THE SHADOW MOVED through the trees like it had always been a part of them, tall and unhurried. The movements of a being that had walked this way a thousand times. As the shadow glided silently over fallen trees, stepping easily over the rock-strewn ground beneath its feet, past the rivulets of water that formed when the nearby river overflowed its banks during a storm. The waters cutting through the primordial forest floor, then rushing over the dizzying heights of the massive cliff's edge, that lay hidden in the darkness of the moonless night. The cold currents disappearing into oblivion, plunging towards the boulders that lined the endless chasm below. The forest remained silent as the shadow continued onward, swallowed by the night as if the darkness itself had granted it passage.
The shadow halted its movement, listening to the sudden break in the forest's silence. The trees seemed to hold their breath, the wind itself falling still as the figure stood motionless among the darkness.
Had it heard something?
A small cry. Almost, but not quite, a shout. So faint that without the shadow's preternatural hearing, it would have been carried away into the night by the gentle breeze stirring the brittle autumn leaves beneath its feet.
Then it came again. This time louder.
Drawn out.
A sound filled with hopelessness and desperation. A cry that carried with it a sense of urgency that pulled the shadow deeper through the trees toward its source.
It moved swiftly, gliding toward the edge of the forest as the cries grew more frequent, more frantic.
Perhaps it was drawn by a feeling of unease.
Perhaps it was nothing more than curiosity born from endless years of solitude and boredom.
Whatever the reason, the sound beckoned to it.
Closer and closer the shadow moved, despite knowing it was dangerous to venture any nearer.
Some instincts warned against it. Some memories demanded caution.
Yet still it followed, drawn onward by the desperate voice echoing through the darkness.
The shadow halted only a few steps from the edge of the open field that separated the forest from the small village resting along the northern coastline.
Through the trees, it watched as a woman struggled against a group of the village's men. The mob surrounding her, driving her steadily closer toward the edge of the forest, and closer to the very place where the shadow waited unseen.
The shadow withdrew several paces, retreating deeper into the cover of the trees behind it. The ancient trunks and twisting branches swallowing its form, offering the protection of countless layers of darkness. It remained perfectly still, confident that the mob would see nothing more than the ordinary shadows cast by the moonless night.
After all, a lone shadow was easily overlooked when the entire forest was cloaked in darkness.
"Witch! Witch!" the men shouted, as they dragged a dark-haired woman through the muddy ruts that scarred the ground of the recently harvested field.
"I'm not a witch Johnas Collins." The woman shouted at the rotund man in the dark cloak, who stood apart from the angry crowd that gathered around her, the men now blocking any hope of escape in all directions.
The man whom she called Johnas scowled, then spat onto the ground at her feet.
"Quiet witch!" he shouted in a commanding voice. "Since you have come to our village, two children you have ministered to have died horribly! Foam at their lips, crying in agony in their mothers' arms! You have bewitched them!" Johnas shouted loudly so that it carried over the heads of the men who surrounded her.
"You placed a curse of death upon our god fearing village, and the only way to break your curse is through your death by burning!" he spat out, venom dripping from every word.
"That is what these godly men and I propose to do this very night!" Johnas bellowed, his voice carrying across the open field to where the shadow stood concealed among the trees.
The words reached the hidden figure, and its attention shifted.
Its gaze settled upon the post driven deep into the waterlogged earth at the center of the field. Around its base lay bundles of faggots, carefully stacked and waiting.
The shadow remained motionless, watching. The meaning of the scene became clear.
Horror filled its breast at the sight of the stake. It knew the terrible fate that lay ahead for the dark-haired woman who was now being lashed to the upright timber, as the men added more bundles of faggots, stacking them against her legs.
The shadow had witnessed firsthand what was to come.
The slow crawl of the flames across the bundles of twigs stacked at her feet, then the flames shooting upwards as her clothing caught, feeding the hunger of the all-consuming blaze.
The agony as it bit into the tender flesh beneath the cloth. The agonized screams as the raging inferno consumed them.
He had borne witness to the fate of those consumed by the flames more times than he cared to remember.
Witnessed the agonized howls rising from their blackened mouths, their lips contracting grotesquely back from their teeth, and the terrible feeling of relief as their suffering finally ceased.
Then the heart-rending grief when all that remained of them was a blackened husk left to slip down the blackened post, and finally tipping forward, mingling with the ashes of the dying embers scattered across the scorched earth.
The shadow who was once a mortal man, shuddered at the memory of it.
The shadow made his decision quickly.
It was a choice that, although he did not understand it at the time, would bind his fate to that of the woman forever.
A decision born not from careful thought or reason, but from something deeper.
Something instinctive and beyond his understanding. Something like destiny.
It was not a choice he had planned.
Nor one he could have ever explained, had he been asked. One that even he could not understand.
Yet in that single moment, as he watched the torches in the hands of the men making ready to light the flames that were waiting to claim her life, something within him broke.
He moved with a speed beyond the limits of human perception.
In a single breath, he was upon her. The bindings that held her fell away beneath the cut of his blade, and before the villagers could comprehend what had happened, he swept the woman into his arms.
Vanishing back into the darkness.
Racing through the shadows of the forest, the woman held tightly against his breast.
Around them the ancient trees blurred into streaks of black and silver, the night wind parted as he carried her away from the flames, and the fate that had awaited her.
Horrified cries rose from the mob as the woman vanished before their very eyes. Some began to shriek, their voices swallowed by terror as she was spirited away, by what they could only believe to be Satan himself.
Many of the men crossed themselves, turned on their heels, and fled back towards the village. Retreating to the safety of their dwellings.
Even more dropped to their knees where they stood.
Falling heavily onto the mud of the field, they began to pray loudly to their god for deliverance.
Asking for protection from Satan and his mistress, groveling on the ground like dogs, at their master's feet.
Johnas Collins stood as rigid as a statue. A look of pure rage twisting his swollen face turning it a deep crimson red, and knowing that now there was not one enemy, but two, hiding deep in the darkness of the forest.
He vowed that they must be hunted down, and eliminated, if he ever wished to maintain his tenuous control over the villages, that he had governed over these last ten years, with an iron fist.
Until the meddling Wise Woman had appeared within their midst. Bringing with her the gifts of healing, patience, kindness, and defiance. She was a threat to his order, hiding behind her dark good looks, and emerald green eyes, she was a challenge to his authority, and had thrown wide the door of his twisted desire to possess her.
Johnas made his resolve then and there. He would not stop.
He could not stop.
Until the one responsible for the woman's escape was found and brought to justice. Until the woman herself was dead.
He would pursue them without rest.
Whatever force had saved her from the flames, whatever creature or man had defied him this night, Johnas would see them both destroyed.
* * *
Johnas turned his back on the praying fools as they twisted, and rolled in the muddy field like pigs in a sty.
Their cries and frantic pleas faded behind him as he stalked away, leaving them alone with their fear and superstition nonsense.
He followed the rain-sodden road toward The Wolf and Lamb, his boots sinking thickly into the mud with every step.
He needed a drink, a strong one.
Johnas had thought that surely the men of the village, though they be as witless as sheep, would have possessed enough brains in their useless skulls, to burn one weak woman!
Once inside the tavern, Johnas approached the bar and ordered a whiskey from Robert, the inn keep before retreating to a table in the farthest corner of the room.
He sat brooding over his drink for several moments, his thoughts consumed by the night's failure.
Slowly, he lifted the glass to his lips, taking a long swallow, feeling the amber liquid burn as it traced its way down his throat.
Johnas grimaced.
He could not abide cheap whiskey.
The harshness of it offended him, a poor substitute for the finer spirits he was accustomed to.
Yet in his present mood, cheap whiskey was better than no whiskey at all.
He drained the remainder of the liquid from the glass in one quick swallow, before calling for another.
Robert poured another drink and carried it across the tavern, setting the fresh glass before him.
He collected the empty one without a word, returning to his place behind the bar, leaving Johnas alone with his thoughts and the growing bitterness that was filling him.
The innkeeper detested Johnas.
The man was a pompous ass, who thought his shit didn't stink, because the King himself had appointed him Stewart of their rural village.
Although, Robert had heard rumors that the king despised him as much as Robert himself.
He had heard whispers that Johnas had been sent away from court as punished for some transgression he had committed.
The Collins family, it seemed, were powerful allies of King Henry, and so he could not afford to lose their much needed financial support in the ongoing war, and that was why Johnas had been banished to the ass end of nowhere, instead of losing his head to the royal executioner's axe for his crimes.
And so the king had sent him far away, to the worst shithole of a village in the land as punishment.
'Mores the pity.' Robert thought, as he watched the fat pig sitting in the corner of the tavern room.
Robert often wondered what transgression Johnas had committed to garner banishment to this remote place?
Perhaps he had tried to have his way with the queen? Or possibly one of the king's daughters?
Hell maybe even one of the king's sons?!
He would not put it past the old reprobate. Robert chuckled to himself. A look of disdain crossing his face.
The barman cast a hate-filled glare in Johnas's direction before turning his attention to the nearly empty tavern. A growing sense of apprehension settled over him.
Johnas's presence alone was enough to drive customers away. The villagers could barely tolerate the man, and whenever he entered the tavern, more than a few patrons suddenly remembered some urgent business elsewhere. They would finish their drinks, make their excuses, and disappear before Johnas had the chance to sour their evening.
The night's takings were always miserable when Johnas claimed his usual corner, nursing his whiskey for hours on end and muttering to himself like some loony.
Ye gods, it was going to be a long night.
Robert sighed as Johnas raised a hand, signaling for another drink. With little enthusiasm, the barman poured a generous measure into the glass, all the while wishing the man would simply leave.
Robert let out a long sigh of relief when Johnas had finally drunk his fill, and staggered drunkenly out into the darkened street, wending his way home to poor Bertha, his housekeeper.
"Good riddance to bad rubbish," he muttered under his breath, glancing at the time on the clock that loomed over the square.
Robert hoped that now that Johnas had left more patrons would come in to fill their gullets, and fill his purse.