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Chapter 2: The Witch
Part 3
June walked brisk and sure to centre stage and stood to Bettine’s right. There was more elevation to the rock ledge than she’d expected. A hundred scowls and uninviting glares pierced up at her. She could feel them puzzling her out—she was too clean, her eyes had a strange taper to them, her hair was unbeaded, her clothes weren’t broken in. She tried to dismiss the idea that the only thing preventing a riot was the device strapped to Bettine’s hip, and waited for her introduction. There’d probably be no fist-to-sternum gesture for her.
“You may speak,” was all Bettine said.
Junelight took a breath, and said, “I suppose it is clear that I am not… local. If my appearance wasn’t a giveaway, you can certainly tell from my manner of speech.”
They didn’t seem to soften. But some expressions changed from hardened to hardened and curious.
“In fact, I am quite foreign,” she continued. “I came from beyond the wooded lands. Beyond the great stone hills too. I call the sea my home. And the sea calls me Junelight Re’Sha.”
Curiosity now gave way to confusion. It was possible that these people had only heard of the sea in stories. To that point, she saw a healthy faction of skepticism blooming as well. Time to bring it back to something they understood.
“I’ve come all this way to hunt. I specialize in a very particular kind of prey. Your kind refers to them as witches. ”
More than a few brave souls risked excited murmurs at this news. Bettine did not blast any of them away.
June went on. “Yes, I hunt witches. I’m hunting one right now. It is a vile creature that goes by the name of Plasivé the Poacher, and xe—I mean they—were last seen close to here. I know what they intend to do, and that is to use your own heritage against you: to steal, enchant and then trade these weapons of yours to other witches. You see, your increasing raids have not gone unnoticed. Sure, you typically steal tools, livestock and acquire some other goodies…” She eyed a worn chair that looked remarkably Roythan in build. Its occupant shuffled and dodged her eyes.
“And you’ve had little resistance thus far,” she continued. “But there’s a resistance forming, a growing alliance that aims not only to raise the defense of these towns you harass, but to eventually split and divide your triads down to the point of such disorganization that you won’t be able to run a proper raid for generations, if ever again.
“Now me, I couldn’t care less about this particular issue, no offense intended. My duties are bound to the sea and the people who sail there. But I need to find this creature because… well, this witch is the only person who knows where my son is.”
Saying it aloud hurt more than she hoped it would, and she paused to swallow a lump. The murmurs began to rise again. Junelight stole a glance at Bettine, who inclined her head ever so slightly.
“So then,” said June, “it would seem that your Head of Spark and myself find ourselves in a mutually beneficial situation. You need to protect the sanctity of your weapons, and I need to track down the weapon thief.”
Bettine took a step forward and said, “So it seems indeed. Before we continue, a question, Madame Junelight? I think the rest of the triadic heads here may share a certain, ah, nagging concern when it comes to your alleged profession. As did I when we met.”
“You’re all wondering how one could possess the skill to hunt a witch.”
Bettine scrunched a little smile and shrugged. The crowd was silent, staring. Many nodded.
“I possess the skill to hunt a witch,” said June, “because I am a witch.”
To the crowd’s credit, they did not launch into a fury. They didn’t flee or cower. But almost everyone recoiled and drew some kind of weapon. There was a chorus of snicks and snaps, clatters and pings, chainrattle and clank. Firelight reflected off five dozen shiny blades. Half as many rocks stared her down, nestled in the taut rubber of their flinging weapons.
At the same time, Bettine took a large stride to stand more or less in front of June, hands again planted on her hips, cape swept to one side.
“Impressive,” said the Head of Spark. “Quick on the draw. Now away with them.”
A few faces looked poised to revol. Frustration and knotted brows sprouted like weeds. Junelight figured they were saving their voices for an arena free of blasters. But the weapons melted away at about a hundredth the speed in which they’d appeared, though many a hand remained on many a handle. Satisfied, Bettine began to walk a slow circle around June.
“You’re wondering how we can possibly trust her,” said the Head of Spark.
Vigorous nods, strong grunts of assent.
“I have verified it,” Bettine said, “and yes, many of you still need more than just my word. So, my fellow Heads?”
The giant from earlier, Drigg, spoke up. “Head of Seed All-bit-tel, Drigg of Tel, too has met with the seawitch, and says she says true, and says Head of Spark says true.” He stretched his arms out towards the women, as if presenting a prize. His words didn’t seem to soothe the crowd. In fact, many of them looked to the other hulking stagemate, who had yet to speak.
He was bald, not as tall as Drigg but stockier. His sigils were green threads, twisted into a mass of hide tassels that sprouted from wide shoulderpads. He wielded a massive club, a sheathed blade that was maybe a forearm’s length, and what looked like a mechanized device for firing thin, sharp shoots that he carried in a bundle on his hip.
Glowering at Bettine, he took a step forward and said, “Head of Root All-bit-tel, Ottrah of Bit, too has spoke with seawitch, and say she say true, and say Head of Spark and Seed say true...”
This seemed to do it. The gazes softened and quieter conversation bubbled up.
“Very well—,” began Bettine.
“But!” said Ottrah.
Junelight braced, looking at Ottrah but keeping her aspectral attention floating near Bettine, ready for another explosion. Ottrah didn’t seem to share the concern, and came closer to June.
“I see it myself, yes,” he said, addressing the mass. “This who say she witch, show us Heads of All-bit-tel, in private tent. But to you all, she will show again. So you not soon forget what is she. And so you know her eye is no bloodlight.”
“Bloodlight?” June asked. This was off script. She reached out and found the thin wire of strength from the distant village. It was there, faint and drifting, but it was there.
Ottrah turned to her. “Red. Of blood, of those who chew down our home, our wood, our past, our fathers and they before them.”
“Your eyes,” said Bettine. “They’ll want to see them.”
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