, enabling her to grow formidable amongst the Wiccan community.
Acts of depravity amused her and both young men served her hungry orifices and those of her favourites who were as sluttish as she was. Pretty boy toys what lovely toys to play with, those who sought favours from her, often sought those very playthings.
She could at any time, in a fit of drug induced rage kill either or both of them. At times she was wary, her thoughtfulness as frightening as her cruelty, for death was never far from her thoughts. Often members of her household disappeared never to be seen again.
Seward frightened her. With his gifts might not some other purveyor of the black arts exploit him for themselves, thereby dictating her ruin, or if he escaped, seek vengeance on her, himself. He so favoured could end her days and she knew it well. Morgund she especially hated and he endured her taunts at his noble ancestry and how his family had sunk so low.
Morgund awoke in the dark. He was needed on the kitchen. Soon after, making bread which when ready he was to take to his mistress. A day beginning like so many others. His feet felt heavy. Malnourishment, harsh treatment and potent brews he was forced to drink kept him weak of mind and body.
She also knew how to undermine whatever sense of self worth could enable a moment of clarity, by overwhelming him with a sense of her superiority and fear of magic. Nor would he leave without Seward, who was her slave. It seemed they never got to speak alone, someone was always, watching. They slept separately, Morgund, in a lean-to, locked outside like a dog.
Morgund served bread and cheese, waiting to be noticed, so she could tell him to withdraw. Mirium was also in attendance, sewing under the watchful eye of the grand witch, who was all knowing, she who must be obeyed. Mirium suffered the penetrating ruthless looks, and biting sarcastic jibes on how hopeless she was at sewing.
Morgund, waiting, found himself yearning to have this over and be away elsewhere. “Please God, have the ugly hag notice me!” The hag’s eyes darted across to him. She was good at reading mannerisms, it often made her seem a mind reader.
“So, now to you, Dog.” She had taken to calling him Dog. “Dog, was it once I thought you a boy worth feeding. I tire of you. What say you in your defence. Are you worth feeding? Or, will I sell you to those seeing value in a boy’s body. Catamites would give you the fucking you deserve. Some, others, would like to torture to your death. They love to see the blood flow. It relieves the boredom of the days. I tire of you. I might join in turning the blood out of you.”
“I have a better idea.” She produced a vial. “There’s a poison I wish to test. Those who drink it, I’ve been told, die within a day. Girl.” She addressed Mirium. “Get me a cup.”
Mirium too frightened to do otherwise, complied. The hag filled the cup. Smiling seeing Morgund with his head down, tears in his eyes. She thought him very entertaining. The cup now full her head rose to Morgund.
“Come here and grab this Dog. And, Mirium stop looking so woebegone, or you will have it, too.”
Morgund did as he was told, and took the cup. Mirium choked back her fear. She shook. The hag missed nothing, and found particular enjoyment in the girl’s distress.
“We will test this friendship between you. A full cup is deadly. Less, produces mere retching and sickness. Your life, Dog, is in your hands. Do you understand, drink half a cup or less and you live? A sip will do. Let Mirium test the rest, this poisons potency will kill her and a sip will do you little harm. Her sewing deserves no less. ANSWER ME YOU SON OF A WHORE!!!”
Morgund nodded.
“Answer me. Speak instead of looking like a witless whore son. Answer me, or two full cups you will drink, each.”
“I understand.”
“Drink it up. Whatever you don’t finish is for the girl.”
Morgund nodded. He drunk the entire cup.
“Now go away and die, like a Dog. But before thee does lay the bread and cheese down on that table.” He did. “Now depart this room, and your short life.”
Morgund did as he was told and Mirium watched his departing back.
“The morning’s entertainment is at an end, girl, back to sewing.”
Mirium bent her head and sewed. Morgund fled to his cot in the lean-to where he expected to suffer unto death. He was wrong. Morgund laid back resting feeling very sick when the door burst opened. It was she.
“Get up and get back to work. There in the corridor outside my room, find the broom and sweep it until
every particle of dust is gone, and then, die.” Slamming the door behind her, she went.
Very wearily Morgund got himself up and step by wearying step took himself to the corridor and swept, beyond caring if he lived or died. Thereafter, Mirium heard the grand witch talking to the cook directing him to lace Morgund’s food with a sickening agent. The cook and his mistress, loved every moment of it. There was no poison, however. The agent within the food would send him to the privy and wrack his stomach to emit all its contents. Put him in dreadful pain. He would think himself dying. Morgund about his sweeping was given a small bowel of food by the cook and told to eat it. He did. Thereafter he couldn’t sweep anymore. All he could do was run to the privy.
This was but the start, Mirium realized No doubt he was doomed to die. Mirium could foresee a day when there was actual poison in the vial. Morgund tried to save her life by swallowing all the vial of what he thought was poison, himself. Mirium must act to save Morgund. But the witch kept them apart. She knew Morgund and Mirium had enjoyed a special closeness, and was having her watched.
Two mornings later. The grand witch had Morgund before her. Mirium was in the room, watching. “So, Morgund the poison was second rate. I should of tested it on a rat and not a dog. I heard that thee was very ill of the flux, your insides falling out behind you. What say you? Dog, answer me!”
“What I say is it did cause me much distress,” Morgund replied sullenly.
“I heard the stink of you was rank. No matter. I have a suitable remedy for you to help with your ailment. I would test it on a dog. A medicinal. I would have you well enough to do you duties without evil rank smells emitting from you.”
She produced a flask, it looked much like the one before. “Now a return to health.” She handed the flask to Morgund. “Drink.” Morgund hesitated. “Come, Morgund. Does thee not trust me, me, who has been so good to thee?
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