Freebie Mondays: The Witches Three (Prompt Novel Chapter 11)

For 2024, I have decided to devote my prompt writing time to a novel. The twist is that the novel plot will be generated entirely by the writing prompts I chose to use for the project – which were rolled randomly using my trusty dice and a few online prompt lists. You can find the Table of Contents here.

For Chapter 11, the prompt was: “a family on a hike stumbles upon a group of witches in the middle of casting a spell.”

This was one of the prompts I was most excited about when I set up this project. And it was also actually the first prompt I had an idea for. But I knew I didn’t want this to be the opening of the book. I wanted this to be a flashback, and I wanted it to be set at a critical juncture of the novel so that it could serve as a turning point.

Many times when I looked at my prompt novel list, I was tempted to insert this scene. It’s the kind of thing that can really happen at any point in the novel, since it’s a flashback. But I tried to save it for the point when it would have the most impact.

I decided that right after the explosion of the main conflict was the perfect time to start giving context to everything that’s been happening. Now the tapestry is about to assume a clear picture – but how will my characters deal with it?

If you’d like to see this chapter come together, you can watch the VoD on Youtube!
. . .

It happened when she was twelve, just on the cusp of teenage transformation but still young enough to believe in the mysteries of the world. All her memories before that had grown fuzzy with the passage of time. But even twenty years later she could still smell the hint of pine that permeated the forest that day and hear the soft crunch of leaves and twigs beneath her small feet.

She didn’t know if the memory was vivid because she was close enough to adulthood to hold on to the tiny details that childhood often glossed over, or if it was simply the type of event that got stuck in the mind and wouldn’t shake free no matter how hard she tried.

She certainly had enough of those kinds of experiences to fill a book.

In any case, she was young enough yet for the day to feel dream-like whenever she replayed the memory. And she would have liked to label it as such, because that would have made a lot of things that came after much easier to stomach. But she knew it was real, and there was no way to hide from that. She saw it in the awkward glances passed around the table every Thanksgiving when her family settled down to break bread. No one ever spoke. There was an unspoken agreement among them that no one would ever acknowledge what they witnessed. But it was always on the tip of their tongues, waiting to break free.

Ira still couldn’t fathom how it happened. It was one of those things she had given up on explaining and simply accepted as a fact of her reality. Yet a tiny, rebellious piece of her simply could not let it go. It had traced every angle and possibility for explanation – which was probably why she could so easily summon the images of that day from the depths of her memory.

They had hiked that trail dozens of times. At least once a month for as far back as she could remember. Even in December, when the ridges were choked with ice and sometimes packed with snow, they’d donned their spiky boots and heavy coats and stomped their way down the side of the mountain to the frozen lakebed.

Her family had been the outdoorsy type. They camped in the summer months, sometimes so far from civilization they ran out of supplies and had to forage for the last supper before they piled back into the van to drive home. It might have been the reason she was comfortable enough to wander another set of woods at night – though she certainly regretted her boldness in the end.

There were other trails. Her father was always discovering a new one then buzzing like an excited bee all week until they had a free moment to flit off and explore it. But for some reason, that had been one of his favorites. He liked the way the path wound through the evergreens. He talked about the tall spires all the time – like castles of a bygone age, standing eternal sentinel over a forgotten realm.

Ira had always liked the way the sun played off the water of the lake at the end of the trail. Even when it was frozen, it seemed as if the sun’s rays danced where they struck the solid particles. It was forever in motion in some way, always different every time she looked at it.

She’d felt a kinship with that lake that she’d never been able to express to another living being, and she sometimes mourned the loss of it from her life.

It should have been like any other day. They should have come around the bend at the end of the steep ridge onto the gentle slope of the hillside to see the sun’s rays slanting through the tree branches. In early autumn there was always a pile of pine sheddings at the base of every tree. The non-evergreens had begun to turn, their leaves taking on fiery shades of red, orange and yellow that made them dance like fire when the wind blew.

Most of the flowers were finished by that time of year, but the grasses were still high and fragrant. A smattering of berries still clung to some of the bushes, not yet picked clean by hikers or wildlife, and squirrels darted into trees as her family passed to hide their bounty for the coming winter.

In the past, they had stumbled into other hikers on the trail, families who brought their dog for a run in the cool mountain air or backpackers enjoying the scenic route of travel through their backwater neck of the woods. But most of the time, they had that place all to themselves. They talked and laughed while they tromped through the woods, not bothering to lower their voices or hide their mirth because there wasn’t usually anyone around to hear.

But when they saw the three figures perched on the side of the hill like ravens, they all stopped dead in their tracks.

Ira remembered silence. She didn’t know if the every sound in the entire forest actually cut off the moment she laid eyes on the strange women. That didn’t make sense. She had been in the forest during storms before. She knew what it was like when the birds stopped singing and the insects stopped chirping. She had experienced that odd and eerie stillness that indicated her tiny portion of the world was deciding whether to run or hide.

She was fairly sure she added it in retrospect, the way people recalled words that had never actually been spoken or placed events on a different backdrop when they tried to speak of them years later.

Still, the women must have had some kind effect on their surroundings, because it did feel as if the entire mountain held its breath in anticipation of their response when all three of the strange figures locked eyes with the members of Ira’s family.

She remembered thinking, We aren’t supposed to be here. And it was both strange and wrong because they had never before feared to cross this space. It had never entirely belonged to them, but they had never been barred from it by anything aside from weather.

Like the absence of sound ringing in her ears, Ira wasn’t sure how many of the objects she placed between the three women were real and how many she had conjured into existence with bias and a fair amount of feverish reading. She could imagine a cauldron, huge and black, around which the three women gathered. But she knew there hadn’t been one. Such a sight probably would have sent her family running – or at least her sister if no one else.

They didn’t wear tall hats with wide brims. Nor were they wrapped in black cloaks – though Ira was fairly sure they were dressed in dark colors that made them blend with the long shadows beneath the trees at that time of day. Her memory always placed long, hooked noses on their faces and deep wrinkles across their cheeks especially beneath their eyes.

But only one of the women had been old and bent with age. The other two had been young and lovely. One looked only a few years older than Ira at the time.

She knew for certain there were candles burning on the base of a stump between them because she remembered thinking such an activity could start a fire if they weren’t extremely careful. The leaves and twigs shaken free of the trees were dry, and the pine needles made particularly good kindling.

She swore that one of the women – the middle according to age – held a wand clutched in her left hand. She had tried to overwrite that portion of her memory with something that made more sense because she was convinced the wand came from a story book rather than real life. But when she tried to trace the truest version of the memory – a difficult task since she had relived and re-written it so many times – she was certain the twisted piece of wood decorated with bits of glass and feathers was actually present.

The older woman trailed sand between her fingers as she regarded the intruders. Despite the strength of the wind, the small pile fell unerringly into her bottom hand to form a tiny pyramid. Then she closed her fingers around the particles and lifted her gnarled fist. With a twist of her wrist and a loosening of her grip, the flow began anew, and the particles formed exactly the same shape when they came to rest, as if guided by some invisible hand.

The youngest of the three women blushed, and Ira remembered thinking she must be embarrassed. It was how she felt whenever she came upon her parents trying to interact with something they didn’t entirely understand. At the time, she wondered if the young woman had tried to warn her companions – perhaps her mother and grandmother – that this would not be the best place for them to perform their ritual.

Because they were clearly in the middle of some form of ritual.

But all the youngest woman had done at the time was set aside the ornate bowl of water she held and bow her head while she waited for someone to speak.

The silence had become a form of pressure by that point. It built like steam trapped in a tiny piece of pipe. It was clear everyone present was aware that the pressure would have to be released soon or it would explode, yet everyone held their tongue.

Eyes moved rapidly as glances were exchanged among those present. Ira’s father looked at her mother then locked eyes with the oldest of the three women. The middle aged woman glanced around the small, tight circle of Ira’s family before looking to the older woman who shifted her hands to restart the flow of the sand she held.

It was clear silent questions were being asked. And from the cusp of teenage transformation, Ira believed most of those questions where whether or not her family needed to be murdered since they had clearly stumbled upon something they weren’t supposed to see.

It became increasingly clear to her that no one wanted to speak. And therefore, no one was going to speak. They were all just going to shuffle awkwardly through the underbrush, moving piles of fallen pine needles with their feet until the sun went down – and who knew what would happen then!

So she stepped forward and cleared her throat gently. “We’re sorry,” she said in the polite way her parents had taught her to address elders. “We didn’t mean to intrude.”

It had never been so terrifying for her to speak so few words. And for a moment after she managed to utter the apology she was supremely proud of her courage and honesty. She wasn’t so young she imagined they would pin a star to her jacket for stepping up, but it certainly felt for a blessed moment as if all had turned right with the world again.

Unfortunately, the tension didn’t stay banished. It rushed back with a vengeance, thicker and heavier than it had been the first time around.

Ira sensed her family draw backward from her, each shuffling one step back in the direction they had came as if they were abandoning her to her fate.

Too late she realized the reason no one wanted to speak. Whoever did would quickly find themself in the position she now faced with all eyes riveted on her figure.

Her parents were nervous; she knew that without having to glance at them. Normally her father talked at the pace of a mile a minute. He always had something to say, no matter what else was going on. This was probably the longest Ira had ever heard him be silent.

But it was the faces of the three strange women that worried her most. The older woman narrowed her eyes and pressed her lips into a thin frown. The youngest of the three kept her eyes determinedly on the ground but, every now and then, they would dart briefly in Ira’s direction and she glimpsed burning curiosity she had never witnessed before.

Yet it was the middle-aged woman’s expression that scared her most. Her eyes were full of pity and her face twisted with something akin to agony.

Suddenly Ira felt like a sacrificial lamb. She wished she could go back and retract the simple words she spoke. But it appeared to be too late to alter the course of her fate. Especially when the older woman finally turned and cleared her throat.

“What is your name child?” she demanded, and her voice wavered with the thickness of age.

“Ira,” Ira managed to reply, though her voice trembled and so did her hands as she clenched and unclenched them in front of her.

She wanted to ask if she was in trouble, but the intensity of the old woman’s face frightened language right out of her head.

It was just supposed to be a simple walk in the woods. How could it end with such dire trouble?

Isn’t that always the way it goes? Her journey through the woods beside the old windmill was supposed to be the same – and look how that turned out!

“You’re a courageous child,” the old woman said, her tone softer and warmer than it had been before. But it felt false somehow, as if she were merely trying to calm Ira down – like the old witch who wanted to trick children into her oven.

“We didn’t really want to trouble you,” Ira insisted. “We just wanted to visit the lake.”

She wasn’t sure why but Ira felt very strongly throughout the whole strange confrontation that she would be fine so long as she managed to get to the lake.

A brief, thin smile brushed the older woman’s lips – but it was genuine, and for some reason that reassured Ira more than her previous statement.

“You’re a good child too, Ira,” the woman murmured. “I can tell.”

Ira shifted uncomfortably in response, not sure if she should be pleased by the old woman’s assessment.

The older woman hesitated for a moment. Then she drew a deep breath into her chest. Ira could tell she was fully filling her lungs because of the way the sound lingered for what felt like a small eternity. Then she exhaled a sigh that sounded both defeated and resigned. Her eyes traveled over Ira’s shoulder to her parents and she nodded ever so slightly.

“I just need a moment of your time,” the old woman declared, addressing Ira again. “Then you can run along and join your family.”

Ira wanted to protest. There was no way her family would ever leave her alone with these strange women. Yet even as she parted her lips to speak, her family’s feet shuffled through the foliage. Twigs snapped and leaves crumbled as they rushed past her down the slope. Only her sister bothered to glance over her shoulder, and only for the briefest of seconds before she paled and hurried on ahead.

Ira knew that trail well enough to know that her family would have stayed visible for a long time after they left. There was an opening in the trees that allowed a hiker to view almost to the base of the slope before the foliage became thick enough to hide the lake beyond. But in her head, they all vanished quickly into the undergrowth, leaving her to the mercy of the strangers they stumbled upon amidst their hike.

The old woman placed a hand lightly on Ira’s shoulder and drew her toward the stump where the three candles burned. Ira wanted to resist, wanted to plant her feet and refuse to move forward. But she felt compelled by an irresistible force to do as she was bid.

In retrospect, she was fairly sure the force that moved her was fear. She genuinely believed for a few minutes that her parents had just left her alone to be murdered, and her gut twisted with terror as her feet carried her forward.

When she entered the small circle in which the three women stood, she could see that each of the burning candles was a different size and color. A small black stub burned near the youngest of the three women. A red candle burned in the center of the display, its sides coated in wax but much of its length still left. The last candle was stark white and it was clear today was the first time it had ever been lit as only a small, thin trail of wax dripped down one side.

Ira could feel the heat of the flames on her face as though the three candles were actually a campfire, and she found herself staring transfixed at the flames for an unknown passage of time before the voice of the older woman startled her back to the moment.

“It gets us in trouble,” she said softly, “our tendency to notice things others don’t.”

Ira swore there was a slight glimmer in the old woman’s eye when she turned to face her, but all she could manage to do in response was swallow the lump rising in the back of her throat.

“Well, I suppose there’s no point in lingering over it,” the old woman mused and sighed again. “After all, we can’t change it, can we?”

Ira glanced at the youngest of the three women; if she was going to find any help for this situation at all, she assumed she would find it there. But the young woman only trailed her finger through the bowl of water she set aside, forming a tiny whirlpool in its center.

“Best if we get it over with then, shall we?” the older woman declared.

There was a part of Ira that distinctly recalled the woman lifting a knife when she turned back to her. And for the life of her, she couldn’t say whether or not the knife had actually been there. She was so terrified that she was about to die, her real memory was coated in a haze of panic. But when her fight or flight instincts kicked in, they mixed their signals. Instead of pelting into the dirt without looking back, Ira froze, unable to do anything but stare in mounting horror at the old woman as she turned her full focus in the young Ira’s direction.

“You won’t know it for certain until it comes upon you,” the old woman declared. And there was something strange about her voice. At the time, Ira would have described it as mystical. Her young mind didn’t have another word. But over time, she had developed a more nuanced understanding of that moment, and she thought the odd thing was that two other voices overlapped the one that flowed from the older woman’s throat.

They must have belonged to the other two women sharing the circle, though Ira had never seen their lips move.

“That’s the worst part of it,” the strange, triple voice added, all three tones almost melancholy. “You’ll wonder afterward if you could have prevented or predicted it. But that isn’t how the magic works. It will flow from you into another. And once it starts, there won’t be any way to stop it.

“You can look for us then if you like.” There was a strange kindness to this last statement. “Though it’s impossible to say if it will do you any good.”

Then they were gone.

They couldn’t simply have vanished. When Ira looked at the stump where the candles were burning, she found distinct trances of all three different colors of wax.

She knew there must be a time disparity in her memory, several minutes that were missing – likely due to the high stress and anxiety of whatever trauma took place. But no amount of searching, therapy or hypnosis had ever allowed her to recover that missing chunk of time.

The woman spoke to her and then all three were gone.

After several minutes of confusion and a brief search of her surroundings, Ira turned and hurried down the slope to catch up with her family. They were waiting at the lake, and it had never been such a blessed sight.

But it was different that day than it had been in the past. Ira tried several times to see it again the way she always had in her youth, and she never quite managed to recapture the magic of the sun’s glimmer off the rippling waves.

Her family never hiked that trail again. They never even spoke of it. Just as no one ever specifically said that the three women they stumbled upon that day were witches.

Everyone simply knew.

And everyone knew you didn’t mess with witches.

Everyone except Ira – apparently.

She hiked that trail a few times later in her life, retracing the steps from her memory. She must have taken a wrong turn – or several – however because the path was always overgrown, thick with weeds and twisting vines.

And though she did reach the shores of her precious lake, the quality it once possessed remained forever alien to her.

She thought what happened that day was a punishment, that the witches cursed her for speaking out of turn. One member of the family had to pay for interrupting their ritual, and Ira painted a target on her back when she opened her big, stupid mouth.

But as she pulled the crown of wires from her head, pushed up from the uncomfortable cot that occupied the center of the computer office and stretched limbs held long in the same position, she realized that was just another childish misconception.

The force that drew the Mawor to her through the haze of moonlit night, the strange certainty that always led her unerringly in the direction of an answer even if it made no sense, and the strange misfortune that had clung to the man she just rescued from the computer simulation since he cut her off in traffic could all be attributed to her long-ago encounter with the witches.

But that would be wrong.

As the old woman said; the magic had been with her all along.

That was probably the reason they had encountered the witches in the first place.

She could keep running from the truth as she had for the last two decades. And it would keep nipping at her heels like the hounds of hell.

Or she could finally turn and face what had been staring her in the face all along – it kind of felt like it was time.