Puzzles Come In Threes

A Writer’s Cramp prompt (1,00 words or less/24 hours)
Write a story 1000 words or less or a poem 40 lines or less where solving a puzzle is key to the story or poem.

Note:
This is the fourth story in the sequence:

FOLDER

The Bluebird Stories  (ASR) Stories about a witch world. #1876841 by Shaara

It can be read independently or as part of the whole.

Puzzles Come in Threes

“Where has she gone?” Jessica said, her voice a wail of grief.

Auntie Simone and Grandma Frannie exchanged a look that Jessica didn’t see, couldn’t see since her eyes were streaming with tears.

“We’ll find her.” Frannie embraced her daughter-in-law with two thin arms that not only comforted but offered a tinkling spell of assurance. “How far could she walk? The woods call to her, you know that, Jessica. The child rambles about poking at mushrooms, gathering mosses, talking with the forest animals -- her buffer against loneliness with her father so far away.”

“Don’t speak of Timothy. This is his fault. If he hadn’t volunteered to go serve the king . . .” Jessica said.

“Hush, dear,” Auntie Simone said. “The air travels words, words better not aired, whether truth or not.”

“No truth. My son had to go. You know that. Wizard and warlock? Of course the king would draft Timothy -- had he not served himself up on a dish first. But it doesn’t help one bit to rehash this instead of searching for the girl.”

“You’re right," Jessica said, looking up to meet their eyes. "We must call the coven. Something’s not right. My daughter’s not just lost, is she? Something crushed her, changed her. She’s hurt. I can feel it.”

The older women didn’t argue. They both felt it.

“I summoned the coven,” Simone said. “They come. They support us.”

xxx

Their coven was larger than most: thirty-seven witches, nine warlocks, assorted younglings for the future. All assembled in the meadow to begin their chants, dance an enclosure spell, then set out into the woods.

Little Jezebel was farther than any of them had supposed, almost beyond their magic, but the web they cast at last led them to her. On the edge of the river, only a bridge from human land, they found her fast asleep.

“Do not waken her,” Grandma Frannie said.

Sean, the warlock in charge while Grand Master Timothy remained with the king and his army, strode forward.

“I will carry her -- with your permission, Head Witch -- Sean said, bowing to Grandma Frannie.
He moved closer to Jezzie, bent to pick her up, but his hands did not, could not, touch her. His fingers slipped through her surface like a hand in water.

“What is this?” he said, his astonishment so great, he tried again and again.

“A spell,” the child’s mother said. “Someone has cast a spell over her.”

Auntie Simone bent, attempted to reach her niece. Once again, earnest fingers could not touch. The weeping mother tried, the grandmother, then other members of the coven, but none could break the spell.

Voices grew loud, querulous. Some, like the child’s mother bordered on hysteria. But Jezebel didn't hear, didn’t wake.

Sean, the mighty warlock, second only to Timothy, ran his hands over the air above Jezzie. “The spell grows stronger the more we fight it. I can see it now.”

“But how can we break it? What can we do?” Frannie said, forgetting for a moment she was Head Witch and possessed all the wisdom of the coven.

“It’s a puzzle,” Sean said. “Who has done this, how, why?”

The coven drew close. Every member, even the youngest, aged five, formed a circle around Jezebel. They joined hands, swayed, chanted, sang the old dirges. Power built up, a power so strong its pulse vibrated the circle. A faint hum could be heard, and a light so vivid it resembled an electrical current – in an eerie bright orangish red that rode the circle. Like lightning above, witch energy zapped and discharged. Lower down, where hands entwined, a sold, steady line beamed.

The sway crescendoed and ebbed, crescendoed and ebbed. The chant of witches, warlocks, and the young brought a fog across the river, a fog that warred with the lightning discharges. Sky battles. Thunderous and great.

But the spell over poor, little Jezebel held strong and firm.

xxx

As days passed, members of the coven remained behind, watching, watchful, but still Jezebel never stirred, remained no more than a limp bundle on a cold stretch of sand next to the river that separated Witch Kingdom from humans.

Warlock Sean and Head Witch Frannie became her most frequent visitors. They brought spell books and herbs, cauldrons of magic potions brewed especially for Jezebel, and tins of magical powders, which when used, sometimes hissed, fizzled, but mainly just stank.

Nothing worked. Nothing opened Jezebel to their touch.

Until a human crossed the hanging bridge. A human.

The first step of his fancy leather shoes in Witch Kingdom brought a strange sound -- a snapping turtle, a slap of the hand against the thigh, the tch when someone reacts negatively.

Jezebel sat up, blinked, rose with a cry. “You’re back,” she said. “You came back.”

Five witches, two warlocks stood at her side, but neither Jezebel nor the young man saw them. They rushed into each other’s arms and folded together.

“Well,” said Sean. “I guess we now know who, what, and maybe even why.”

Grandma Frannie, eyes on the two, shook her head sadly. “But he’s human. I don’t understand.”

“Yes,” Sean said. “Unfortunately.” He bit his lip, pondered the couple a moment, watched with sadness, for he knew that witches who joined with humans usually regretted it.

The young couple’s kisses continued unabated. A couple of witches scuffled their feet, a request for permission to leave. Sean and Granny gave a nod of permission and watched as they retreated into the woods, eager to report the spells’ seemingly happy ending.

“You do realize, Head Witch, that we now have a second puzzle to unravel. How did a human gain such power?”

Grandma Frannie sighed. “Yes. One solved. A new one added, and the worst of it is . . . puzzles always come in threes.”

xxx

983 words