Children of the Swamp Witch

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Tarlon leaned against a tree, gasping for breath. But there have always been wolves. The dragons had only appeared two winters earlier, the same winter that the witches had been rounded up, tried, and executed, because many people claimed there was a link between witchcraft and the dragons.

Tarlon forced himself to resume the chase. For days, they had pursued the lone wolf that had been raiding with impunity. Now success seemed certain. The men ran along the edge of a ravine, their faces reflecting their grim determination. From below came the baying of the hounds as they drove the hunted animal toward the waiting trap.

Thorns and brush tore at his fur, yet the wolf did not slow. Seemingly unworried, he raced along the ravine, drawing ever nearer to the end of the draw.

Four men waited there, their angry eyes fixed on the scrubby bushes that lined the mouth of the ravine. Vengeance drove them, revenge for the meals their wives could never cook, for the hunger reflected in the eyes of their children. Their lives were hard, food scarce, and they reserved a special hatred for thieves, be they man or animal. United against a common cause — for all had suffered losses of late — they now felt the satisfaction swell within them at the impending demise of one of the robbers who made their difficult lives even more uncertain.

At this moment, the quarry lay only a few paces before them, counting their number, analyzing their weaponry. Then he rose to his feet and charged forward.

The men heard the rustling and set themselves, triumph shining on faces that quickly became masks of terror. Then the monstrous bear was upon them, claws raking exposed bellies and throats, silencing their screams. In the blinking of an eye, it was over, and the four lay bloodied and still, staring skyward with unseeing eyes.

The bear did not hesitate, but turned toward the east and continued his journey.

#

Dusk was a mere formality in the swamp, for the misty grayness never truly allowed sunlight to enter. Still, the old woman reflected, twilight had always seemed to bring with it a peace that she lacked at other times. She sat on her rickety porch, rocking softly and surveying her domain.

Directly before her lay a funeral plot, one of the few pieces of solid land large enough to accommodate the need. Beneath a gnarled tree from which the moss hung heavy were the graves of two husbands and seven children.

Almost thirty years had passed since she had last wielded a shovel to consign the remains of a loved one, three decades of aloneness that sometimes threatened to crush her beneath its weight, made even more maddening by the knowledge that there would be no one to bury her. Few ventured into the swamps these days, and none would push as deeply as Old Hephy's cabin. Crazy old woman was the kindest description they offered; more often, she was contemptuously referred to as the Swamp Witch, a name used to frighten children, to invoke the darkest of imaginings on a young mind.

She shook her head sadly. She knew nothing other than the healing properties of a few roots and herbs. Magical powers were not hers; she had only the vaguest of ideas of what they would even be. Yet for decades, the tales about her had been repeated and expanded, taken as fact because the simple peasants, driven by ignorance and fear, needed to know why the crops failed, why the sickness came. The easiest explanation was witchcraft, and the most likely witch was an old woman living alone.

With a sigh, she closed her eyes and rested briefly. If death comes tonight, it shall be none too soon. She stared toward the nine graves without really seeing them. I am ready.

Her reverie was interrupted by a soft mew from beside her chair. Smiling, she reached down and lifted the yellow tabby to her. "There you are, Butterbell." She stroked its soft fur as it purred, then curled up contentedly in her lap. "I'm not truly alone, am I? I still have you . . ."

She petted the cat and continued to rock gently in her chair, oblivious to the eyes that watched from the shadows of the swamp.

The fox sniffed the air. Again, he could find no scent other than the woman's and the cat's. He peered into the thickening gloom, retracing the solitary path he had followed, remembering the certainty he had felt of its long disuse; still he hesitated, caution outweighing the impatience that had grown of late within him. What were a few more moments, compared to all that had already been sacrificed? He watched as the old woman stroked the cat, rocking quietly in her chair, her eyes fixed before her in an unseeing stare.

At length, Hephy deposited the cat beside her. Slowly, she stood and straightened her apron, then moved toward the door.

Her hand was reaching for the latch when she heard a cat cry. She glanced down to find a silent Butterbell at her feet; the meow sounded again, and she realized that it had come from behind her. Turning, she spied it — black, with a ruff of white — trotting toward her, crying plaintively as it came.

"Well, what have we here? Where did you come from?"

Butterbell fell away, eyes narrowed, ears laid back. She hunkered down, a growl rumbling in her throat that quickly became a hiss. "Here now!" Hephy told her. "Behave yourself!" Steadying herself against the wall, she leaned forward and extended her hand to the newcomer. "Poor thing — you must be starving. Come along, kitties, let's have our dinner."

As soon as the door was opened, Butterbell raced across the dirt floor and took up a position beneath the bed. Hephy sent a word of chastisement after her, fleetingly reflecting that the old cat was so used to being the center of her affections that she had become quite spoiled. Sighing, she turned her attention to feeding them, ladling up two bowls of the fish stew she had prepared earlier that afternoon for Butterbell's dinner; with each day, it seemed, the old cat foraged less and relied more on her for sustenance.

Hephy placed the bowls on the floor, and the new arrival fell ravenously on his meal, but Butterbell refused to be coaxed from hiding. Deciding that her pet must have enjoyed an unusually good day of hunting, and, in any case, would certainly survive missing one dinner, Hephy abandoned her efforts and made a small repast for herself of leek soup and stale bread. Her knees were even stiffer than normal, and she half-fell onto the stool that sat beside the wobbly table. Tearing the bread into chunks, she dropped them into her soup to soften them. The simmering aroma had been tempting earlier; however, after just a few spoonfuls, she pushed the bowl aside, finding, yet again, that she simply wasn't hungry. She watched the stray finish his dinner, her eyes following him as he stood and stretched, then padded over to the hearth and curled before it.

Appetite soothed, his blood warmed by a mixture of security and success, the black purred quietly. His eyes briefly met those of the yellow cat, who peeked out momentarily, splaying her lips in a soundless hiss before retreating back into her sanctuary; he yawned, untroubled, resting his head on his forepaws and closing his eyes.

Hephy smiled and nodded. "Yes, it is time we were asleep, isn't it?" For a moment, a look of sadness passed across her lined features as she remembered the nights of her youth, spent nestled in the arms of a husband. Of all that had changed over the years, it was the solitary nights, she thought, that were the most difficult to endure.

She shook off the melancholy and cleared the table before slipping into her nightshirt and combing out her thin white hair, securing it in a braid down her back. Snuffing the last candle, she crawled into bed and drew the covers about her, lying quietly in the darkness as the pains in her joints eased, patiently waiting for slumber to claim her, then finally falling into a troubled sleep.

The dreams came again, torturous images of youth and lost loves, mocking expressions of all that could never belong to her again. These nightly visitors were familiar to her, common callers come to tantalize her with visions of what had once been. But amid their sameness, a new anguish intruded.

In her dream, she opened her eyes and beheld a young man. He stood before her, his naked body lean and muscular, light brown hair tumbling to broad shoulders, his handsome face serene.

"I bring you a gift, Hephy," he told her, his voice deep and melodic.

#

Hephy turned over in bed, blinking against the dawn. Suddenly the dream returned to her, and she sat up, quickly confirming that she was alone. She sighed with relief that, however real it had seemed, it had been merely a dream — an odd one, granted, but still just a trick of her mind.

She stood carefully, her hands going to the small of her back as she stretched. From his position by the hearth, the black cat watched curiously.

"Don't grow old," Hephy warned him. "It isn't much fun."

She glanced around the one room that was her cabin, then called, "Butterbell? Here, kitty!" She repeated her entreaty, but received no response. She knelt beside the bed, her stiffened body complaining at the effort, and peered into the near darkness beneath it. The cat's name died on her lips as she spotted its still form.

"Oh, no!" Tears sprang to her eyes. Groaning from both the physical exertion and the emotional pain of loss, she pulled the cat's body to her.

The newcomer padded over and sniffed at the mound of yellow fur. Hephy stroked his head gently. "She was as old as I, in her own way," she told him. "It was her time . . . I still have you, though. You knew just when to come to me, didn't you?" The cat purred softly and stared at her, his green eyes steady, expressionless.

Hephy struggled to her feet. "We'll bury her after breakfast. By little Soli, I think. She used to love cats so very much."

She changed into a shapeless work dress and tied her apron around her. Reaching back, she quickly undid her braid and moved to the dull looking glass that hung on the wall.

Her comb fell to the floor and her eyes widened in shock as she caught her reflection. Disbelieving, she leaned closer, touching her hair tentatively as if it were a serpent, hair that was no longer white with age but a dark streaked gray. She ran her fingers through it, shaking her head slightly.

It hasn’t been that color in — She had to think back over several decades before she could fix the time. Thirty years, at least. She leaned closer to the glass, her hand moving to her face. Was it just imagination, or were the lines fewer, less deeply etched? Frightened, yet unable to tear herself away, she continued to stare into the mirror.

And all the time, the cat watched, his green eyes never wavering, never blinking.

Somehow, she managed to get through the day, to bury the yellow cat, to muddle through her chores. Yet she avoided the looking glass, afraid to see that the morning had been an illusion, and yet even more frightened that it had not.

She found herself ravenous by dinnertime, the meager fare to which she had become accustomed serving only to whet her appetite. She doubled her normal portion, then tripled it, becoming ever more surprised at her hunger; finally sated, she rested her elbows on the table, her thoughts turning yet again to the strange happenings of the night before, the haunting questions that knew no answer.

A soft mew from the hearth drew her back. She smiled at the stray, then, with a sigh, stood and cleared the dishes before preparing for bed.

For a time, she tossed and turned in the darkness, the dream of the prior night intruding again, blending into the haze of what she had seen revealed in the looking glass. Finally, as if compelled to discover the truth, she lit a candle and carried it to the mirror.

The reflection she had seen that morning had been no flight of fancy; her hair now was even darker, her face even smoother. The hand that grasped the candle had become more youthful, the slackness of the skin tightening, the brown splotches fading. The nagging aches that had plagued her of late were gone as well. Something had happened to her, and it was very real.

Her mind reeling, she returned to her bed. Long into the night, she lay staring into the blackness, searching in vain for an explanation, before falling into an exhausted sleep.

He came to her again. This time, he held her as she cried, as she railed against the cruelty of having her body made youthful again, with many years left for it, while her heart was the same heavy one that welcomed an end to the pain, to the loneliness. For a while, he let her talk, dried her tears, stroked her hair. And then he explained.

"You have been chosen," he told her. "The years will continue to flee from you — you have a chance to live your life over again. Soon you will be young again, strong and beautiful as you once were."

"But how? Why?"

"Magic. My magic — and that of the child you will bear. My child."

A chill swept her at his words. "Child?" she whispered.

He stroked her cheek. "You shall be the mother of a new breed, a better race." He kissed her forehead lightly. "Now sleep."

And sleep she had, her questions unasked. Deep and untroubled were her slumbers for the rest of the night.

Shortly after dawn, she awakened, feeling much more refreshed than she had in many years. Her dream returned to her, and a coldness coursed through her veins. As her eyes fell on the mirror, she threw the covers back and stood. It beckoned to her, and despite her fears, she yielded to it, moved toward it as if in a trance.

The face that stared back at her had seen no more than forty years and was framed by dark soft curls, with only a few stray hairs that remained gray. She moaned softly and hugged herself, her heart pounding in her chest and tears threatening to spill down her now smooth cheeks.

This can’t be happening! Truly, madness has finally claimed me! She turned away, and her gaze fell on the black cat.

He watched her intently, his green eyes fathomless and cool. Now he stood, stretching and flexing his claws.

Hephy felt her emotions drain away, felt herself become an empty, unfeeling shell. The cat, her mind whispered.

As quickly as it had come, the suspicion was gone; the stray moved to the door and pawed at it, his eyes turning upward to her and a slight mew coming from his mouth. Hephy lifted the latch and let him out.

Just a cat. She leaned against the door, her mind still struggling with the improbable thoughts that had seized her —that somehow, the bizarre dream, the reversal of the years —even Butterbell's death — were linked to the stray. But how?

Clenching her eyes against the tears that threatened to rush forth, she shook her head fiercely. Her jaw set with determination, she shoved the inexplicable events from her mind and reviewed the chores to be done.

Dressing quickly, she began to prepare breakfast, cracking an egg into a skillet and then shoving the pan onto the grill mounted in the fireplace. As it cooked, she twisted her hair into a neat coil at the nape of her neck and pinned it there.

The aroma of her cooking drifted to her as she returned to the hearth — and she was instantly overcome by a wave of nausea. She pulled the pan from the flame and opened the door; still there lingered what was to her a sickening stench. Weak and dizzy, she moved to the porch and sat down heavily in the chair, her mind whirling with what she knew to be fact, no matter how fantastic it appeared.

Impossible! And yet somehow, the truth had indeed been revealed to her in her dream. She had known that particular sickness too many times — though never quite so quickly — to not know what it portended.

A child . . . Worse yet, one of magic, sired for a purpose. A new breed, a better race. . . A fist of ice closed around her heart as jumbled realizations sifted through her mind. A new race would need a land, a land that was already claimed. A better race — the replacement for humans . . .

The crisp, cool air settled her stomach, and she felt her strength returning. Calmly, she pondered her situation, and then, her face an emotionless mask, she stood and moved away from the cabin.

#

By late afternoon, she stood atop the cliffs. Behind her lay the swamp, before her the sea. His child. The words ran through her mind, a chant of horror. The vision of what would be haunted her, the descendants who would replace her own race, the breed that held the magic of . . . what? She did not know, could not guess, yet she knew there was no benevolence in it, no humanity, only a cold, calculating presence that seemed indifferent to everything.

The roar of the surf crashing into the rocks below pounded in her ears, and in them she heard his words again and again. The child you will bear . . . a new breed . . .

Overhead, gulls wheeled lazily in the sky. She focused on them and stepped nearer to the edge, then closed her eyes; with only a moment's hesitation, she flung herself into the emptiness. The wind whipped past her ears, and then she was wrapped in a cloak of blackness as she slipped from consciousness.

#

Hephy opened her eyes slowly. For a moment, she could not understand where she was — and then she leapt to her feet, staring in disbelief at the familiar contents of her cabin.

Another dream? Yet as quickly as the thought came to her, she discarded it. She knew she had journeyed to the cliffs, knew she had stepped over. How was it that she still lived, was home now instead of in the sea?

A mew came from the shadows, and she shrank away as the black cat stepped toward her. "You!" she shrieked, somehow certain now that it was responsible. Her eyes, searching for a weapon, came to rest on the skillet she had abandoned that morning, and she hurled it at the cat, muttering an oath as it missed its target. She turned to find another object to throw at it or strike it with, grabbed her broom, and whirled back.

Her eyes widened, and her hand went to her throat. The cat still stood before her — only it had grown, indeed was still growing. Slack-jawed, she watched in horror as it rose upward until its back nearly touched the ceiling; then, abruptly, it began to shrink, returning to its original size so quickly that she wondered if she had truly witnessed what she thought she had seen.

She backed away. The cat fixed its emerald gaze upon her and moved forward, leaping onto the bed gracefully.

"What are you?" she demanded. Her eyes never left it — of this she was certain — and yet somehow it disappeared. In its place sat the man from her dreams.

"No more tantrums, Hephy," he told her, his voice commanding, his green eyes shining with the same cold detachment as the cat's. "And no more incidents such as you tried today." He folded his arms across his chest, his thin lips tightening. "Did you really think me foolish enough not to watch? Guard well my words, Hephy — you shall bear this child!"

Her knees weakened, and she slid slowly to the floor as the horrible truth flooded her. "The tales aren't just myths," she whispered. "You're a shape shifter."

He smiled humorlessly at her. "I have been called that. A transient perhaps would be a better description — but then, aren't we all? Surely you see that nothing is permanent — not the shapes I assume, nor your life, nor your world."

"This isn't happening!" She clenched her eyes against him, as if she could make him unreal if she could not see him.

"Ah, but it is. You should be grateful for the new life I have given you. But then, I did not truly expect you would have the wisdom to understand fully, and it is, I suppose, of no matter. All you need realize is that I intend to see this child born. Always, I will be near at hand, whether you know I am there or not."

"The cliffs!" She stared at him, suddenly aware of what must have happened.

"Did you not think I would follow? That I would watch?"

"You caught me as I fell —"

He shrugged. "It was easy enough for a dragon to do." His eyes hardened even more, his tone became harsher. "Now do you understand that there is nothing you can do to prevent this birth?"

She nodded numbly. "I understand."

In the time it took her to blink, he disappeared. Not gone, she thought, just changed. Into something too small for me to see. But she had no doubt that he was still there, still watching her.

As the days passed, she became accustomed to the knowledge that he was near. The days became weeks, then months; he never showed himself to her, but she knew he was always vigilant — as evidenced by the disappearance of not only her kitchen knives, but her ax and scissors as well. He had lied about nothing — by the end of the third day, a girl scarcely out of her teens had stared back at her from the mirror — and by the onset of winter, her belly had begun to swell with life.

No more did she need to toil for her food, for the larder was restocked while she slept. Firewood was to be found neatly stacked on the porch; clothing to accommodate her expanding girth appeared in the night. Yes, she told herself, he is still here.

As her time drew near, her mind became even more troubled. Every move she made, he would see; how, then, could she prevent the birth of the child she carried? Her every waking moment was devoted to ending the nightmare, yet scheme after scheme was discarded as unworkable.

The solitude — and the fear — began to prey upon her, and in her despair, she began — even though he still remained invisible to her — to talk to him, trivial thoughts that had crossed her mind, meaningless philosophical observations, questions about his true nature, about the different types of magic he possessed. And she talked of her loneliness, and Butterbell, and how comforting she had always found a cat.

One afternoon, as she sat at the table shelling peas, she looked up to find the black cat before the hearth; suddenly, she knew exactly what to do. Feeling as if she were a mere observer, she smiled, holding her hand out, stroking his head as he came near her. She lifted him into her lap, speaking the silly nonsense one tells a pet — and then, without the slightest hesitation, her hands tightened around him, twisting his head, snapping his neck. Flinging him from her, she rose to her feet, staring coldly at him as he twitched and writhed in agony.

And then the cat was gone, replaced by the man. His eyes betrayed his pain as his life fled, as the paralysis began to claim his limbs. He met her gaze, unspeaking, his expression one of regret — and something more, she thought.

Triumph? How could he possibly imagine victory was his? He managed to lift his head slightly, and then he fell back. His chest no longer rose, his green eyes no longer saw.

Long moments passed before she moved to his side, kneeling to confirm he was indeed dead. She gently closed his eyes, then drew a deep sigh. And now I must . . . Frowning, she fought the feelings of conflict that surged within her, the new-found desire to cling to a life she had been so willing to sacrifice such a short time before.

She attempted to focus on the task — the duty — she had set for herself months earlier. There was little time left — a few days at the most — but at last, the opportunity had been granted, if only she could find the means. The cliffs were too far; she might now be incapable of the climb, or, worse yet, the exertion might hasten her time, bring the child before she could reach the summit. Perhaps a potion. She forced herself to her feet, thinking to gather some nightbloom to brew a poison tea.

As she stood, a wave of pain engulfed her, a band of iron that tightened around her back and stomach. She gasped, leaning on the table until it passed.

Perhaps the strain, the shock . . .

When the second contraction seized her, she was certain. No time . . .

#

The rains had started in the early afternoon, pounding into the freshly turned dirt beneath the moss-laden tree where she had buried him. She sat on the porch, rocking softly, two infants nursing at her breast, a boy and a girl, twins she had delivered four days before.

Her eyes turned to the tiny box at the end of the porch, a makeshift coffin she had hammered together while they slept, and then to her children, babes so much like those she had borne a lifetime earlier that she couldn't tell the difference. She stared out at the burial plot, at the small hole she'd dug earlier in the day. Then her grip tightened around the infants protectively. They’re just babies . . .

Unbidden, there came to her what he had said — and all that he had sought to hide, things she had reasoned out on her own. A new race — magic in the guise of man. A new breed, less transilient, able to pass for human, yet retaining the powers of the shifter. The replacement for man, when wars or plagues or nature’s disdain brought his reign to an end.

What, she wondered, would they do if humans did not obligingly die off? See to it themselves, of course, with the same detached, emotionless calm she had witnessed so recently.

And I? Am I any better? Here I sit, pondering the murder of my newborns, babes whose father I have already slain . . .

Had he taken the form of the cat to humor her, only to be met with treachery? No, a voice inside her whispered, remembering yet again the strange expression he had worn as he died. He had known she would kill him, wanted her to do it. Because it had to be. Because if he lived, they would always be his children, not babes she could love and nurture, but reminders of a creature that she would feel was always there, always watching. A tear trickled unnoticed down her face as she desperately tried yet again to find some compromise that would allow both her race and her children to survive.

What if only one has his powers? How could I tell? How long could I wait before it became too late?

An agony more complete than any she had ever experienced flooded over her. Seven of her children already lay at rest in the tiny burial plot, dead of causes she had been powerless to prevent. With each, she had thought she had felt the most bitter pain imaginable; now she knew she had not.

Her daughter stirred slightly, her brow puckering slightly as she yawned. Hephy gazed at both children in her arms and blinked against the tears.

I bring you a gift, Hephy.

She continued to rock gently, the motion lulling them to sleep. The creak of the chair mingled with the relentless patter of the rain; the purple mist deepened as twilight encroached on the swamps. Still she sat, clutching her babes, straightening their blankets to guard them against the chill, seeing yet again the deep green eyes of their father.