Attack in Witchland

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The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best story or poem in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPs! #333655 by Sophy

prompt: Write a story 1000 words or less or a poem 40 lines or less about being halfway through some kind of event!


Note: This is another chapter for The Bluebird Book

Attack in Witchland

I have left the castle and now peer into the dark void that separates my home from Jezebel’s. I cannot see through the heavy gray-black fog. Why is Witchworld invisible from Ausland, I wonder.

I shiver as I set my feet onto the The Bridge of Malediction. The air is chilly, but the early morning sun feels warm on my back. Is the weather the same in Witchworld? Will I see Jezebel standing in sunlit rays, rays that paint her lustrous brown hair in copper and gold? I sigh heavy with longing.

I am able to walk speedily until I reach the middle of the bridge. There the barrels underneath the planks rock violently, pitching and turning – writhing like a nest of maddened vipers. I hold tight to the heavy ropes that line each side, clutching for balance. The rope are fraying, but honeysuckle and ivy entwine themselves about them. The smell of the vines, crushed by my deathly grip, sours my stomach. I swallow hard but keep walking.

A plank is missing. I step around it. The bridge is rotting timber, eager to dwell at the bottom of the river, or pitch me over its side.

How will I bring my bride home? Not over this bridge. Her skirts would dampen from the slosh and weigh her down. She could not balance in her dainty shoes. Her hands, are they strong enough to hold on? I could carry her, of course but our combined weight might prove too much for the rotting bridge. I will worry it later. First I must reach her, hold her, kiss her, tell her the words in my heart.

I have been gone too long. What if she no longer loves me? What if she refuses to come with me? What do I have to offer her but a cold castle, four mischievous brothers, and . . . Yet, I cannot live without her, and I must return. It is my duty.

The bridge bucks and bobs. My hands slip. Another plank gives way and floats off into the torrents of the river. I grab at a place further along on the rope, pull myself forward by arm strength alone.

Step after step, until finally the bobbing stills, and I am reaching out with nothing to grasp because the bridge has ended. My foot moves forward, touches the ground of Witchworld.

Darkness still swirls about me. I can see no further than the toe of my boot, yet I swing my second leg off the bridge. Sunshine suddenly blinds me. I blink, raise a hand to shield my eyes, and then I see her.

“Jezebel,” I call. In that very moment we are like two magnets. Without thought, our legs take speed, our arms reach out, our lips purse in readiness.

In moments we meet. Perfect joy sparks my every muscle, every bone, every drop of blood. The inebriation of delight enthralls me, making me blissful as a spinning top.

My mind hums with the wonder of these feelings. It rings through my limbs, singing about the rightness of our love.

And then, a sudden clamor disturbs me. At first I treat it as no more than a fly buzzing against an empty windowpane. What else could matter when I am embracing the love of my life, my beautiful Jezebel? I clench my eyes tight, tune out the noise. But the buzzing gets louder, more bothersome.

Someone grips my arm. I have four older brothers with prying hands, tree branch switches, and sword tips that stab me in the back. I ignore the irritation and whisper, “I love you,” softly in Jezebel’s ear.

A beefy hand grabs my neck and jerks me backwards. I spin about to confront this irritation. A fisted blow, and the rustic drops into the dust at my feet. I turn back to my Jezebel.

But others seize me then, groups of them. My training serves me well. The louts fall left and right. My chest heaves from exertion, but my fists are primed. I look about, ready for the next country bumpkin.

“Stop it,” my sweetness cries.

I glance at my Jezebel. It is not warrior behavior. I feel shame me when I realize I have left myself open to attack. Yet, strangely, the ruffians do not send further elbows and knees into my groin. Nor is my head encumbered by their fists.

“Why have you stopped me, my love?” I question Jezebel, and, although my legs remain splayed apart in readiness, I take a moment to study the simpletons who attacked us. Do they want money? Position? No matter. They are mere peasants, unfit for battle.

I glance again at my lady. Her eyes have filled with tears. Her lips quiver. Her breasts heave either from emotion or distress. Yet, she is safe.

I massage my right hand and work on strategy. I am halfway through my preparations to conclude the battle so I can speedily carry off my bride, when a small white string is tossed my way. It lands on my chest. The moment it hits me, my head drops.

My eyes probe its nature, not because I desire to, but because I find myself locked into that position. MAGIC. I feel the strength of it, see its spell -- the wisps that flutter outward in shimmers of orange and red -- the scent of cut lemons, damp mushrooms, pinecones tossed in fire.

My head rolls; my arms collapse -- limp as unwatered plant stems. My feet have gone numb, my head hurts, my ears ring, my tongue feels thick as pinesap.

I drop to the ground, like an arrow that has missed its mark.

“What did you do to him?” I hear my beauty cry.

I cannot hear her reply. I cannot even bid my dear lady adieu.

My nose blows dust devils in the dirt, and I weep the silent tears of a warrior, for I believe I have failed to protect my Jezebel.


1000 words