A Father's Love

The river ran backwards on the day the Queen vanished.

Riley scooped up the water, urgently filling every pot and pan he could muster whilst his hands trembled. Placing the various containers into the wheelbarrow, he rushed back down the hill towards the house, trying desperately not to spill.

Fumbling inside, he carefully placed the containers on the kitchen table.

‘We need more. This isn’t enough,’ worried his wife, her face pale and gaunt, her features sharp as they danced in the shadows. Throwing wood on the fire, she grabbed the pots and pans and rushed back through the bathroom door.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, he stared wearily after her. Behind the old wooden door, the screaming grew louder.

This had better work.

He dashed outside, grabbed the wheelbarrow, and started back up toward the river, the frigid air clinging to him.

The night was dark and full of shadows. The hill lay unnervingly quiet. The only sounds to break its stillness were the muffled screams from inside the house and the distant sound of gushing water - taunting him.

He cursed the witch as he heaved himself up the incline, sick with worry. His daughter’s screams slowly dissipated as he climbed, reaching the forest edge, the river nestled neatly in front. The water glistened in the moonlight, its backward swell unnerving. Thick, black clouds were gathering over the mountains, promising rain. He grabbed another bucket from the pile on the floor, relieved at his foresight to prepare. He could not let the water mix; it would not work if it became diluted.

His fellow villagers had been generous when he’d hammered on their doors, begging for buckets or anything that could hold water. Some, he was sure, had figured it out. Everyone had heard what had happened; his daughter's grace and kind heart were well known throughout the village. Though most had stayed away, fearing for their safety. A few offered their condolences as though she were already dead.

Riley swallowed hard. The legend was old but well-known amongst his generation, though many must have thought him mad. People knew better than to play with dark magic, but what choice did they have?

He had to try.

He would pay the price for his actions eventually, but he didn’t care. There had been no other way. It was his job as a father, even if it meant taking a life. He had no regrets.

He plunged the container deep into the river. The cold water cascaded over his hands, sucking at his wrist as it sparkled. A quiet rage simmered inside of him as he stacked the containers on top of each other.

A branch snapped.

Riley paused and listened, his heart quickening. Somewhere deep in the woods, an owl hooted. He stared through the branches and into the darkness. A strong wind whistled through the trees. Cursing under his breath, he quickly lifted the last bucket from the water. He had no doubt that they were on to him. 

Somewhere in the distance, the low rumble of thunder carried across the wind. Grabbing the rusty handles of the wheelbarrow, he hurried down the hill.

*

Hours had passed and a storm had grown into a thing of force and fury, blanketing the humble village in black cloud, its presence aptly mimicking his internal panic as the sky rumbled angrily. Rain lashed the windows as Riley stoked the fire, trying desperately to suppress his worry. The screaming had lessened, allowing him to breathe deeper. He paced the kitchen, impatiently eyeing the clock.

The subtle burn of bile crept up his throat as he prayed for his plan to work. Images of his wife, all alone, grieving as she tried to fend for herself flashed cruelly through his mind.

He shuddered and shook his head. Reaching for the shelf, he selected a hand-painted mug; his favourite one, trembling as he poured. The liquid was strong and sour, filling his veins with a temporary courage. He cradled the cup, eyeing the ancient crack that splintered the china. Riley sighed, running a finger along the glue.  

A rush of warmth flowed through him as he remembered his little girl as an infant, her face lined with worry as she’d nervously brought the broken mug to his attention. She’d lifted it up to him in both hands, her honesty a peace offering for her clumsiness. Her big green eyes brimming with tears as her lip trembled. She’d always been a sensitive soul.

Thumping the mug on the table, he scowled at the floor. Lightning flashed through the window, illuminating the floorboards. A primal satisfaction fuelled him as he glared at the gaps between them, knowing what lay beneath, tightly wrapped and forever hidden. A prideful smile taunted the corner of his mouth.

The harsh wind howled against the door, seeping through cracks as a draft whistled through the cottage; the fire dancing in its wake.

The groan of the bathroom door snapped him out of his vengeful satisfaction. Damp and dishevelled, his wife entered; the bathroom behind her was quiet, all for a faint chanting.

‘More?’ he gasped.

‘No. She says it’s enough,’ said Eleanor flatly, slumping onto a seat at the table. She looked defeated. Empty. ‘All we can do now is pray. It shouldn’t be long.’

Riley poured her a drink. Placing it on the table in front of her, he rubbed her back.

‘And the witch, do you trust her?’ he whispered.

‘We have to.’

‘El,’ Riley pleaded, taking her hands in his, ‘if she’s lying… what I've done...’

‘Riley, please. I can’t. I have to believe this will work. I can’t lose both of you.’ She choked back tears. Guilt swept over him. He pulled her gently into his arms and hushed her as she sobbed.

‘Everything’s going to be fine.’ He promised, wishing he believed it himself, but the pit of his stomach told him otherwise. He’d had brushes with witches in the past, and none of them good. All sorcerers were known for being deceitful, speaking in riddles and bending free will to their own. They corrupted as easily as they spoke, infamous for their trickery. Toying with the dark arts as they suited, they were both secretive and fickle.

But they were out of options.

It was this, or they planned her burial. He knew his wife would never survive it; she had a soft heart, not made for the harshness of this world. Barren, they had told her. Their bouncing little girl had been a miracle; the last twelve years, a blessing.

The air grew thick with an earthy aroma as the haggard old witch emerged from the bathroom, head bowed, cloak dragging behind her. Heavy lashes of rain thumped the windows as though eager to break in.

Riley eyed her wearily as she wafted towards the fireplace. The fire seemed to sense her approach, crackling wildly, its flames licking the mantle. Her voice was quiet but demanding as it filled the room.

‘It is done.’

Eleanor whimpered, rising from her seat, her wet and bloodied dress weighing heavy. ‘Is she…?’

‘The girl lives.’

His wife sprinted for the bathroom. Riley closed his eyes. A tortured breath escaped him as her elated cries echoed through the cottage.

‘You know the cost,’ said the witch matter-of-factly, staring deep into the flames.

‘I do.’ Riley answered, watching her cloak billow beneath her, wondering what she saw in the fire.

‘And my daughter?’

‘She will live to a ripe, old age,’ said the witch, placing a shrivelled hand into the fire. Flames licked at her greedily, but the skin didn't burn or blister. ‘The water healed her cuts and bruises. Her bones are unbent, knitted back together by the mystical properties of the water.’

She turned suddenly, gliding closer to Riley. The smell of fig and cedar wafted across him. ‘The enchanted water is an ancient secret and must remain so. It must never run backwards again. To do so would bring great harm upon your family.’

Riley nodded but said nothing. He understood all too well the consequences of his actions, the cost of the body buried beneath him.

‘It dies with you,’ said the witch, eyeing him carefully.

Riley swallowed. ‘You have my word.’

‘A father's love has always intrigued me,’ she croaked, ‘trading her life for another. Relinquishing your freedom... A high price to pay.’

‘The Queen was no saint,’ Riley muttered desperately. ‘Thousands of people suffered because of her. Her reign weighed heavy on the poorest of us. Her rulings unjust, prosecuting the supernatural amongst us. Hunting down your kind for sport.’ He fought back tears. ‘Our daughter was an innocent. Caught in the web of destruction she imposed across the land. She needed to be stopped.’

‘You speak of things that hold little worth, boy. Your choosing was only for the child.’ She looked down at the floor, as though admiring his handiwork underneath. ‘The spell wouldn’t have worked without the freshest of blood.’

‘Royal Blood,’ muttered Riley.

‘The water would have remained useless.’

‘Backwards to unbreak,’ he whispered, remembering her voice as she'd chanted the spell over the river, through the secrecy of blanketed fog. From somewhere deep in his subconscious, distant alarm bells were ringing.

‘But I’m curious…’ she said thoughtfully, turning back to the fire, ‘if it had needed the blood of an innocent, a child perhaps, could you have gone through with it?’

The wind howled. A bitter chill filled the room. The question weighed heavy on his heart as he listened to his wife whimpering, thanking the heavens from behind the bathroom door. Riley glanced back down at his feet.

‘Your Gods had no hand in this,' said the witch, as though amused by his wife's faith. 'She was bound for the netherworld, boy. Should you have chosen differently, your daughter would be but a husk by now.’

‘I...’ Riley struggled to find the words, desperate not to admit what he knew was true; his moral compass spinning wildly.

A pink mist flew softly across his face, entrancing him.

‘The truth is all that prevails,’ whispered the witch, her hand outstretched towards him. Lightening flashed, casting light upon her piercing yellow eyes from beneath the hood.

‘In a heartbeat,’ Riley whispered unconsciously. ‘There is nothing I wouldn’t do; no one I wouldn’t kill to protect her.’

The witch smiled, intrigued.

‘Ah, you see. The love of a father. Strong in spirit, elusively unattainable, and quite unbreakable. You can’t bottle it. I’ve tried. Such an odd thing,’ she quipped as the shadows danced around the dark kitchen. 'But a weakness in its own right.’

Rain pelted the cottage, the heavy downpour lashing the windows.

‘One could use it to their advantage. Manipulate you into doing unspeakable things... like killing a Queen as she slumbers.’ Striking, icy blue light illuminated the small kitchen once more as the skies rumbled angrily, but darkness clawed it back. ‘There’s no such thing as Royal blood, boy. It’s true, the spell demanded a sacrifice… but animal blood would have worked just as well, as long as it was fresh and warm.’

Her words hit him like a dagger in the chest. Riley's heart thundered, his mind racing. Tears filled his eyes. 'I could have stayed? I could have watched her grow?' he croaked in disbelief, 'But now they'll hunt me to the ends of the earth. I gave up my freedom on your word.'

'You gave it up on a wish and a prayer, boy. Your love for the girl made you desperate. It blinded you to the truth.'

'You lied,' he spat, a deep rage boiling inside.

'The girl lives, doesn't she?'

The fire roared as she approached it, warming her hands, casting the dancing shadows across her bony withered face.

‘Your love for the girl will always be your weakness. One would advise you to learn from this, but alas, your days are now numbered,' she muttered gleefully. 

'But why?' he barked angrily, 'I've given up my freedom for nothing.'

'For my own freedom, of course. No longer will my kind be hunted like cattle. Oh, no. Instead, they now hunt you.' The fire reflected in her eyes; the flames danced. 'I wonder what you'll choose... Spend what time you can with your daughter... or run? You better hurry now, boy. The Royal Guards will be here soon.'

Riley's eyes darted from the bathroom door to the backdoor as panic swelled inside of him.

'What are you waiting for?' The witch turned to him, her thin face stretched wide with a wicked smile. 'Run boy. RUN!'