Bentley Little - The Walking

He nearly spilled the tea on his lap, getting up, but he managed to avoid burning himself and placed the cup on the mantel above the fireplace.

The knock came again, louder, stronger, not the friendly sound of a neighbor's tapping hand but the hard, demanding rap of wood on wood.

William walked across the room, pulled back the bolt, and opened the door.

Six or seven men stood on the porch, ax handles and shotguns in hand.

Even backlit by the moon, their forms in silhouette, their faces bathed in darkness, William could see defensiveness in their postures, anger in the way they held their weapons. Beneath everything, he could sense their fear. He had been through all of this before.

"Come in," he said, feigning a camaraderie he did not feel. "We didn't come for no visit," the closest man said.

William recognized the low rough voice of Calhoun Stevens, Jane's father. The big man stepped over the threshold. "We know what you did."

"And we know what you is!" came the jittery voice of an old man at the back.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," William lied.

Stevens raised his ax handle threateningly. "I know my daughter was here tonight. I know what you did to her!"

Jane could not have told, William realized. These men could not have been gathered and ridden out here in that short time. It had to have been her friend, the one who'd given her his name.

The men pushed forward. Stevens slammed his ax handle against the cabin wall. "We're here to make sure you can never do anything like that again."

"We know what you is!" the man in back repeated. There was going to be no easy way out of this, William understood. These men had not come to talk, and they were not prepared to listen. They were obviously afraid of him, and they'd obviously had to build themselves up to this.

As they pressed farther into the room, he could smell whiskey breath, ' He could use their fear against them. It was his last chance to avoid violence.

He stood straight and moved next to the fire, aware of the image the flickering orange flames would produce. "You know what I am?" he said. 'Then, you know what I can do."

He concentrated, caused the flames to leap and grow in a roaring whoosh that sped up the chimney.

The men, all of the men except Stevens, stumbled backward.

"She's my daughter! Stevens said, advancing. "

William stood still, gathering his strength, hoping he wouldn't have to use the magic, knowing he would. "I have

not touched your daughter." He glanced quickly around the room, taking inventory, deciding what he would need to take with him, what he could afford to leave. He would miss this place.

Stevens swung at him.

William ducked, expecting it. The ax handle knocked down the mantel above the fireplace, the objects atop it clattering and breaking on the wooden floor. Before the big man could attack again, William waved his hand and caused the ax handle to fly from Stevens' hand.

"Stop right now," he warned. "Leave my house or I will not be responsible." From the corner of his eye, he saw a couple of the men nearest the door edge their way back outside. No one was rushing forward to help Stevens.

His muscles were shaking. Anger and power coursed through him. When he saw that Stevens had no intention of leaving or backing off, when he saw that the father's rage and pride were running too high, William steeled himself. Stevens rushed him. "Die, witch!"

He'd clearly expected his friends to help, but as William began chanting some of the Words, as the fireplace roared again and a green flame leapt out and struck Stevens full in the face, the other men fled, scrambling to get out the door.

William continued chanting and the green flame grew, spreading down the big man's body, engulfing him, freezing him in place. Beneath the sickly illumination of the unnatural fire, Stevens' body blackened, crumpled, started to melt.

William looked out the open door at the men and horses running away, their forms little more than scrambling shadows in the moonlight.

They'd scurry back to town, and soon they'd be back, with more men, more weapons. The righteous townspeople marching forth to put an end to the evil witch and his black arts

All because a girl had fallen in love with someone other than the boy her father wanted her to marry. And he had helped her. William sighed.

He'd thought this kind of persecution was over, that the haled and horror of the old days had faded.

But it wasn't, it hadn't, it never would.

The green flames were gone, and he stared down at the twisted black lump that had once been a body, thinking of his mother. He remembered the way she had looked at the stake, remembered the panicked expression on her doomed face, remembered the way her eyes had scanned over him without recognition, mistaking him for merely another face in the hostile crowd that was putting her to death. "Run!" the man with the torch had ordered her, and she had run in place as the fire caught, as first the kindling and then the bigger branches had begun to burn. She had continued to run as the sack dress she was wearing ripped open, had continued to run naked as around her the blaze grew.

He touched the twisted form with his foot. In his mind, as clear as if it had been yesterday, he heard the sound of his mother screaming as the flames scorched her skin, as her legs blackened and she started to burn. He'd wanted her to save herself, to use whatever magic she had left and kill however many men she could, and he had not understood at the time why she'd gone down passively, why she hadn't struck back.

But he knew now that she'd done it for him. Any indication that the judge was right, that she really was a witch, would have ensured that he, too, would be put to the stake. But dying this way had kept alive a flicker of doubt in the townspeople's minds, had guaranteed him life.

Men like Stevens and his friends had killed his mother, and though he understood that they feared what they did not understand, it did not excuse their actions. He felt no qualms

about putting an end to Stevens' life. It had been kill or be killed--as it was so often out here in the territories--and he would do the same thing over again if given the chance.

But he had no time to dally. They would be back. He gathered his bag of writings and powders, took whatever food and clothing he could fit onto the horse, and headed out. He considered torching the house, leaving behind no evidence, but then they'd know for sure he'd fled.

This way they'd search the house and the property before giving chase.

It would buy him some time.

He ran the horse at first, but then slowed it to a trot. If the gathering posse really wanted, he knew, they would be able to overtake him. Maybe not the first day. But the second. Or the third. And he thought it better to appear less desperate. Let them know he was leaving, but also let them think that he was not afraid, that he was confident enough of his powers that he did not need to run.

From behind him, he heard the sound of a shotgun, its thunderous blast amplified and echoing in the cold winter night. He told the horse it was nothing and made the animal continue forward at its leisurely pace.

Even if one of the men was shooting at him--which he doubted--none of the bullets would find their mark. The first thing he had done was cloak himself in a protective spell that was strong enough to shield him from all but a direct blow with a handheld weapon. "

Ahead of him was blackness..

Behind him echoed the sound of another shotgun blast. He looked up at the position of the moon. It was after midnight, he realized. It was Christmas. When the sun rose, the men behind him would be opening presents, giving thanks to God, going to church. =

He sighed. It didn't matter.