Prophesy: The Immortal Witch (25)

Part 24 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/prophesy-immortal-witch-24

Winds carrying saltwater sweep in from a brackish Bristol Channel, gulls circling above, scouring for food. From the graveyard at St. Nicholas church, Brean Down and the Holms are visible, a captivating seascape with Cardiff Bay as a backdrop. Dates on tombstones traverse the ages, epitaphs lamenting the passing of centuries. Chest high stone walls hide sheer cliffs that cascade along a nearby marina.

She is running up the hill, hair blowing wildly. There is much to discuss as he walks towards her, conscious of the bond forming between them. Behind him, his mother is closing a rusting iron gate, smiling with a look of contentment that her son has a girlfriend. She spies villages over yonder amongst trees and fields, all staring out at an unbounded ocean.

The distance closes:

….a hundred metres…

 ….then fifty….

 ….then twenty….

 ….now ten.

Peering closer - her face; her face is burning. Flames are spreading from one side to the other. It’s like watching a piece of paper igniting, alight, charring, damage wreaked in a matter of seconds.

There should be panic, frenzied patting at clothes, manic beating to quell the inferno. Instead, strange acceptance. No motion, no defiance, no lust for life. She is standing stock-still, aflame.

He watches on, helpless as her body is rapidly incinerated. He turns to stare at his mum desperate for reassurance. She is wide-eyed, shock etched on her expression. By the time he is gaping at the girl again, there is just a cindered patch on the ground, ashes where once there was a person.

There should have been a distinct smell: acrid, pungent and overpowering. Cloying, burnt flesh like meat cooking. Hair charring. Sulphurous.

The only odour is of grass and earth.

The boy crumbles to his knees, defeated and lost. He starts to weep, tears flowing down his cheeks. Arching his back, he looks to the Heavens and searches for answers.  

Billy woke from the recurring nightmare. It was always the same sequence, always ending with the same result. Penetrating guilt sullied his soul, regret radiating from every cell in his body.

Why did he send that message? Why did he implore Danielle to meet him at Uphill? If he hadn’t felt the need to press send, she would still be here now. He knew this as much as he knew that her disappearance screamed of the occult. It was a sense he had, a feeling of righteous fury that his pal had been whisked away by something from a nether world; a world of subterfuge and darkness.

If only he could move on from the trauma but the dreams simply wouldn’t allow it. Two years on and here he was, still treading water, trapped in a loop, a conveyor belt of constant reminders.

Tomorrow would be the last day of the summer holidays. Billy pondered whether this might be the final occasion he stayed over in Somerset. There was a perception that he had outgrown the annual sojourn to Brean. Besides, he was old enough to be on his own at home. Marie’s main concern was about leaving him alone in a block of flats. Sharks in the shape of other teens swam around different floors, concrete passageways converging on graffiti strewn lifts.

He had once confided that he considered their tower block an almighty filing cabinet with mostly miscreants and n’er-do-wells hiding in drawers. That cynicism had worried his mum and her misgivings were only made worse when old-timer Paddy Jones from the ground floor had confronted her on her way in after work recently to report a concern.

Billy recalled that altercation. He had been confronted by two older Irish teenagers – Liam and John Doherty - on the lawn in front of the building. With his arms pinned behind his back by one of the brothers, before a beating could be applied something bizarre had happened. A flurry of birds had arrived from nowhere. The avian interlopers had attacked the assailants, clawing faces with razor sharp talons and pecking frantically at exposed flesh with their beaks.

In the ensuing chaos, Billy had extricated himself. Instead of fleeing, he had simply strolled a few feet from the carnage and stopped. With cuts and scratches along with blood seeping from wounds, the aggressors had discovered the oddest of situations. The unlikely tormentors had retreated to perch on the would-be-victim’s arms and shoulders turning him into a living scarecrow. Beguiled and bemused, the siblings had promptly run off down the street.

His mortified parent had reminded him that she had seen something similar in the past and gone on to explain that she had thanked the old man for letting her know. An assurance had been given that it was probably just a weird anomaly and nothing to worry about.

Clarifying that she knew the lads involved as they lived on the eighth floor with their parents, she had morosely declared: Another day, another incident and how she wished her child was normal like other kids.

Gazing out of the bedroom window, Billy noted the advance of nightfall, light dimming as the sun arced lower in the sky. From here he could see all the way across the estuary. Watching the sun set over Wales, he thought to himself that this was one of those transcendent splendours that could make him stop thinking about things and simply exist in the moment.

It would soon be dark. His gran refused to allow a television in the room. Choices for tonight’s entertainment included either playing games on his phone or reading. He was part way through Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. His teacher, Miss Jones, had recommended it as part of extra-curricular work, Billy showing an advanced maturity in his classes that put him ahead of his peers in intellectual terms.

Rolling onto his back on the bed, Billy peered up at the ceiling. Restlessness was his faithful companion, he reflected stoically.

“Twenty minutes until tea.” Came a shout up the stairwell.

It was a rhetorical reminder, the scent of baking homemade chicken pie wafting upwards from below. It was Tuesday which meant pie and mash day; every week without fail.

Throwing his legs to the side, he dismounted from the bed and stood upright.

“I need some fresh air.” He muttered to himself.

Closing the front door with a gentle click so as not to alert Polly, Billy strode off in the direction of the beach. It was that alluring part of the evening when the gloaming held sway, daytime giving way to crepuscular hours and the eerie half-light that preceded night.

Fresh breezes blew in from the sea, ruffling the young man’s clothes. His tee-shirt rippled, grey tracksuit bottoms billowing in the gusts. Driving on with head down and fists bunched with effort, he made his way along the shore, the tide on its way inland. Flying sand and spray made visibility tricky. Wiping grit from his eyes, Billy looked up to see a large piece of driftwood lying on the ground. It appeared to be broken tree trunk, probably storm damage that had ended up in the sea. Foaming waves were lapping in and out, washing underneath the obstruction as well as wetting the timber.

On top was a row of birds, all motionless, mild-lid eyes blinking. The sequence of black-feathered bodies was a line of crows, every one of which appeared to be glaring directly at Billy. He quickly counted them out of curiosity. There were twelve creatures if his gaze had stayed focused for long enough to be accurate.

Stopping a few yards from the scene, he suddenly felt overwhelmed. There was something strange going on. In the background he could see a large blurry shape hurtling towards the shore. It fluxed, ebbed and flowed, clearly animate. As it got closer, the nature of the approaching mass became clearer – it was a murmuration of some kind. Instinctively, he knew that they weren’t starlings.

The significance of this unexpected incident was not lost on him. Crows were said to be conduits, animals that transported souls to the next realm. He guessed that the airborne gathering was almost certainly more of the same small beasts that were perched on the flotsam.

In his mind’s eye, he sees her. The witch. Performing her incantations and casting her spells. This is her work. The Dark Arts in play.

They were almost upon him – hundreds maybe thousands of crows all squawking and making an unholy din.

A murder. A murder of crows.   

Part 26 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/prophesy-immortal-witch-26

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