Witches vs Wizards

by Adam Bennett

  “Surrender yourself first and I will consider your request.”

  Effie hesitated. Her mind’s eye touched each of her crew members. She could sense their fear and confusion about her. Some were making warding signs against her. “Fine, I surrender.”

  “You will call me Master. I surrender, Master.”

  Effie swallowed hard. “I surrender…Master.”

  “Now remove the Harbinger of Ferro and cast it into the sea.”

  Effie hesitated.

  “I am your master. You will obey me.”

  Effie opened her eyes, the amulet was still glowing but was now a dull red. She removed the chain from her neck. She squeezed it tight until it bit into her hand, drawing blood, then flung the Harbinger of Ferro over the railing.

  Two great waves, like massive hands, picked up the Fearful Revenge then drove it downward, deep into the water. The decks were awash, hatches gave way, spars snapped and rigging collapsed as the Revenge was forced below the surface. Crew members, still tied to their safety lines could not swim free. Other entangled in the rigging were pulled under. Effie watched in seething anger as the Revenge and her crew were dragged to a watery grave.

  “Scoenis Ratucto!” Effie screamed as she too went underwater.

  She held out a hand, fingers splayed, she could feel the tug of the amulet. Her lungs were bursting from the lack of air. Panic set in. Then the Harbinger of Ferro rested once again in her hand.

  “Levitaim Thundeo!”

  Effie continued falling downward through the water until her feet made contact with the deck of the Fearful Revenge as it was travelling back toward the surface. When the ship breached the surface, Effie grasped in huge quantities of air. The storm was still raging threatening to pull apart the ship. Some of the crew were stirring, others were not.

  “Steele, you bastard! You said that the ship and crew would be spared!”

  “No, I said that I would consider your request.”

  Effie searched her mind for the conversation thread. Under her feet, she could feel the ship shaking from the pounding of the storm threatening to founder the Fearful Revenge for good.

  “It was your intent all along to destroy my crew.” Effie watched as the thread vibrated with their conversation.

  “I am your master. I do not need to explain my actions to you. Now destroy the Harbinger of Ferro once and for all or your crew will receive fates far worse than death.”

  “You never were, and never will be my master. I decide the fates of those aboard my ship. This, Steele, is your fate.”

  “You impertinent girl, who are you to talk to me like that? I will extract the information that I need from you in the most painful of methods. You will...”

  Effie reached out to the shimmering thread of conversation and grasped it like she would a ship’s hawser. “Fierorus Ethera Inferniate.” A brilliant flash of red ran upward along the conversation.

  “You will suff… suff… suu—”

  Effie watched in interest as the thread turned a dull grey then crumbled to ash. She cast about her mind looking for any signs of Steele. Finding nothing, she opened her eyes. The storm had broken, the water was settling down. A cool, stiff offshore breeze greeted her.

  She closed her eyes again and mentally moved about the ship. Over half of her crew were dead or missing. She located Tobias’ life spark, a mere glow, above and behind where she stood. She turned and looked up, he hung upside down, tangled in the mizzen chain. Effie scrambled up the rigging to Tobias. The chain was enmeshed in the rigging preventing Effie from lowering it and Tobias to the deck below.

  “I’m sorry, old friend, but this is going to hurt. Hopefully, you won’t feel it.” Effie cut the chain, tumbling Tobias to the deck.

  ***

  For a fortnight the Fearful Revenge sat at anchor in the lea of a nearby island. Effie and any able-bodied crewmember repaired what they could of the ship. Pumps were manned around the clock to drain the bilge and hold. The main yardarm was splinted and bound with ropes. Sprung hull planks were braced and sealed with oakum. Sails and their blocks, sheets, stays, and halyards were replaced and rigged.

  When the ship was seaworthy again, Effie stood on the anchor capstan as she addressed the assembled crew on the main deck.

  “Crewmates, I stand before you not as your captain but as a part of the crew of Fearful Revenge. I know that many of you may now see me as someone different. It is true, I have changed. I now have… different abilities. But, as I have recently discovered, it appears that the fates have destined me to acquire these talents. To what purpose I cannot say. But, it was because of this gift that you are still breathing and not sleeping in Davy Jones’ locker...”

  “But what are ye? A wench or a witch?” was shouted from the assembled crew.

  “We keep no wenches aboard this ship. If you that is what you want then go dockside. But, am I a witch? I do not think so. I cast no bones and brew no potions. I do not know what I am. I will tell you this...” Effie drew her sword and raised her arm. “I am a pirate; give me a sturdy ship, wind in her sails, and prey on the horizon.”

  A great hurrah thundered across the deck. Effie looked upon the faces of the crew, many of them nodding their agreement, some shaking their heads.

  “Now mates, here is my question to you. Am I still your captain? Will you allow me to lead you to other victories and riches?” Effie looked each crewmember in the eye. Some turned away with a warding sign. “We will have a fair vote. Mister Tobias, if you will.” Effie turned her back to face away from the crew.

  Tobias stood at the base of the capstan holding a chest full of coins. “Okay lads and lasses, each of you will take a coin. If you want Cap’n Roberts to remain as our cap’n then lay the coin on the capstan, otherwise, the coin is yours. This is a fair vote, no harm nor ill will come to you no matter how you vote.”

  One by one the crew took a coin from the chest and cast their lot.

  Impatient for the result, Effie stood quietly and waited. Behind her, she heard the tink of coins as the crew decided her fate.

  “Has everyone voted?” Tobias clearly proclaimed. “Then the lots have been cast.”

  Effie turned around. Tobias and the bosun counted the coins on the capstan. “Fifty-seven coins were taken from the chest. We count forty-nine in favour of Cap’n Roberts.”

  “Thank you, mates, for your vote of confidence. For those who no longer want to be part of this crew, you may leave the Revenge at our next port. You will be paid out for your portion of the booty. No harm or ill feelings will be bestowed upon you. Until that time, you are still a part of this crew.”

  “Mister Tobias, weigh anchor. Best speed to Ville de Saint Jean.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n Roberts.”

  A Spot of Bother

  L.T. Waterson

  The old man had been sitting in a chair by the window for nearly three hours, one hand wrapped around the pint glass that stood in front of him. Every so often he would take a genteel sip of the dark liquid that the glass contained. Bill, the younger of the two bar staff, was convinced that the level in the glass was not changing.

  “I’m telling you, no matter ‘ow many sips he takes the drink ain’t goin’ down.”

  Rose, older and infinitely more experienced in the ways of the world and the ways of this particular drinker, scoffed. “It only seems that way cos ‘e’s drinkin’ so slow. If you sped up the time e’s been here, you’d see clear as day what’s goin’ on.”

  The old man ignored them both and eventually the bickering pair found themselves distracted by other matters. A barrel of Guinness had run dry and Bill was dispatched to the cellar to change it while Rose turned her attention to clearing up the mess left after twenty packets of salt and vinegar crisps spontaneously split apart.

  Watching the activity from the corner of his eye the old man smiled and downed the rest of his pint. The world outside his window was beginning to dim a little as the long Midsummer Day finally began to draw to a clo
se. Of course they were out there somewhere, his boys, as he liked to refer to them, although these days boys was not necessarily an accurate term. Somehow in the past hundred years or so—he was never very good at keeping track of time—the world had changed and now women, for so long a strange and mysterious breed, were demanding that they too should be allowed to take an equal part in the affairs of the world.

  The old man scowled. He knew he should leave. They would expect him to be there for the culmination of the day’s festivities. Maybe, he thought, he might have time for just one more pint. He glanced irritably around but neither Rose nor Bill were in sight and so, with a martyred sigh, he replaced his empty glass on the table, pushed his chair back and, with one hand resting on the table for leverage, heaved himself to his feet.

  Through the window he saw a badger shuffling along, its blunt black and white head swaying slightly as it searched for food. It was a good omen on a night like this he decided and, swinging his walking stick almost joyfully in one hand, he strode towards the door.

  It was his favourite time, the world poised delicately between day and night, a time when anything was possible, a time for magic to be abroad. He chuckled at his own poetic thoughts as he walked away from the pub. He intended to take a shortcut through the car park and then strike out cross-country; it was a nicer way to get home than walking along the road where he would have to keep a look out for approaching vehicles, even if it did involve an undignified scramble over the fence at the bottom of the hill.

  His hand was outstretched to take hold of the gate that led into the car park when sounds from behind made him hesitate.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.” His smile was genuine, the enthusiasm in his voice less so. Time was pressing on and the old man had an engagement to keep.

  “Not for you it ain’t.”

  There were two men standing a short distance away. They were clean shaven with broad receding foreheads and the slightly dull eyes of the terminally stupid.

  “That’s it?” The old man looked vaguely disappointed. “Is that really the best threat you’ve got? What ever happened to ‘hand over all your valuables or else’? You know.” The old man looked thoughtful, “I think I’ve got a ten pound note here somewhere. Now if I could just remember which pocket I put it in.”

  “It’s not some ten bob that interests us.” The taller of the two thugs spoke up this time and he stepped forward with a leer on his face. “Word in the village is that you’ve got gold on your person.”

  The old man had been listening with a patient expression on his face but when the thug mentioned gold his expression darkened. “That old rumour? I really thought I’d put that one to rest years ago.”

  “We want that gold.” Both men stepped forward, arms held out by their sides as though they were expecting the old man to make a run for it.

  “Really?” The disappointed look was back. “How about I give you twenty pounds?” He produced the note from an inside pocket with a flourish. “Come on, that’s not bad for ten minutes work.”

  “We want the gold,” the taller man snarled, “and if we have to take your leg to get it, then we will.”

  The old man sighed. “Of course, if that really is the only way.” He hefted his walking stick in his left hand and pointed it, somewhat dramatically, at the would-be muggers. “Why don’t you give it your best shot?”

  Snickering, in the way that only those who are up to no good can, the men advanced.

  Just as they were near enough to touch him a tearing sound rose up around them and both men, startled, smacked their necks as though trying to swat a mosquito.

  A heartbeat, two, and then the wall of sound faded and two small but plump pink pigs, one slightly larger than the other, trotted away into the woods, oinking quietly and indignantly to each other.

  The old man lowered his walking stick and leant on it as he turned around to peer into the encroaching darkness.

  “I had the situation under control. A simple spot of bother, nothing I couldn’t have handled by myself.” His voice sounded peevish as he glared at what appeared at first glance to be a small evergreen tree.

  “Yes, I saw that.” The voice was female, faintly amused. The tree shook itself and revealed itself in fact to be a woman. A stranger, seeing her for the first time, would have put her age somewhere between twenty two and fifty five, her hair was long and dark and framed a face that only the very charitable would have called beautiful.

  “I was about to defend myself.” The wizard, for that is what he was, pulled himself up to his full height.

  “With your walking stick?” The witch, for that is what she was, still sounded amused.

  “It’s not just a walking stick. It’s actually a tippling cane. It allows me to take a small amount of the alcoholic beverage of my choice with me wherever I go. I ordered it from Amazon.” He sounded inordinately proud of himself.

  The witch laughed out loud at that. “Same old Pythagoras. Outwardly so strait-laced and inwardly as human as the rest of us.”

  “Hmph.” The wizard glared at his companion. “Human, unlike those poor animals you just released into the wild. Why pigs Circe?”

  The woman pouted. “Actually I’ve been calling myself Ava for the last couple of hundred years, it’s more modern somehow. And I happen to like pigs, why change a formula that works?” She smiled winningly.

  The wizard didn’t smile back. “Well if we’re talking about names, most people call me Agoras now, they seem to think it rolls off the tongue a little more easily.”

  “Agoras.” The witch rolled the name around in her mouth, drawing out the syllables. “Hmm. Yes, I like it.” She strode forward and took the wizard’s arm as though they were old friends. “So what have you been doing with yourself since I last saw you?”

  Agoras paused, brow furrowed in thought. “When was that again?”

  “1793, the Reign of Terror. We cooked up quite a storm if I remember rightly.”

  “You mean you cooked up a storm. I was trying to calm things down.”

  “Always such a spoilsport.” Ava pouted.

  “You were still calling yourself Circe then.” Agoras pointed out a little stiffly.

  “Well everyone knew the classics in those days. Even ignorant peasants had heard of me. These days most people wouldn’t know a Greek myth if it smacked them around the face.”

  “The world is certainly not what it used to be.”

  “You never spoke a truer word.” With the hand that was not holding on to Agoras, Ava pushed the hair away from her face.

  “I suggest you don’t start agreeing with me Ava dearest, it might become a habit you can’t break.”

  “I don’t think I’m in any danger. You forget my dear,” and she put a heavy emphasis on the last two words, “that I was practicing my craft while your spirit was stuck in the ether, searching for a suitable body.”

  “I fought at Troy you know. I even fought Odysseus himself. He was quite the hero wasn’t he?” Agoras smirked and glanced quickly at Ava but the witch looked away.

  “He was a man.” She shrugged. “Fallible like most men and I was bored of him long before he left.”

  The pair had by this point covered quite a distance, slowly but surely heading uphill. Ava gave Agoras a suspicious look.

  “Where are we going?”

  “We are not going anywhere.” Agoras stopped and planted his hands on his hips. Ava reached out and grabbed his stick before it could topple to the ground.

  “Where are you going?” The witch rephrased her question but Agoras still glared at her suspiciously.

  “It’s Midsummer’s Eve and I have a ritual to take part in.”

  Ava nodded and there was a faint smile on her face. “You still have your little troupe then?”

  “They are neither little nor a troupe.” Agoras pulled the stick away from Ava and leant on it. “I have eleven disciples at the moment. Eight men and three women.” Ava looked startled by that and Agoras grinned, p
leased that he had managed to discomfort the seemingly unflappable woman.

  “Women?” Ava practically spat the word. “You’re teaching women to be wizards?”

  “We don’t actually use that word. I myself have always preferred the word shaman.”

  Ava pulled a face and angrily folded her cloak around herself. “It makes no difference what word you use wizard, the end result is the same.”

  Agoras looked wounded. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

  Ava gave Agoras another of her patented glares for a reply. “Witches are creatures of instinct. We do not need to be taught magic like wizards. Magic is what we are.”

  Agoras raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re better than us?”

  Ava laughed, it was very nearly a giggle. “I don’t need to think it.”

  Agoras glared at her, and then glanced distractedly at the large digital watch that he had been wearing on his wrist since the eighties. “I really don’t have time for this,” he muttered.

  Nevertheless, he turned his eyes up to the darkening sky and sighed. “Never any clouds about when you want them.” He paused then and, patting down his pockets, pulled a small polished stone from the inner depths of his coat. “I’ve had this since I was a boy you know.”

  “In which lifetime?” Ava smirked.

  Agoras ignored her, instead he concentrated on setting the small grey stone into the top of his walking stick. “Just a walking stick,” he muttered, “I’ll show her.” Finally satisfied, he raised the stick a little awkwardly and then brought it sharply down against the grass covered hillside. Lightning cracked across the sky above their heads.

  Ava looked unimpressed. “Coincidence.”

  Agoras huffed irritably and again he thrust his stick up and then down. This time it began to rain, heavy warm drops falling from a cloudless sky, and only on the witch.

  Ava reached up and waved her arm through the drops of water. Abruptly they all skewed sideways and very quickly left Agoras wet and grumpy.

  “Well I think we can safely say which of us is better.”