Byron: The Dark Witch

Prompt the First - Love & Other Things

“ALMIGHTY God, unto whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid; Cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee, and worthily magnify thy holy Name; through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

The priest bowed to the holy Cross and waved his arm to the bowed heads of his parishioners, “Be seated.” He bid them.

In unison, they sat. The church wasn’t old. It was huge - built for the thousands of terrified humans who hovered on the brink of break down, waiting for the end of the world. From the outside, only its enormity was of any remark. It was just another one of the new-build, modern-age arrangements complete with colourless interior, pale wood pulpit and plastic chair pews arranged in wonky lines. The windows were plain and the only decoration remained the gold Cross above the alter. Nothing to distract. Nothing to inspire.

Atop his pulpit, the priest scoped his congregation. Most appeared flustered. With reddened cheeks and eyes wide, set firmly upon his less-than-attractive form, their terror sang to him. People like them were a prime audience for his task today.

“Today we come together, not in the name of God’s Love but in the knowledge of it.” He began, noting the few drifting stares – the unconcerned family members, the fools and the heathens, “For in our hearts we know the truth of his Love. Proof of it is that he lead you safely here – to join together with your fellow men and women and to learn to recognise the evil that lurks among us.This evil is not made of devils and demons. It does not make itself immediately known. It makes itself known in the actions of our fellow men. It is the wickedness of our fellow men itself.”

Speaking in tones soft and silken to the audiences ear was a skill he’d long admired in himself. He was a true speaker. He communed with the laymen and the unlearned. He loved the rituals and sacraments and the sermons but most of all, he loved beguiling those ready to be beguiled. There was a unique thrill in converting a man to his Church.

His voice droned on. His eyes roving over and across the faces before him. And that was when he saw him.

The boy in the fifth row.

He was back.

He sat closer to the alter this time, no longer lurking in the back, half-obscured. The priest felt a shiver run up his spine. The boy fit into neither of the neat boxes that usually described members of the congregation. He didn’t fawn over each word or hang on every dip and rise in the sermon. He didn’t stare into nowhere and blink to foolish wakefulness only when the tempo of the service picked up. Instead, the boy listened, seemed to ponder on the meaning of the speech, judged it and raised one brow with cynical precision when it moved from Biblical teaching to modern day conjecture. Those eyes though... they were a touch too green, just like his hair was a touch too red, and they pierced through the priest’s facard, his carefully constructed arguments, turning them to ploys and empty air.
Scowl threatening to form on his face, the priest forced himself to look away.

But the green-eyed gaze did not.

No one could fail to notice the boy in row five. He was the sort of figure that commanded a second glance, if not a third. When he had arrived, the crowds had parted, waves of people moving as he prowled, predatory and powerful, through the church doors. Like the priest noticed, there was something uncanny about him. His skin was the sort of pale perfectly matched on the fronts of woman magazines. Invisible hands seemed to tousle his red-auburn hair in a wind unfelt by anyone else. People wondered if his eyes could naturally be so green. Funny looking, some said. Beautiful, said others. Peculiar, all agreed, he didn’t belong.

They were right about that. The boy didn’t belong in the belly of this soulless, Christian beast. He belonged outside, in the sun, in the rain, in the sky. But he had chosen a course he’d never thought he’d take.

Listening, intent upon learning of the priest’s definition of evil, he hunted for clues. Something had this county quivering behind locked doors at night, returning home in time for curfew, whispering earnestly over coffee cups and silver spoons about the oddities, the mishaps, the dark-of-the-night disappearances occurring far too close to home.

Years ago he’d realised that churches often gave away more than they meant to in their services. The church knew all about the daemons and the ghosties, the things that went bump in the night. All priests were at least adepts in Word lores these days. It meant that pocket places like this, where the fears of the crowd were exploited and transformed, were also full of information for people like him. The ones who really helped. The ones who tried to balance good and evil.

A blond girl sitting a row near the front yawned loudly.

“And amongst these evils are the witches. The curse mongerers, the devils who refute our laws and the Word of God. They decry the value of a human soul and in human love. They are harbingers of disaster and it is they that draw these hells up to the streets of our cities and...”

The boy did not flinch. He sighed. Another waste of time. He believed in souls. He believed in the old ways, the circles of Anam Cara and the beauty of free magicks. He believed in spiritual friendships unaffected by time, distance, or separation and that out there, there was someone with whom he could share his innermost self, mind and heart. Witches and magick weren't at fault for the evils this priest described. Returning to this church had been a desperate move, he knew that... but... Settling deeper into his seat, he focused on the words, making notes of each prejudice. At least he'd be able to erase any of the psychosomatic symptoms, even if he couldn't narrow down his search.

"But should we not pray for the souls of these lost sheep? I hear your thoughts, my people. Are these not lonely women and men who have been wooed by the devil?..."

Loneliness...

"And I will agree with you. These lost lambs are lonely creatures for they have lost God."

He remembered school, always knowing he was different and blaming it on his sexuality. He remembered university and always blaming it on his coven. He remembered the weeks spent nursing his uncle and the memory flooded back, the tastes, the sounds, the feel of his cold feet padding down the ancient pathways from the low, stone cottage, out onto the moors...

He breathed in the fresh air, relishing the bite of cold in the wind that wrapped itself around him, asking him for attention. One hand lifted slowly, called a breeze close, he filled it with leaves and fallen petals so they fluttered like butterflies behind him. It felt good to use magick, just for the magick’s sake. Another zephyr and he asked for warmth, the air was happy to oblige and twiddle unseen hands into his hair, around his throat, beneath his coat. He grinned because the magick was happy and the setting sun overhead smiled beneficently above, whispering nothings over his skin. He could travel anywhere in the world right now, the magick would take him far far away if he let it...

“It would be so easy, wouldn’t it.” He murmured, letting the sun spirit him a little closer to a hidden folly on the riverbank, “But I can’t leave here yet and you know it.”

The folly had the unique ability to pick up the blue rushing sound of the river beyond and it felt as if he was submerging into another world as he stepped under its cool, grey shadow. Vague dreams of drowning flooded through his mind but they didn’t scare him... the dream had bought him peace as he seemed to reach its end.... and he’d felt relief, like he’d fought long enough and giving up was alright... like he’d be leaving and nothing else mattered. He remembered feeling at peace...

The boy opened his eyes on the church once again, the voice of the priest now distant and strange, a Latin prayer and he bowed his head to blend in with the worshipers around him.

They were wrong and he knew that. That moment on the banks of the river, he'd contemplated giving in, giving up, stopping his attempts to help the world and heal the hurts wrought by others like him. But then, as it did now, another, stronger thing settled over him: the knowledge that he was surrounded by magick... How could he feel lonely when the whole world was sentient. Going to the riverside, soaking in the sight of the waning sun and a thousand stars rippling across the sky with his melancholic thoughts, the magick had tickled him. The boy in the church found a grin slipping over his face, hidden by his mop of red hair. He remembered grinning then too, holding his hand out, calling with gestured runes a breeze that would draw upon the water, sketch waves and twirl a fountain of simple pleasures from the river. The air had leapt to him, filling his head with pranks to play across the surface, with merriment to delight in.

Over and over, the magick came back to him. It loved him because he loved it. It was his and it rejoiced in his total submission to its power. Once, long before he found that folly by the river, he’d believed that where there was a will there was a way – and whilst it seemed ludicrous that all there was to life was Wanting something badly enough that you’d achieve it - he never felt alone again. Not like before. There were obligations now, promises, other people... and there was always magick.

The priest caught the boy's eye as he closed the service, a shudder rose up his spine again, like a snake uncoiling. Wickedness practically shone in those unnatural green eyes. The boy was something else.

He was right again. The boy's name was Byron Bathory and he was a witch.

Word Count: 1,747