Emma Richey The Tower

Shafts of moonlight pierced the dense tangle of twisting branches. Shriveled corpses of autumn leaves dangled precariously, spiraling to the forest floor. Overhead, thunder crackled and white-hot veins of lightening seared the pitch of night, as glints of white ricocheted off chain mail rustling with faint metallic clinks. Beneath the knobbed fingers of oak, ash, and elm sat a solitary figure clad in sheets of beaten iron. A ululating penetrated the still of the forest. Sides heaving, his mount shifted, prancing nervously. Its teeth were coated in foam, its sides flecked with froth. Beads of sweat trickled from the brows of both rider and steed onto webs of lichen. In the shadows, swift glimpses of contorted figures with glittering beetle-eyes flitted from trunk to trunk, branch to branch. As moans and howls pierced the still of the wood, dusky owls shifted, nervously peering through tangles of briars and branches. Underfoot shriveled branches crackled, spines snapping. The horse whinnied nervously. The tattered remains of trespassers swung in the breeze, impaled on brambles and thorns. Faded strips of scarlet, a solitary scrap of white. A putrid scent rose as hooves crushed velvet-petalled flowers peering from beneath the decay. Shrill screams reverberated, seeming to come from all sides at once. Horse and rider halted abruptly. Ahead lay an arch, an old bent oak, etched with strange symbols. Wreathed with boughs of lichen limply swaying in the icy breeze, the arch loomed over the path. The ground underneath turned to soot. Ragged sighs escaped the stallion, drifting through the haze. Bit and bridle jingled, a soft rhythmic tinkling. Clambering to the ground, he paused, surveying the road ahead. It turned sharply, hedged by a steep embankment of ashen clay on one side and a pool of inky black on the other. Ravens bobbed and leered, chanting raucous cries, glancing at their companions. Leading the trembling, panting horse, he shuffled down the path. With tentative steps, the stallion shifted nervously. “A bit further,” the knight panted, “Just a bit more. Come on. The princess and her captor await. ‘Round the bend. Come now.” Eyes rolling and hooves stamping, the horse planted its hind legs and twisted its head. “Can’t blame you. I suppose witches frighten even the bravest,” he murmured, stroking the beast and lacing the lead around a nearby trunk. Ahead, the embankment melted into a shallow ditch, and the path turned into a quagmire of ashen mud. In the center of the clearing loomed a spindling tower, a patchwork of cobbled stones and rough-hewn timber. Moldering shingles leered through their gap-toothed decay. A soft golden glow permeated the haze of encroaching fog. From a solitary paned window, he glimpsed a figure—a billowing cloud of white, a flash of raven hair. Tilting his head back he swallowed, the night air cool and crisp against his teeth. “Ah, if only His Majesty hadn’t been so foolish as to promise his first-born to a witch.” Memories of his last days at court surfaced, bobbing. The king sitting with glazed eyes,

his face hollowed by grief, muttering in his ear at the banquet: “Smiles… so many smiles when heard story… defeating a wyvern… ‘noble Sir Gwydion’… cared not that ‘twer but a page at time….” Images flitted across his mind. The princess’ handmaiden with eyes wide, wringing her hands as ashen faces gaped at her words. Echoing, ricocheting off every wall. Every ear. “Her ladyship has been taken by… by the Witch.” The plan had failed. The Witch had recognized the true princess. His wavering voice breaking the silence, sword clattering as he knelt. A knight. A knight promised a princess. One so lovely, so merry, gentle, and poised promised to a mere page. No. Knight now. Sir Gwydion. He clenched his fist, eyes narrowed. “Famine or no famine. No lady should be bartered as though she were mere currency,” he spat. “What kind of father- what kind of king would make such a promise? He knew the tales, the cost.”

A dull ringing reverberated as he drew his sword. He glanced at the trees skirting the clearing, their skeletal forms stretching and contorting. Wisps of frizzed hair caked with mud brushed his brow. Perspiration blended with sweat. On the eaves of the tower carrion crows perched, joining the ravens hunched figures. The birds pivoted, eyes rooted to a far corner of the clearing. Raising his visor, the knight turned and peered through the haze of descending fog. In the distance near a lightning charred tree crouched a figure, hunched and robed in black. With lumbering steps, he edged closer. Over the figure’s drooping shoulders and knobbed spine, hoary-white hair billowed. Threadbare wrappings shifted revealing a skeletal frame. Her ashen skin was exposed in flashes. An elbow. A knee. Overhead, thunder crackled and white-hot veins of lightening seared the pitch of night, as yellowed nails, cracked and serrated, lunged out of the folds, clutching the billowing sheets to the skeletal frame. Stumbling, faltering steps snapped shriveled branches. Beneath matted snarls of hair peered eyes opaque and unseeing. Dusted with mildew ,the faint aromas of death permeated. The coppery scent of blood. The hesitant aroma of rotting earth. Staggering on bare feet, toenails chipped and trickles of inky black peppered the mossy ground. Bloodless lips muttered soundlessly. Aged joints popped and creaked. White-hot veins of lightening seared the pitch sky, illumining gaunt features. Faint impressions of eyebrows threadbare with age stood crowned by wispy strands. Ashen skin stretched taut as a fissure revealed straining teeth and ears lying flat against a shriveled skull. He gasped in horror, stepping backwards. The creature’s arms dangled limply as though forgotten one moment, only to be clenched in frenzied convulsions the next. Hissing clouds of steam poured from the figure’s mouth, nose, and ears. A ululating wail penetrated the night. Bristling, with trembling hands and feet, she scaled the scabbed branches of the oak. Clambering above the embers faintly glowing around the charred trunk, the creature perched on a swooping branch. Stiffening, she arched her spine and shrieked, head lolling. The knight shuddered. The

figure paused, pivoting slowly, fixing unseeing orbs on him. With a flash of jagged yellow fangs, the creature lunged. The knight swung, decapitating the monster. The head rolled, coming to a rest among a clump of grasses several feet away. For several moments he stood silent, staring at the blade. Between smears and droplets of inky blood peered a face, peppered with blue stubble and faint grey eyes, wide with fear. Wisps of curling hair brushed his brow, just visible beneath the edge of the mail. Wordlessly, he plodded back to the tower, pulling the ringed knob. The door swung open without a sound. Skeletal frames lurked in the shadows. A broom. A mop. A coat rack. Silver smoke seeped from a brewing kettle, entwining around the rough-hewn rafters, ebbing in seas of spidery scrolls, drifting through concoctions, bottled and corked. Aromas of yarrow and frankincense permeated the air, drenching the moth-eaten velvet and sparse furs draped across the cobbled floors. The carpet formed an undulating sea with rich hues of turquoise, ebony, vermilion—a shore rising in cliffs, mountain ranges of mahogany stained with age, hinges decaying with rust. In the light of the glowing embers sat a cauldron, burnt and flaking with age. Torrents of steam seeped under the lid. Perched on the shelves above sat trinkets, instruments, and amulets of various sizes and natures. A crystal ball, a serrated dagger. A faded drawing of a mountain lion overlaid with lists of ingredients. The cauldron crackled, bubbling onto a cat, which awoke with a hiss. With slitted eyes narrowed, it arched its spine and yawned. Webbed toes splayed, it stretched before darting up a curving stair. Following it, the knight ascended. The plaster walls were caked with dirt and dust. Festoons of cobwebs lined the rough-hewn rafters. Dust swirled in the light of golden haze filtering beneath a door. The faint humming and murmur of some sweet mellifluous voice floated down the stairs. Reaching for the knob, he paused, sheathing his sword, removing his mail cap, and smoothing his hair. Faint aromas of jasmine, elderberry, and yarrow seeped beneath the door. The stairs groaned, protesting his weight. The humming paused. Stilled. He rapped a soft staccato.

“Hello?” “Your highness?” Turning the knob, he swung the door open. Inside on a bench sat the princess wearing a robe of battered white silk. Cascades of ebony framed her face and golden slanted eyes. Constellations of freckles dusted her skin. In her arms perched the cat purring with almost aggressive contentment. “Who are you? Is this another spell meant to torment my broken spirit?” she whispered, rising and slowly crossing the room. Gwydion blinked. How could she have forgotten? True, it was just one banquet. However, the light in her eyes—the way she had shined when they praised his defeat of the wyvern.

Perhaps through some terrible spell of the Witch. Perhaps some lucky twist of fate, sparing her the worst of her memories. He steadied himself. “No… no, Your Highness. I have killed the Witch. I am here for you. Your father has sent me to rescue you and to end the curse upon your family.” He said, kneeling as best as he could with his armor. He could not reveal the whole truth. How could he expect her to marry a complete stranger, especially given the circumstances? Blood-red lips parted, revealing round white teeth. “Oh, we need fear her no longer then? My father need never pay for trying to escape his debt? For trying to keep me with my family? I can go home?” She clasped her hands, eyes feverish with delight. “Yes,” the knight said slowly. “You and your family are freed from that promise. My horse waits a mile from here.” “Thank you, Sir Knight. Let us leave this place at once then,” She darted past him down the stairs, clutching the cat. Stumbling to his feet, Gwydion plodded after her. “Your Highness- please. There is nothing to fear. She is dead,” he called. After descending the stairs and nearly tripping over the cat. He found her waiting. “Please, I beg you. We have already tarried too long,” she whispered, her expression fixed in a frightened smile. “As you will of course,” he nodded, glancing around. “I am sure this place must hold unpleasant memories. “Yes,” she murmured, again darting forward so that he had to race to keep up with her. After several long minutes of tromping through the mud, the two reached the edge of the wood. Through the haze of fog, a charred tree materialized. At its base lay a body, clothed in robes of billowing white. Elongated, tapering hands peered from beneath embroidered silk sleeves. Rosy skin, dusted with constellations of freckles. Nearby rested a head crowned with flowing ebony hair resting on a pillow of withered grass. The knight and the woman turned, eyes fixed on each other. Images flashed through his mind- The kettle. Bubbling, Brewing. Hissing smoke. The drawing of the mountain lion. A potion.

“Well,” the woman drawled, stroking the cat. “There is nothing to fear now. She is dead!” She tilted back her head, with a ululating wail piercing the night.