The Wisp

I waited for Guenevere to come to town. She didn’t. I had to go to her. Fortunately, I knew the Windfall forest well. Unfortunately, everything had changed. Clearings disappeared and new ones formed. A lake sprung up overnight. A wolf too large to be of our world, its teeth and claws like blades, attacked. Armed only with a pen knife, I fended it off, but it was a battle I’d have soon lost. My throat was all but in the creature’s jaws when a glowing sight appeared. The apparition challenged the wolf and led it on a chase. Seeing my chance, I ran—ran for my life.

Hours passed, the sun set, and I found what I sought. The maze. But what a sight I was. Bloodied and battered. My clothing was in such a state I was tempted to go back. Then the day’s heat was slipping away and the night’s cold rolling in. The need for warmth overcame my vanity. Comforting myself with the thought of taking shelter with Guenevere, I entered the maze. I didn’t dally. A wolf howl urged me on.

The maze wasn’t more than thirty yards deep. Its twists and turns should have been few. Yet night fell and I hadn’t found its center. A cross and its steeple remained in sight but gave no clue what direction to go. I was lost, hopelessly so. The hours passed. The air grew colder, the wind sharper. I had no choice but to give up. My real defeat came when I realized I couldn’t find my way out either. I was trapped and about to freeze to death. I found a sheltered corner to settle in and pulled my wolf-tattered cloak close. The cacophony of my chattering teeth broke the silence of the night. I wanted now only to see another dawn. Deep down inside, I knew I had little chance of doing so.

Black and enormous, I saw its shadow first. The wolf had returned. I heard its snarl. In my mind’s eye, I remembered its teeth before seeing the pearly glint in the scant light. I was exhausted, hungry, and cold. I knew. There’d be no fighting it off a second time. Still, I raised my little blade. I knew now I should have brought a pistol. I readied myself for the coming of canines and claws. I waited … I waited … nothing. The wolf did not attack. Struck by a daze, it was stopped. Its paw hung suspended. I turned to what had its eye. In the glow of a lantern, her hair was liquid gold. Rays of light shown through the pale pink of her billowing skirt, outlining her slender, long legs. Her face was a pearl under moonlit water. It was Guenevere. I yelled a warning, certain the wolf would kill us both. She came ever closer, not stopping until she was at my side. The wolf broke its trance and snarled again. Guenevere wasn’t frightened.

“This man is not for you, Brynndalin," her musical voice sounded in the savage night. "You belong to me. I will not let you have him as your plaything.”

Brynndalin? The wolf had a name. Was it her pet? A disobedient one? It snarled yet again.

Guenevere brought from beneath her cloak a metal locket. It opened to reveal a large piece of amber. As the amber swayed, the wolf’s snarls turn to whimpers. The clouds were cut in two and the moon shone down. The amber caught the moonlight, magnifying it. Bright yellow and orange flashed and reflected onto the silver of the wolf. The light spread, gaining heat and intensity. The wolf backed away.

“Be gone,” Guenevere said in the sternest of tones. “Do not come again, not until I call you.”

The Wolf snarled one last empty snarl and then turned on its heels. It disappeared into the shadows of the hedges. I rejoiced. I was saved … or so I thought.

Guenevere looked to me. Anger flashed behind her blue eyes. “Come!” she ordered.

I followed. What else could I do? The wolf still lurked within the maze, the most savage of watchdogs.

A small white cottage with red trim soon came into view, a fairy-tale cottage. Oddly, a tall steeple and a cross grew from its squatness. There was a light in the window, the glow of a fireplace. My heart lifted at the thought of warmth. The door opened, and Martha stood before us, candle in hand. She couldn’t have been much older than Guenevere, maybe younger, but she spoke like an old woman. “And where did you find him?” she demanded.

She had a strange accent, a combination of English, Irish, and something more familiar. Her small frame moved aside and allowed us over the threshold.

“He somehow found his way into Brynndalin’s grasp,” Guenevere told her.

Martha snorted and motioned to a hard stool where I was meant to sit. I settled. I’d have preferred one of the wing chairs that sat on either side of the fire, but after hours in the cold, I was pleased to warm myself.

“I think he was pursuing me.”

Guenevere looked at me like one surveying an ant that has found its way into lunch. I felt a heat that had nothing to do with the fire. She most certainly did not return my tender feelings. I was a clear annoyance. She crossed to a wing chair and sat down wearily.

"The question is what to do with him now.” She turned to me and asked, “Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

I tried to answer but found my tongue lay paralyzed on a sticky palate, and there was a lump in my throat I hadn’t felt since I was a lad in short pants. My lord, I was going to cry. Indeed, sitting next to Guenevere on her comfortable chair, with Martha looming above, I felt a child on my low stool. I shook my head.

“Well, that’s something.”

Guenevere poured tea from a pot that sat on a table next to the chair and took a sip. I was reminded of my own dry throat. I may have licked my lips.

“We can’t let him go,” Martha said. “Not after what he’s seen.”

Guenevere let out a heavy sigh.

“No … no, we can’t,” she agreed.

A strange look came over Martha’s face. Her grey eyes, black in the dim light, glinted with an odd spark. My embarrassment was soon replaced by fear. It was clear. Guenevere had saved me from the wolf only to make me her victim. Escape. I lifted myself from the stool and made for the door. It wasn’t locked and opened with ease. I had one foot outside when an unknown force pushed me back into the room. I took flight and would have crashed to the ground had not the stool, which I’d knocked over, righted itself and slid across the floor. My bottom landed squarely on the seat. The door slammed shut and bolted itself. Still not understanding the power of the women, I tried again to stand. I tried with all my might, but somehow, I’d lost the ability to do an everyday task. I was secured to the stool and it to the floor—floor, stool, man—all one. I looked to Guenevere. Her hand glowed with its own light. She’d prevented my escape without leaving her chair. Martha gave out a low, mocking chuckle.

“The last thing we need is you telling anyone who’ll listen what you’ve seen and heard. I, for one, do not plan on being burned at the stake.”

The glow in Guenevere’s hand dimmed.

“They don’t burn witches anymore,” she reassured. “No one believes these days. This isn’t the 1600’s. Windfall has changed. Besides, I kept you safe then. I will do so now. You need not worry.”

Witches—the word rang in my head. What else could explain these strange events but witchcraft? It wasn’t true that no one believed anymore. I did. But witches were old and ugly. I looked at my captors, their smooth faces. Not a wrinkle. They had the skin of infants. Yet to me they seemed as old as crones. Then what had Guenevere said—this was not the 1600’s—she’d kept Martha safe then. Of course. They’d lived some three hundred years, maybe more. After all I’d seen and heard, immortality was but a small thing.

“Should we take the chance?” demanded Martha.

“Really …” Guenevere replied. “You could easily defend yourself.”

“All the same, he’ll need to be dealt with—permanently.” Martha’s hand glowed with power.

Photo Source
https://pixabay.com/illustrations/forest-surrealism-wolf-ballerina-2063246/