Bound Beneath the Black Stone

Albie Lathazus is dead.

Mother Grishaw frowned at the body: the corners of her thin lips turned down in distaste. The other elders of the coven argued vehemently behind her, their contradictory remarks weaving through the air like Ariadne's thread.

“Didn’t have the decency to wait to die…” murmured one of the newest members of the coven.

“Good riddance,” echoed her counterpart. The sentiment carried around the chamber in whispered assent.

“We should burn the body and be done with it!” croaked the eldest witch of the coven. Her gnarled fingers clutched the lapels of her cloak to her breast, though to ward off cold or evil, one could not be certain.

“He hasna been tried!” Elder Maggie exclaimed for the third time.

The wizened witch gave a snort of derision. “He is a Malefici,” she said slowly, her tone clipped, as if she were speaking to a simple child. “Malefici must be burned, or the wrath we’ll face when he rises again will be more fearsome than the devil himself.”

“There was no verdict to prove it, though,” Maggie argued. “To burn the body and condemn the soul of an innocent man is a grievous crime that will weigh heavy on the souls of all who commit it.”

“It willna weigh on mine,” the Eldest retorted, her lined face grave as if carved from stone.

“That’s enough,” commanded Mother Grishaw in a low voice. A hush fell over the room at the command, and the eldest pulled her cloak around herself tighter, her face pinched in offense at the rebuke. “We will bury him,” she said, brushing a thin strand of white hair from the dead man's face.

The still room erupted into chaos once more as witches exclaimed in outrage, their moral differences all but forgotten. Their voices tripped over one another, yet their sentiment was the same. This was blasphemy. A Malefici had never been buried.

The passing of Albie was not unusual in itself, though its timing was unexpected. All men died, at least, that was the hope, but Albie Lathazus had died abruptly. A suspected Malefici, he had been imprisoned in the bowels of The Bloody Bastion and had died quietly in the night, the eve before his trial was set to begin.

“Silence!” Mother Grishaw bellowed. “Out! All of you.” The witches made no move to depart, flinging accusations and arguments at The Mother. She brought her fists down on the ancient wooden table, her hands bracketing the dead man’s head, which rocked from side to side with the violence of the gesture.

Slowly, the room fell quiet, and the witches shifted from foot to foot for a moment before swallowing their disputes and shuffling out of the room. The Eldest was the last to depart. She paused in the doorway, her milky eyes narrowed to slits as she turned. “You’ll rue this, girl,” she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Perhaps,” was Mother Grishaw’s only reply. She did not turn to watch the coven leave.

-------

As the moon rose over the Bay of Biron, witches and townsfolk alike gathered to watch the body be lowered into its final resting place. The congregation gathered on the slick rocks of the bay, their smooth surfaces exposed by the ebbing tide. Though the water had receded, the damp hung in the air like a harr, its cold slithering over the skin of the gathered observers. Observers, they were — no one mourned a Malefici, save for kin.

Lathazus’ sole surviving relation, a daughter, surprisingly young, wept silently as the body was lowered into the grave that had been delved from the rock during the day's low tide. Her stony husband stood beside her, his hand firm around her elbow. It was brave of her to attend, the townsfolk would say. Foolish, said others. The piercing eyes of the coven would turn to her now.

The body hit the depths of the grave with a soft thud. The ropes were cast into the depths after Lathazus and coiled about his body like writhing serpents. The neophytes gathered at the edge of the chasm, their baskets clutched in their frozen hands, and dropped flowers over the corpse. These florets were not meant to honor the dead, as was the custom of the denizens of the region. These were the flora of witches, powerful herbs meant to bind the body to its grave.

No words were spoken to commemorate the deceased. What could even be said? The sole mourner had been given the opportunity to speak, but her goodbyes strangled her, her whispered words catching in her throat before floating away on a sea breeze. A moment of silence passed through the observers, in honor, reflection, or simply custom.

Mother Grishaw took her place at the head of the grave. She stood for a long moment staring down at the wrapped and adorned form of Albie Lathazus. With an almost imperceptible sigh, she turned her face to the moon, shrewd eyes closed and silver-streaked hair glinting. She raised her hands slowly, palms upturned in offering. The edges of the chasm began to knit together, the fringes of rock unspooling and melding in on itself until the body disappeared from view, the grave covered by a thick sheet of black tourmaline.

Mother Grishaw loosed a breath and brushed her hair from her face, the silver strands clinging to the sweat at her temples. She placed her hands on the inky stone, fingers splayed wide, and shoulders hunched. Other hands joined hers, finger touching finger to form a chain of cohesion. A soft glow shone through the skin of the witches, a bead of power held in the palms of their joined hands. The glow spread through their fingertips and spread outward, intersecting and etching deep into the surface of the stone as their collective power carved runes into the resting place of the Malefici. Cold mist covered their hands and faces, and the rising tide swirled around their feet. Still, they remained steadfast, their unity and power ridding the world of evil.

Here lies Albie Lathazus. And here he would stay.