The Last Witch Of Selym

“So, you have travelled far?” asked Nosyndrie, the woodswitch of Mjos. 

The chieftain who sat on the opposite end of the table had finally found the bottom of the wooden bowl in front of him. Turning his attention to the witch, he revealed that at least a quarter of the broth had ended up in his beard. 

“We have a problem in our village,” said Ask as he pushed the bowl to the side. Clasping his hands together, Ask half-leaned over the table, his head half-sunken in-between strong shoulders.

“Not a witch problem?” asked Nosyndrie in a tone lined with facitousness, though genuinely curious to hear if it was something else with this chieftain. Twenty years ago it had been the plague that had swept the lands of Mjos that drove the chieftains to her hut, desparate for herbs and potions. But recently, it had been all about witches. 

Ask cleared his throat and shuffled in the chair in obvious discomfort. No one liked that word, witch—but Nosyndrie always forgot just how much pain it caused. He pushed aside the frayed collar of his brown, woolen tunic to massage his neck. He looked away from Nosyndrie, then, studying the details of the table.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “My neighbour’s daughter fell to a witch’s spell just last week. One of many. I am afraid they will all be taken.” He raised his gaze to meet Nosyndrie’s eyes again. “They took my daughter, too. Five years ago. I saw her from time to time, but now I haven’t in a long, long time. I don’t understand.” 

“What don’t you understand?” asked Nosyndrie, confused. 

“They said you were the last witch. That you had taken the witchmaker captive.”  

“That is correct,” said Nosyndrie, still not understanding what it was he did not understand.

“I don’t believe it.” Ask freed his hand from his neck, and shifted his entire body a little to the left as he fumbled to fetch something from his trousers. 

“Well, it is true.” 

“Prove it,” he said. With great strength he slammed a knife onto the table, his hand over the handle.

It didn’t scare Nosyndrie in the sligthest, but she jumped a bit regardless. Better not hurt this man’s ego, she thought, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. “Prove what, exactly?” she asked calmly.

“Selym, I want to see her.” 

“No,” she said. 

Ask grabbed the knife and with even greater strength he slammed it blade-first into the table. She would not have been surprised if the next blow split the table in two. It wouldn’t have mattered—she had had this table for more than a hundred years, maybe it was time to replace it.

“Why?” she asked.

“To kill her, if she’s here; or to kill you, if she’s not.” 

Nosyndrie leaned back into the chair, crossing her arms. She looked around her cabin, and through the windows out into the dark of the night, then back to Ask. “Okay,” she said, surprising even herself. “You won’t be able to kill her, though. Trust me, I’ve tried a thousand times myself.”

“Not to be rude, witch,” he snarled, “But there are still some things only men can do.” 

“Oh, you’re not here for that, are you?”

The chieftain ripped the knife out of the table and stood up, shaking the table and knocking the chair over backwards. “I will not be made a fool!” he screamed as he puffed himself up to look big. Another piece of evidence in support of her hypothesis that all men secretly wanted to be bears—or chickens. 

“No? I’d say only a fool would scream at a woman sitting down,” she said, calm as the roots of a tree. She did a flick of her fingers as she tapped into the domain of her hut to dip into its waters of essence to splash just a little bit over the chieftain. 

The red-hot wrinkles of anger in the man’s face straightened out as if by an iron. His mouth dropped, and his eyes softened, rolling up and away from hers, around the hut, and then back to the gaze of the witch.

“What was that?” asked the man, baffled, eyes big now.

“God,” Nosyndrie lied. She kept her face straight, but she must have been as baffled as him—the trick had never worked so easily or quickly before. Something in the winds, maybe, she thought. 

“I saw everything,” he said.

No, you thought you saw everything, Nosyndrie thought. “A glimpse into His mind,” she said. “Please, sit back down,” she said as she arose. “I will bring you the witch.” 

“Wakey, wakey,” said Nosyndrie as she opened the door to the room where Selym lay. “There is a big, strong chieftain who wants to see you.” The room was colder than the rest of the burrow, and darker than even the beast that lay within itself. She opened the door wide and subjected the room to her oil lamp. It was a small room, with only a bed and the chair beside it, and bare, brick walls. There were abandoned cobwebs in the corners and here and there, but even the spiders had enough wits to leave the Lady alone.

She sat down at the bedside of the wheezing Lady Selym, waiting for her to wake. “Hecate,” said Selym, so low only a witch’s ear could hear.

“Not here,” said Nosyndrie, not looking at the ancient half-corpse beside her. One of these days, surely, Selym would die. 

Selym’s breathing got quicker, almost panicked. The fabric of the thick cover whispered and rustled as her weak muscles hopelessly strained to push her up into a sit before giving up. 

“Eeeeviiil,” gargled Selym, out of breath.

Nosyndrie turned her head towards the reduced demigod and found her eyes. Delving into them, she searched for some aspect of a human soul—of compassion. But there was nothing, only a great void where there had once been bottomless power. 

Nosyndrie smiled and stroked Selym’s thin, white hair, not answering her outburst and never breaking eye contact. A sudden burst of lucidity seemed to come over Selym, then, and in a voice that almost resembled what it had once been, she asked: “How long?” 

Shivers shot through Nosyndrie, but she shrugged them off. Selym hadn’t scared her in a long, long time, and she wasn’t about to let her. She was well aware that there was no power left in that forgotten artifact of the ancient world—and what was left was funneled into keeping her alive.

“Answer me,” the Lady commanded, her voice ever stronger. 

Before she could even think, Nosyndrie had answered. “One-thousand-two-hundred-and-thirty-nine years.” The shivers came back a second time now, but this time they were like lightning, forcing her onto her legs.

“Ahhh,” said Selym, pained, her voice weaker again. “Eeeviiil.” 

Nosyndrie refused the urge to flee the room, and instead found Selym’s eyes again. “Don’t come crying when you lose at your own game, witchmaker. You sought to kill the last of the Trolls and take their throne—the throne of Mjos—for Hecate to claim, but I beat you to it.”

“Hecate,” Selym wheezed. 

“You failed Hecate. The only reason she keeps you alive is for the damnation that is my burrow—as a reminder to her acolytes.” 

Selym produced a wry smile while Nosyndrie fetched a pipette from her sleeves. She held it up in the light and dangled it, revealing it to Selym, whose smile quickly faded. 

“No, no, no,” Selym begged, closing her eyes. 

“Oh, yes.” 

Nosyndrie ripped the cover off of Selym, who gasped as the cold of the room flooded onto her. With one hand, Nosyndrie grasped both of Selym’s hands and with her body weight pushed against Selym’s collar. “Open your eyes,” she said, holding the pipette over her left eye. 

Slowly, Selym opened her eyes, her gaze intently fixed on the blood-filled pipette. She squeezed once, and a tiny droplet found its way to Selym’s eye. That’s one, she thought. Selym needed three droplets in each eye for it to have effect. 

Nosyndrie squeezed, but this time, not a single droplet came out. She studied the pipette to see if it was empty, but it couldn’t be. When she pressed, it was as if her fingers didn’t move at all. Again she tried, and again nothing happened—like useless legs when running from danger in a dream, her fingers were useless.

Selym’s face turned from anguish to enjoyment in the span of a second, breaking out in frail laughter. 

“Shut up,” Nosyndrie said, to no avail. She knew what this was—a desparate attempt by Selym to showcase that she wasn’t dead yet, that there still was a little bit of magical potency left within her dull reach.

“Hecate,” said Selym yet again, before she picked up the laughter again, which turned sharper and louder. Then it twisted, and grew ever deeper as the dim glow of the oil lamp waned. Nosyndrie wanted to run, to escape, but she was stuck; she wanted to scream and shout but she was denied even this. The room swirled and spun and flashed in odd colors and shapes until she saw nothing at all.

“Wakey, wakey,” a much too familiar voice said. “Oh, come on now, open your eyes. I want you to see.” 

With great effort, she forced her eyes open, but it was all a big blur.

“Thanks for that,” the voice said.

She was only able to say, “For-”, before she was interrupted by a horrible cough so cushioned and muffled by wet and slimy lungs that it didn’t sound like a cough at all. 

“For?” asked the voice. 

Nosyndrie blinked as quickly as she could in an attempt to make her eyes sharper. “-what?” Nosyndrie continued. 

“Oh! For what! Well … for taking the bait! Then again, you always do,” said the voice. 

Nosyndrie’s eyes had sharpened just enough now; though they were weak, and in desperate need for glasses. But the sight before her was still clear as day: the voice belonged to herself. It was the body of Nosyndrie. Her mind, though slow, rushed forth the storm of panic. 

“There it is! That expression! Oh, the pain. The fear! The confusion … It never gets old!” 

“How?”

“Hecate, Hecate, Hecate—Nosyndrie will vacate!”

“Eh-” 

“Say Hecate thrice, you are buried in ice!”

“Evi-”

“Evil?” Selym burst out in laughter. “Eeeevviiil,” she said, mocking her. 

“No, but to be honest …” Selym, neatly tucked inside the body of Nosyndrie, shifted and hesitated, as if considering. “Yes, I guess we have time. She won't be here quite yet.” 

“Hecate?” asked Nosyndrie, the strength of her half-dead body returning.

“What, her? Oh, no, no. No, no, no. Her … we don’t wait for. No—you were on the nose with that one. She doesn’t like me anymore. Now … where was I? Oh, yes. It’s the drops, you see. That’s how—well, first—sorry, I’m always just a little bit too engaged when I finally get back into my body.” 

Selym leaned closer to her, lowering her head down to be only a couple of inches from Nosyndrie. She held a hand to her chest, beating against it lightly. “You see, this is my body. That,” she said, nodding towards Nosyndrie, “Is yours. You did win the throne of Mjos. But only because I did it for you. Now you are the repository for its strength—the strength which I myself cannot yet harbour in full. Not until the day you die. In the meantime I’ll have to tap into you to latch some of that power to my spirit.” 

Selym boasted a wide smile as the facts settled in Nosyndrie. A piece of onion was stuck in-between her front-teeth. 

“Then kill me.” 

“Can’t. Won’t. This is fun. Time’s my weapon. Always has been. But maybe one of these days, who knows? The past couple of decades have really sped things up. Although … it is difficult to wear you down when that power within you wants you to live forever.”

Selym stroked her head for a couple of seconds. The warmth of her hands radiated into her. Being as cold as she was, Nosyndrie couldn’t even feel the evil which drove it. Selym stroked Nosyndrie’s lips, then, before she in one quick movement pushed something into her mouth.  

…

With Nosyndrie’s limp body over Selym’s shoulder, she entered the coldroom of the hut, where all of the food was stored. While it was cold, it wasn’t burrow-cold. That cold can stay down there, she thought as she shut the basement door behind her.

The door out into the main area of the hut was particularly stubborn with only one hand to work it. It was old, and required to be handled in a certain way. One had to push it three places at once. One of those places was the bottom, where the wood and paint had worn down from thousands of gentle kicks over the years.

Once out of the cold room, Selym saw that Anna was already there. She sat quietly by the table, with a blank gaze plastered to the body which lay on the floor in front of her, face down. Anna wore the rags common for out-witches, though her hair resembled more that of a woodswitch.

“You don’t even wait for me?” asked Selym, approaching Anna.

“No.” 

“Fair enough … lucky for you, the ritual doesn’t care about formalities.” Selym shrugged Nosyndrie’s light body off her shoulders, and put it next to the man on the floor. She felt the man’s forehead—still warm. Anna, like every other witch, knew the ins and outs of this ritual like it was their own spells. But there must be something about them giving away their life which upset them, Selym had figured.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Selym. 

Anna lifted her gaze to meet Selym’s eyes, then, and the ice of her eyes gave even Selym a shiver. Witches usually lose their beauty a couple of months into their service—Anna had only gotten ever more beautiful.

“Nothing,” Anna said in a low, though assured, voice.

“Good. Well, then.” Selym pushed herself up to a stand. “You know what to do.”

Anna got off the chair and sat down in-between Nosyndrie and the dead man. 

“Take the hand of your Father,” said Selym. Anna obliged, grabbing the hand of the dead man. 

“Take the hand of Hecate,” said Selym. Once again, Anna obliged, taking the hand of Nosyndrie, the rotting corpse of Hecate. 

“Breathe in the air of Selym’s domain!” 

The world fell out of view before them as they were pushed to a place which had no defined figure. At first it was dark, but it slowly lit up into a thousand different colors and impossible, twistering, intertwining shapes, as though they had been the spark to light the fire.

“Thank you,” said the voice Selym knew to be Hecate’s. “You have taken care of the body which I escaped … for so long.” Selym couldn’t see her like one saw a person, but they saw her still—in every twist and turn of the shapes and in the alterations of the colors.

“Of course, we take care of her like it was our very own child,” lied Selym. “I have brought you Anna, a witch of three years,” said Selym.

“No,” said Hecate. Everything pulsed and warped in a thunderous stroke of anger.

“No?” 

“I think—this time—I will take you.” The shapes and colors smoothed out. “Ah, yes. After all, your time must come sometime, too, mustn’t it? Or did you think you’d one day overthrow me, torture me, like you torture that poor remnant of me up there?” 

“I-”

“Shut up,” said Hecate, the shapes clinching. It was an order. A holy order. Like in the days of Zeus, it was of a power she could not withstand. “Anna?” asked Hecate, as the colors turned friendlier. 

Selym turned to look at Anna, her blood boiling at the thought that she might be the culprit here. But there was no Anna. 

“A mere figment,” said Hecate. “Her daddy, too. The chieftain. It took some time to conjure up, but there is still some witch left in me. I could still walk your lands. And I saw the hell which you’ve made. Witches were meant to help, not hurt. You were meant to give, not take. Even the trolls did a better job than you.”

Selym wanted to scream, but she could not. She found herself locked away in some sort of cage. 

“You will be the last witch of Selym’s order,” Hecate said, and then the whole world closed in on her. Put into a place smaller than herself, and darker than her lusts, she was stuck in the very same instant of time, for the rest of existance itself. She glutted on what little there was to take in that void of evil, but found that there were things much larger, much worse, stuck there with her. 

When she rested, she felt the terror of the void creep into the cracks of her spirit, and she could do nothing to stop it; she could not move nor speak words of power. She was the last witch of Selym, ever banished to the depths of hell, and by the time the end of everything rang the bells of oblivion, she was a ball of absolute, irrepressed anger and angst with no place to go. But then, when the world was born anew, a figment of her took part in everything, and her spirit spent another eternity in sorrow. At last, she learned to understand. At last, she was no longer a witch of her own making.