Prophesy: The Immortal Witch (24)

Part 23 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/prophesy-immortal-witch-23

THE PROPHESY

Avian sounds echoed from a pallid sky, geese in formation heading south for winter. Temperatures were starting to cool, summer in its final throes before giving way to more austere seasons.

Long gone were the days of rolling deserts and baking hot vistas. A temperate English climate with its gentle rain and mollifying breezes was preferable. It was a perennial point in the calendar that the witch revered.

It had been two years since the young girl in the basement had disappeared. At least, that’s how it had been perceived by the Public. Now below ground with the rest on the island, one more offering would finally bring this latest cycle to a close and usher in renewal.

The aftermath of abduction had attracted more attention than she would have liked. Reported missing by her frantic parent, subsequent police enquiries eventually led to Vicar Gleeson. A middle-aged man out walking his spaniel noticing a news item on television had duly called in an account of seeing a youngster getting into a car with a woman wearing a dog collar. The story had spawned great interest due to the possible link with an ancient manuscript recently found by two youths at Brean Fort, one of them being the child that had vanished. Social media was awash with conspiracy theories; foul play postulated on posts, pictures and comment threads.

When interviewed, Gleeson had confessed to having had a vague recollection of taking the girl to Uphill but her memory had come to an abrupt end en route and before arriving. That and the woozy, indistinct dreamlike nature of the reverie had led her to believe that the incident was only in her head and nothing more.

For a while, the cleric was the key suspect for abduction and maybe murder. Without a motive, body or coherent statement, the case against her ebbed away. Facing a backlash from angry parishioners, Gleeson was discreetly transferred to East Anglia, to a different church, miles away on the other side of the country. A crushing guilt descended on the unfortunate minister. An increasing reliance on alcohol had subsequently pushed her over the edge, the drip drip of mental breakdown sweeping her into rehab like flotsam surfacing after a storm.

The girl’s mum blamed Billy. If it wasn’t for his mischievous presence, Danielle would never had got into the clergywoman’s Mini on that fateful day. Every suspicion she had about the boy had been confirmed even if the unfairness of this latest finger-pointing was inherently obvious. It was a fury that had simmered and ultimately exploded. Tanya King was left to hopeless speculation and searching without success for her missing daughter, an inner torment blighting every facet of her being.  

Blissful in her ignorance of the mayhem caused, Jezebel stared out at the garden, an ornate iron chair made more comfortable by the addition of a small cushion tied on the seat. How she had come to love these peaceful reflections. An ornamental arch adorned with yellow and red roses provided a frame through which to view a pond beyond, water tinkling into it from a stone statue fountain.

Reaching out to a lavender bush, she looked on as bees weaved in and out, dancing their polka of pollination, quietly buzzing with industry. Strewn across bushes and the rectangular hedge that bordered the garden, spiders readied for leaner months by spinning ever larger webs.

Life had proved to be interminably long. Over two thousand years of existence during which there had been partners and husbands. When roaming the Negev at the time of Christ, it had never dawned on her that she would end up sharing decades with others. There had been Abraham the goat herder, Maximus the Roman merchant, Stefanos the Greek tavern owner, Pierre the French minstrel and Gabriel the sheep farmer to name but a few. Planets orbiting her sun but without the ability to last for aeons. Jezebel had outlived them all. Her sorties into the world of marriage (whether in the eyes of the law or otherwise) had been infrequent but, nevertheless, a weakness succumbed to.  

For the most part, her esoteric traits had been mostly hidden, normality craved. The darker aspect of her powers had been tempered by becoming established as a healer wherever she went. There was always demand for a knowledgeable totem who could utilise and apply natural remedies, herbs and potions used to help ailing villagers including sick children. It was from these interactions that she would occasionally meet men who inevitably fell for her alluring charm. She remained unsure as to how much of the attraction was down to her as a person as opposed to the mesmerism of innate witchcraft.  Either way, it was welcomed.

She had been capable of love. Was capable of love. For a few minutes she was transported to another place and time: Red skies as dusk fell. A canopy of stars above, twinkling through thin cloud cover. Cradled by her lover, Abraham. In his arms, both with eyes closed. Slipping away to sleep. The cry of wolves nearby. An unspoken entreaty to whispering desert wraiths to keep the herd safe. A lifespan cut short by a plague, mystical powers not enough to save him. Her heart had been broken, the pain felt for so long afterwards. Life was pain, she thought. Little had changed.  

Enduring centuries later, the overriding feeling was of tiredness. Fatigue. There had been moments when she had contemplated ending things, back in the days of the creature. To go on had seemed futile, pointless. The winged-one from the cave had given her everything. And yet nothing. Perhaps the only thing of note that had occurred was that she had been lured into perpetuating an endless recurrence of inhumanity and degradation. The Devil speaks with a forked tongue. She had been the recipient of a serpent’s unholy sermon.

Not that any of these thoughts were new. She had pondered over and over about the validity of her unnatural longevity. What was to be achieved besides cheating death? Everything would end one day. The world would be swept away by tidal waves and erupting volcanoes, intense heat and limitless earthquakes. Was it her place to stay long enough to bear witness?

Memories drifted. She pictured her parents; her mother’s beguiling smile, her father’s reassuring manner. Things had been simpler then. Perhaps that was what she really wanted, all things considered: to be in the bosom of her family again. Perhaps she had been lost on her own; ill equipped to make sense of an unorthodox duration. The creature had been a surrogate carer. In a fashion. How she hated herself for letting that happen. It was an abomination, an affront to decency, a version of the Antichrist that had defiled everything that may have been good in her. How could she carry on when the scales of justice judged her? Declared her guilty of crimes against mankind.

A patter of rain started to fall, her face tilting upwards to examine the weather. Cumulus was roiling overhead, dark as sin, threatening a downpour. A timely metaphor, she ruminated ruefully.

Rising, she pottered back inside. Despite the latent doubts and reservations she had, nevertheless, a ceremony had been prepared. The tools needed to induce an invocation awaited. The boy would be taken and, with it, the circle closed once more. She would be granted more life whether she wanted it or not. The witch’s instinct for survival was overwhelming.

Part 25 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/prophesy-immortal-witch-25

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