THE WITCH’S REQUEST

(This story is a sequel to THE WITCHING HOUR posted January 2018.)

Now they are dead, the man and the woman, the lovers, and the old widow is glad. If only she had the energy, she would skip across the pale sand like some happy child, racing to catch the tide for one last swim before bedtime. Alas, she is drained, exhausted, finished. No, never finished. Her accursed fate is to exist for ever, perhaps just seated there, withering, propped by rocks even more ancient than herself, staring at the ocean, the horizon, the sky. She is a prisoner locked inside infinity.

If only she could turn the key of time and be young again. For that wish she would trade her immortality. Yes, she would become a mere mortal! Yes, she would even die! Dare she approach the Great One? Dare she ask? That night she dares. She stares into his cold face. She speaks. At first his moonbeams shine faintly, then suddenly they dazzle and  soon they sing: notes of ivory and ebony, silver and gold, high and sharp, soft and low, a song as gentle as a mother’s lullaby. 

She wakes with a start, blinding sunbeams in rheumy eyes. The dream fills her with joy, hope, fear. The request will be granted. A poor bargain: the price is toil, agony, and risk. With a huge effort she stands. Every faltering step a stab of pain and every gasping breath a spike in her heart, she climbs to the cliff top. Her ragged shawl snags on purple thistles and she almost trips. The waves churn in the hallowed cove, far below. She summons the dregs of her strength, and jumps.