Laurie Forest - The Black Witch

Just as the first rumble of thunder sounds in the distance, I open to the first page and read.

The Creation

In the beginning, there was only the Ancient One. The universe was vast and empty. And out of the great, unfathomable nothingness, the Ancient One brought forth the planets and the stars, the sun and the moon and Erthia, the Great Sphere.

And on this Great Sphere, the Ancient One separated the land from the water and brought forth all manner of living things: the green plants, the birds of the air, the beasts of the field and forest and water.

And the Ancient One looked down upon it all and was pleased.

But the Ancient One was not finished. The breath of life was sent out over the Great Sphere, and from the seeds of the sacred Ironwood Tree sprang the First Children, who were to dwell on the Great Sphere; and the Angelic Ones, who were to dwell in the Heavens.

At first, all dwelled in harmony.

All of creation joined together to worship, glorify and obey the Ancient One.

But it came to pass that the Angelic Ones, winged as they were, began to feel that they did not need to obey. They began to feel that they were better than the Ancient One, and that they owned the Heavens.

And it came to pass that the Angelic Ones flew down to the First Children and pleaded with them to turn away from the Ancient One and to worship them instead. The First Children were angered by this betrayal and refused. The First Children told the Angelic Ones that they would worship and glorify none other than the Ancient One. The Angelic Ones, angered in turn by the refusal of the First Children, brought down a host of evil upon them: the shapeshifters who preyed upon them at night, the wyverns who attacked from above, the sorceresses who sought to mislead them and all manner of dark creatures and tricksters, thus scattering the First Children and sending them into disarray.

And it came to pass that the Ancient One looked down and saw the sufferings of the First Children, and that the Angelic Ones had become Evil Ones in their betrayal. In great fury and righteousness, the Ancient One smote the Angelic Ones and sent them hurtling down to the surface of the Great Sphere. And then the Ancient One spoke to the Angelic Ones, who were now Evil Ones, saying unto them:

“From now on, you shall no longer be counted among my children and will be known as Icarals, the most despised of all creatures. You will wander the surface of my Great Sphere without a home. My True Children, My First Children, will join together to smite you and to break your wings.”

And thus it came to pass that the True Children once again joined together from all corners of the Great Sphere to smite the Evil Ones and to worship, glorify and obey the Ancient One.

So ends the first book of Creation.

I glance up at the stained-glass windows that shine between the columns as I remember the stories in the sacred text associated with each image, the normally vivid colors of the scenes strangely darkened by the stormy skies.

The first window depicts the Ancient One symbolized by a graceful, white bird, sending down rays of light to Erthia below. I take in a deep breath as the familiar, protective image fills me with warmth.

The images continue, all around: the reluctant prophetess, Galliana, astride a giant fire raven, leading our people from slavery, White Wand in hand; the First Children receiving the deep blue Ironflowers as a symbol of the Ancient One’s promise to keep them free from oppression, the flowers offering magical protection from demon fire.

I briefly glance down at the familiar Ironflower trim worked into the hem of my sleeve, comforted by the flowers’ symbolic promise of safety.

Next comes images of terrible battles: First Children slaying winged Icaral demons as the demons shoot fire from their palms; First Children soldiers combating bloodthirsty shapeshifters—wolf-shifters, fox-shifters and even a wyvern-shifter with slits for eyes and a forked tongue hanging from its mouth.

Above all these images, the Ancient One’s light shines down.

As I ponder the religious teachings of my youth, movement near the stained-glass wyvern-shifter catches my eye.

Just above its reptilian head is a clear portion of glass, and I can make out two small eyes watching me through it. The eyes flick up and out of view, revealing a strong silver beak and then...nothing.

A Watcher.

Curious, I get up, walk toward the back of the church and exit through the mammoth front doors.

As the doors swing shut behind me, I’m instantly aware of a strange current in the air. I stare down over the empty plaza, searching everywhere for the bird.

There, in the plaza’s center, stands the huge stone statue of my grandmother. The plaza is eerily quiet, the normally raucous seagulls absent. The odd colors of the sky shift slightly, and I hear another small, far-off murmur of thunder. I look up to see dark clouds slowly lumbering toward the church.

Halfway down the cathedral stairs, I see it. The white bird. It flies across the wide plaza and lands just behind my grandmother’s statue.

I reach the statue of my grandmother and circle slowly around it, searching for the bird. Soon the huge marble monument completely blocks the cathedral from view. I pause in its shadow, riveted by it.

The soft rumbling of thunder jostles the silence like a faint drumroll.

My grandmother stands, larger than life, my identical features finely wrought by a master’s chisel, every fold of her billowing robes perfectly rendered, so lifelike it seems as if I could reach up and move the fabric. Her left arm is raised in a graceful arc above her head, her wand arm pointing straight down at an Icaral that lies prostrate at her feet, his face a contorted mask of agony.

At this angle, it’s as if she’s pointing her wand not at the Icaral, but at me.

The clouds move above her head in the direction of the church, giving the illusion that she’s the one moving instead, inclining her head toward me reproachfully, sizing up this fraudulent copy of herself.

You could never be me.

The white bird pokes its head over my grandmother’s shoulder, startling me, its eyes filled with alarm. It moves its head from side to side in warning, as if a bird could make such a human gesture.

Suddenly, a strong, bony hand slams against my mouth. An arm flies around my waist and locks my elbows against my sides in a viselike grip. I fall backward onto a hard body, and a foul smell like rotted meat washes over me.

My fear is a delayed reaction, like the pain that hesitates briefly when you touch something so hot it will burn and scar. Catching up, my heart begins to beat wildly as a nasal, taunting male voice hisses into my ear.

“Don’t bother screaming, Black Witch. No one will hear you.”

I struggle wildly, straining against the binding arm, kicking at him, but he’s too strong. I can’t wrench myself free, and I can’t turn my head to see the face of my attacker.

The thunder becomes more insistent, the wind surging as the storm continues to move straight toward the cathedral.

I desperately scream against his hand and scan the plaza for help. But there’s no one.

A second figure springs from the shadows between two nearby buildings and scrambles toward me on long, sickly thin limbs. It’s bald and naked from the waist up, its flesh pale and emaciated, multiple gashes marking its chest and arms as if it’s been lashed repeatedly, its face contorted into an evil smile, red lips surrounding decayed and pointed teeth.

But its eyes...oh, its eyes—they’re a swirling, opalescent white, devoid of humanity, devoid of a soul...like the living dead. And there are grotesque stumps jutting out from its shoulder blades. The stumps move in and out rhythmically in a disgusting mimicry of flight, and a terrifying realization washes over me.