Rosanna Hamlin Writer

Story 1/13

Amongst the trees on the hills, somewhere in the wilderness where the leaves were donning dresses of frost and turning in their colours and the air was beginning to bite, in the moss-covered skeleton of a former monastery the October folk had gathered. The pews, lichen covered and moth eaten were filled with witches from the local villages and the occasional outcast living on the edge of town. Each bathed in the low copper embers of the flickering candlelight. Ahead of them, standing in a line, were figures five.

It is an honour to be chosen, so say the elders. Every year Greta Naismith stood in the same line beside other contenders while the congregated cauldron of covens cast their votes. The tradition was ancient, dating back to the 1500’s, when the witch hunter King James had slain their brethren by the hundreds. It had been a desperate attempt to prevent further bloodshed that had worked wonders. This was Greta’s fifth ‘Reaping’ now. Surely this time…This would be the time she was chosen. The odds, she thought, were promisingly in her favour. Beside her was a measly little boy of five—a stranger from another coven—with greasy blonde hair and brown eyes fidgeting from foot to foot. He was too young, uncertain of what he’d agreed to. On the other side of the little boy with no name stood a silver-haired hag in her seventies, wrinkled and exhausted, the poorest offering yet. Another person she did not care to know. On Greta’s other side stood the strongest offering. A babe. Male. Squalling in a pram. Filled with life and his whole existence ahead of him. So much unbridled promise – the new-born son of the local alchemist. A grab at power for certain but a clever one. It was silly Greta knew to feel threatened by something so small and insignificant. No. She would be chosen. After all the hard work she’d contributed for this moment, she was certain that it would neither go unnoticed nor unappreciated. Until she caught sight of the contender on her far left… and her stomach dropped.

Constance Hewitt, with her golden hair, her poise and her exceptional healing abilities posed the truest of threats. Not much older than Greta, Constance was the beauty of the coven. It’s golden girl. The very prospect of Constance being chosen over her conjured envious green tendrils of dark magic to eat away at Greta’s heart. The gumption she had to try and outdo Greta the pious, the loyal, the perfectionist. She who had flawlessly fulfilled every ritual, every rite, and every spell in preparation for this very moment so that she might be picked for this glorious holiday.

The hooded figure looming at the back of the congregation observed them ominously to guarantee that no witch influenced another’s free will. With every quill scratching scribble of ink onto rough papyrus and every slip of folded black parchment disappearing into the ballot box, its beady glowing eyes dancing back and forth over the crowd. They stopped on Greta for a moment, and she resisted a wince at the burning gaze as she recalled the vote of 2009. She’d only been a child, a keen spectator. And who had been selected? Selene Smith. Not even a volunteer, poor thing. It had been a less than ideal result for the contenders and a nasty shock for Selene, and an even nastier discovery that everyone, including her own family, had voted for her. Alas, by the time the coven elders suspected foul play it had been far too late and all because of another witch’s vendetta. Such a waste. Such a scandal. The incident was forever ingrained in their memories and had changed the way they ran the ‘Reaping’ forever.

The candles glimmered gold in the darkening sky; a gust of cool air rippled through the ruins, ghosting through the burning embers momentarily. A shiver ran down Greta’s spine; the baby hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. The creature in the pram beside her wailed as the Crone Superior slid the carved lid of the ballot box close with a thud and a click. The murmur of the congregation came to a halt, and the High Priest rose from his cathedra. He was as old as the village, if not older. No one could be certain how old Father Odo was. His skin was wrinkly and paper thin, and his bones were as brittle as the crown the selected one would wear. His black robes billowed in the wake of his every step.

“It is time for the counting.” His croaky voice swamped the room and awoke an anticipation amongst the collected covens’. He surveyed each of them with his cruel black button-like eyes. They scuttled over her like insects and then scuttled back, burrowing holes into her flesh. Greta’s amber eyes maintained his gaze, head held high. Does he expect me to look away? Locked in a battle of wills, she dared him to find any ounce of disloyalty, any reason why she should not be chosen. The sound of the elders filtering through a side arch and into a black, endless forest caused Greta to break her gaze away from Father Odo as she eyed the elders curiously. The Crone Superior, a hag even older than her grandmother, pierced her with a milky withering expression. Father Odo glanced over Greta appraisingly a moment longer before he turned and followed them out.

A heavy leather clad hand fell upon her shoulder. Greta’s breath caught as she glanced over her shoulder and faced the hooded figure with the gleaming eyes. He grinned at her, displaying his sharp teeth to her as he firmly guided her to the fungi draped pillar at the side of the ruins. Shrouded in shadow, beneath an arch, a crone stepped out of the shadows – draped head to toe in scarlet, creped features barely visible through her bloody veil.

“Come.” Her voice scratched out. “We must prepare.” Her taloned fingers enclosed around Greta’s wrist, digging painfully into the soft skin there. Greta followed the woman willingly through the arch and into the darkness. The leaves—golden, wine red, blood orange, emerald, brown—caressed her flesh as she walked the muddied path to a tent. The floral scents of lavender and brimstone wafted out, beckoning her. It was warm inside, hot. Two attendants approached her, gripped the collar of her dress, and, after sharing a dark look, ripped the material off her before guiding her to a copper tub.

The liquid was scolding. A bubbling cauldron of flower petals, wine, water, and milk. The bathing was no guarantee of victory. The rich concoction was only a careful preparation, something every competitor was treated to. The wine was a luxury. Half a goblet was poured into the milk bath, and the other was for Greta to consume. Made to sweeten her and give her courage. At least that’s what the elder’s always said it was for. Greta was beginning to suspect—from the way the crone intently watched her drink the entire goblet—that it had a more interesting purpose. She stepped out of the tub and swayed a little, the world becoming fuzzier than usual. Arms clasped around her, catching and steadying her. Greta laughed as the attendants held her firm and pliant whilst they dried her.

Next came the dress. All white, form fitting and embroidered. Through the looking glass, Greta hazily admired herself, all rosy cheeked and flushed with excitement.

“I look-” like a bride, she wanted to say.

“Promising,” The crone scratched out. “Kissed by hell-flame, exquisite. This could well be your year, my dear.” Behind her, the crone threaded her fingers through Greta’s flame red hair, muttering spells and braiding flowers into it. Greta’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, and she found herself fighting to stay awake. Forcing her eyes open, she froze, transfixed when she locked eyes with something through the mirror at the back of the tent. A large, dark figure shrouded in shadow, it’s brimstone eyes watching her hungrily through the looking glass. Greta jerked round in her seat, amber eyes scanning the back of the tent for something. Anything. A sign. The crone scolded her for her sudden movement, but the reproach fell on deaf ears. Greta was too busy studying something on the Persian rug—steaming black oily hoof prints. The crone followed Greta’s gaze, hobbling over to the rug. She studied the marks there for a moment before she leaned down, swiping the black liquid with her fingers. She sniffed it for a moment and then licked it from her wrinkled fingers. She grinned at Greta, the black liquid staining what remained of her teeth. “The odds are in your favour, it seems.” A gust of icy wind invaded the tent, causing the opening to whip and bluster against it. The crone tilted her head for a moment as she listened to the whispers it carried. “Come.” She summoned Greta, her caustic command, leaving no room for argument.

Greta could barely see ahead of her; she could only just make out the scarlet of the crone’s robes ahead of her. Twice she nearly slipped in the dirt ridden path, toes sinking into the thick mud and scratching at branches to steady herself, drawing blood in the process. Now it beaded down her wrist, dripping onto her palm as she walked towards the roaring embers in the centre of the ruins. The candles had been extinguished and replaced by a tremendous bonfire. Its light warmed her, lured her closer, and with every step she took, with every catch of her white gown against the leaves and branches, breathing became easier than it had moments earlier. Merriment could be heard; children singing and feet tapping in time against the floor suggested dancing. Men guffawed at drunken jokes, and women frolicked around the bonfire.

They entered through the archway they had left through, the foliage hanging overhead eviscerating into ash as she stepped through behind the crone. Opposite her, she could see the figure of the boy walking in through his own arch; to his left, Constance, the picture of innocence and grace, appeared to float through hers. Another crone carried in the bundle of the still screeching babe at the far end of the room, and the hag hobbled forth, all dressed in varying shades of white. Each was led back into the line they had originally stood in. A spectacle for the rest of the coven. Father Odo emerged from the dark-robed mass of elders with an air of importance no one could ignore.

“The decision has been made.” The room fell silent. Instruments were laid down as the merriment halted. Children were called back by their parents as the coven fought to catch a seat to see the outcome of the ‘Reaping’. Father Odo motioned for the hooded wraith charged with watching over them to come forth. It floated through, feasting on the joy of the room. Coven members and outcasts alike flinched and parted, making way for the creature to pass through as it watched them with its sharp, grinning teeth and its glowing, ever-watchful eyes. The crones and elders shifted uncomfortably as it passed by them. Only Father Odo dared to look it in the eye, unflinchingly. Odo held out the carved box that the votes had been folded into.

“You,” he addressed the phantom. “Will announce the ‘Selected One’.” It grinned. Greta frowned as she watched its grotesque gloved fingers drift through the carved lid. It had always fascinated her how the spell worked. The votes were counted by the box or by the spell cast upon it—that little detail was something she hadn’t quite figured out. Either way, Greta found herself holding her breath as she watched. Blood rushed loudly in her ears, drowning out all the sounds around her, the pounding of her heart thumping against her ribcage, bursting to escape, and the prayers chanting in her head.

Please let it be me. Please let it be me. Satan in hell, let it be me.

The hand re-emerged with a slip of glowing red parchment. The hooded creature eyed it for a moment and lifted its head. It’s fangs widened, and Greta thought she’d become dizzy from the adrenalin fluttering through her.

“Greta Naismith.”

Greta’s legs shook, her chest heaved and her eyes watered as she exhaled a sigh of joy and laughed. A mad, victorious, euphoric laugh that echoed across the ruins.

Finally.

The coven applauded. Father Odo nodded his congratulations to her as the woeful contenders were escorted (or in some cases, dragged) away. Greta felt the cruel urge to gloat at Constance, who sobbed and screamed as she was guided away somewhat forcefully. The Crone Superior stepped up onto the small platform in front of Greta and brushed her joyous tears away. Behind her, Greta heard the sound of fabric being lifted, and when she dared to glance over her shoulder, she smiled to see the obsidian altar revealed. The elders, each placing a hand on her, guided Greta backwards until her back hit the obsidian. They hoisted her up onto the cold, smooth surface before retreating to the shadows. Father Odo withdrew from his black robes the victor’s crown. A crown of thorns, sharp and beautiful, and hardened over time by magic. The same crown of thorns, supposedly that they had forced onto the pretender’s brow a thousand years previously in Golgotha. Greta did not flinch when Father Odo crowned her. She practically glowed when she felt the weight of it rest against her skull. The thorns broke into her flesh, and red black blood trickled down her face, but Greta remained content in her place. Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she savoured the moment, and then she heard it. A loud crack followed by a woman screaming in terror. Greta’s eyes snapped open, and she stared, awestruck at the stone ground, which appeared to have split. There was another crack, louder as some of the stone fell into the gaping vortex that was forming. Witches scrambled away to the sides, desperate to save themselves from whatever danger lay at their feet. Greta paid them no mind. She was too busy staring, transfixed at the form that was emerging from the depths.

Everything became still for her. All the noise—the screaming, the chanting, the sound of her heartbeat, the blood rushing through her ears, the whispers carried on the wind—they all slowed and undulated, reverberating blurrily in her ears. Greta was entranced, frozen as it stepped out of the earth into the glimmering low light of the bonfire. Fur matted legs of a goat—hooves cloven and dripping with a thick and oily black liquid. Its hoof imprints seemed to scorch the stone slabs underfoot as he stepped closer. Its bare torso that of a human man’s heaved with life, muscle, and sinew, contorting with excitement the longer it looked at her. And it’s head, a goat’s head with sharp horns and canines. She was certain of it. Father Odo stepped in front of the creature, blocking his path and knelt.

“My Lord, you honour us with your presence.” The creature watched him thoughtfully for a moment before appraising Greta once again. She felt herself somewhere between terror and joy. The Dark Lord had never made his presence known at any of the Selections through out the centuries…and yet he was here tonight. For you. That wicked little voice cooed in her head. Imagine Constance’s face. Greta thought she might look away for a moment to find her rival’s heartbroken features, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from The Dark Lord’s brimstone eyes. His fangs widened, and a deep, menacing baritone carried through the air.

“You honour me with you’re offering.” He seemed pleased, sidestepping around Father Odo and continuing until he was mere inches from Greta. Her breath became ragged as she stared up at him, wide eyed. His large clawed fingers reached out and wrapped around her throat somewhat possessively. “Such loyal servants I have.” His growl of a voice lowered to a monstrous rumble, “My beloved Queen of Thorns is to be rewarded.” He brushed a clawed thumb over her lips, and Greta could not decide whether to flinch or lean into his burning, forceful touch. “Let the celebrations commence.”

Vaguely…somewhere in the distance on the edge of her consciousness, Greta could hear the music restart. Thrumming hypnotically around the ruins. On the edge of her vision, figures—shadows—danced around the large, ever bright bonfire, the scent of honey coated apples and red meat nourishing the air.

None of it mattered. How could it when He was in front of her? The brimstone of his eyes became volcanic as he tipped her head back with his claw; she submitted to the movement, a willing lamb to the slaughter. And as his face hovered above her own, cutting off her view, she swore for a moment that the Dark Lord might open his fangs and kiss her. There was the sound of tearing fabric, and the cool October breeze summoned goosebumps to her flesh. His breath wreaked of blood as his fangs opened, and Greta, bewitched, opened her mouth to accept his kiss.

When his tusks first punctured her chest, she gasped at the pain that bloomed there. But it was only a moment before it dissipated into dizzying pleasure. Greta felt herself become limp and felt the tingling in her fingertips fade as she cupped the back of the goat’s head. It was as though she floated above herself, watching him devour her open chest, blood and muscle and ribs exposed. He pulled back to look upon her with cruel brimstone eyes. He reached into her chest, and Greta heard something rip before he pulled out her heart, still thumping somewhat wildly as she watched him bite into it, blood gushing from the organ and dripping from his mouth.

It was then that she became aware of her surroundings. Other coven members surrounded her, gripping her writhing limbs tightly as they lowered their heads and tore into her flesh. Constance was beside her, teeth baring down into her arm, ripping through flesh and muscle alike. The Dark Lord watched on as they indulged. The pain of teeth puncturing her only lasting a mere moment until there was nothing. Numbness. It was almost exquisite. She wondered how she might taste and that her flesh was tender enough for them. But, of course, it was. I was perfect.

Queen of Thorns. She mused as her vision blurred and the assault of sensations—teeth, pleasure, and pain—dulled to numbness. A content smirk pulled at the corner of her lips as she stared at him. I’m his Queen of Thorns.