No one wanted the job, so we picked by lottery. Out there in the woods, we did it by choosing straws. Normally, the guards would choose, but when it came to the witch’s house, they stood aside. They were guards, not executioners.
Tommy got the short straw, so he was sent in. It was a bright, clear October day. The guards took him off the chain and he smiled, free and standing in sunshine for one moment. The door to the witch’s house was as dark as midnight, though, and he disappeared through the liminal space of the threshold.
We waited. We waited as long as we could. While we did, the guards ordered us to clear out underbrush, gathering wood for the night’s fire and to make sure a lightening strike didn’t burn down the house. There wasn’t another one for miles around and no one wanted the witch without a home. That would leave her walking through the forests, with no way to find her. Since the plague, we needed to know where she was, even if it was just to avoid her.
When the sun started to go down, the guards ordered us to gather up. No one protested. We carried our bundles of wood and shuffled back to camp, our chains clinking all the way.
No one ever saw Tommy again. That night, though, we found where the witch had lain the panacea by the fire. It was a good deal.
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Image Courtesy of Witch of the Woods.
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