Prophesy: The Immortal Witch (27)

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

Billy felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu. He had outrun the ravenous sentinels when confronted previously albeit it had been a close call. This time there was no Danielle to slow him down. Either way, he needed to move. The lupines were creeping closer, left and right out of bounds. He could make a dash for the sea in the hope that they didn’t follow but what if his pursuers then set up camp on the sand? He couldn’t stay in the water indefinitely. The only option was to dash towards the centre of the island in the hope of finding shelter; some kind of protection against the carnivores.

Very slowly, he levered himself off the rock and onto the ground. By now he had slipped both trainers back on. His body was taut, every sinew and nerve ready to ignite. It was a kilometre or so to get to the graveyard, probably a ten minute run at full kilter. The odds were not in his favour.

Taking a deep breath, Billy spun towards a worn path that bisected palm trees on the edge of the beach. Daylight was all but spent only making this standoff more intimidating. With a couple of steps forward, pushing off his heels, the youngster broke out into a full sprint, surprising himself at how quickly he could race when needed.

There was a scuffling noise coming from behind, the wolves detecting that their prey had taken evasive measures. They were coming after him. Paws on the ground – thud, thud, thud. It was hard to say how many were chasing. Billy blocked out any distracting thoughts and simply ran as hard as he could: past fronds and bushes, past beech, elm and palm trees, past dirt channels and mounds, past fallen coconuts and strewn berries. He could hear the pursuing pack, rapid and deadly. And yet, somehow, he stayed ahead of them.

His mind finally wandered to the moment he had encountered the canids before. He simply didn’t know how he had done what he had done. It was a rush, an instinctive reaction that had resulted in both himself and Danielle turning up instantaneously below ground at Brean Fort having somehow been transported away from danger. If only he could reproduce that configuration, procedure, trick or whatever it was. 

His breathing was heavy now, ragged, vast gulps of air drawn in to fuel the escape. Twisting his head, he could see that the grey-furred hunters were still a way behind. That didn’t make much sense. They were stronger and faster than he was. It was as though he was being corralled rather than hunted. Kettled by cunning creatures.

On cue, he found himself in the clearing with the gravestones. Panting with hands on hips, Billy doubled over to try and catch his breath. After a minute or so, standing straight again, he peered back in the direction of the rampant beasts. They were no longer there. Vanished.

During the transition from day to nightfall, a moon had risen, a huge bloated silver disc dominating the sable sky. In the absence of artificial lighting, a myriad of stars shone, constellations and galaxies prevalent in the pitch black canvas. Billy thought it looked just look a planetarium in Greenwich he had visited once with his mum.

The moonlight illuminated the altar and overgrown graves. For a few moments, he felt reverential in the company of so many lost souls. Meandering through the monuments, he found himself once more checking off the names of the abducted children. There had been thirteen plots last time. There were thirteen plots this time. Only the final two now had names etched into granite. One of them was Danielle King.

Dropping to one knee he gently touched the headstone, caressing the cold facade. Moss and lichen lent an unkempt appearance to the resting place. So she was dead. He felt his eyes welling up. There had been hope for so long but now it was brutally extinguished. Tears tried to seep but he fought the instinct. He simply wouldn’t weep. Having known her for a short while, she was only a girl after all. Just a silly girl. Boys did not cry. Instead, Billy moved on to inspect the final grave.

There…on the marker…were the words…Billy Tudor.

A shiver coursed through his body. The concept of death for him was a distant one. At just thirteen years of age, he had a lifetime to live. The only fatality he could recall was his grandfather’s and that had been when he was very young. Details were sketchy. He remembered sadness and reflection, vicars and eulogies. He remembered eating and drinking afterwards and people being merry. It was confusing but the mainly sombre event had faded away into an urban ether.

Now he was confronted with his potential demise it was a frightening prospect. His upbringing had been largely secular. His mother didn’t make room for church, rarely discussing religion. Billy’s only real experience was through singing hymns in school and boring Religious Education classes.

His thoughts were broken by a shadow appearing on a lunar surface. At first, it looked like an eclipse forming. He had seen images on television and had an idea of the moon coming between the Sun and Earth. As the dark patch spread like an ink blot blooming, it became clear that this was no ordinary natural occurrence.

He could see features forming, a chin then a mouth followed by a nose then eyes. It was the most staggering of sights. The witch’s face was perfectly sited inside the disc high above. Her expression was firmly locked on his. He sensed a malevolence, a satanic energy that had been exercised on many occasions. Billy knew that he was the final piece in whatever jigsaw this was.

For her part, Jezebel never felt stronger than when performing this incantation. Over centuries, the process had shifted from making immediate offerings to spirits in the desert to delayed gratification where all thirteen souls were handed over collectively. There was no particular reason for this other than a gradual evolution that had eroded the original spell and replaced it with something derivative; coinciding with the epic journey from the Holy Lands across continents to eventually arrive in England.

For over a millennium, the ceremony had been recounted from memory. With each performance, a variance had crept in, a tiny anomaly that changed the outcome. Like a biblical text being revised over the years.

It was only after Jezebel had learned to read and write in France during the Middle Ages that context had definitively become fixed. Mostly. Between the first abduction and the last, each sacrifice was held in a form of Purgatory. Not dead but not alive.  It was only the ultimate victim that was spared stasis. The desert demons always showed their gratitude. The witch was granted longer life.

She thought about that recent afternoon in her garden, those meanderings about the meaning of existence; grappling with the notion of living forever. It was an uncomfortable reverie, one that brought back many misgivings. So many reasons to call things to a halt and end her span. It was an inner conflict that had not completely dissipated. From brokering a place in eternity to the white nothingness of nihilism.

But she had to park this existential angst. There was work to do and a bargain to conclude. The devils of the Negev were not known for limitless patience.

Part 28 at: https://www.abctales.com/story/marandina/prophesy-immortal-witch-28

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