Chapel on the Hill #5: The Witch Hunter
By: Robert W Loughlin
Tags: Short Story, Fiction, Series, Chapel On The Hill, Fantasy

Image by R. Loughlin

There are few things more peaceful than a quiet snowfall, the Witch Hunter decided. He was squatting in front of a small shack, leaning against one of the posts of its overhang, looking out across the dawn. The shack was in a clearing in the middle of a thick, grey forest. The snow deafened all the world around the little homestead; the clouds hung heavy over the forest and all before him seemed at peace.

The Witch Hunter let himself become part of the quietude that bonded all things together — the trees, the animals, the sky — in common concord this grey dawn. There was no sound, no wind; the air was crisp but heavy, like a blanket come down from the sky. The snow fell steadily, covering the homestead in a white mantle. It covered everything — the trees, the barn, the shack, and the Witch Hunter, all — equally. There is no escaping this world, the Witch Hunter mused, we all share a part in it. All — including the creature tied to the bed in the shack behind him, surrounded by those that once called it Father. The quiet and the peace of the clearing, and of the forest, provided a needed remedy for the darkness of the night before, and against the darkness still within.

He checked his belt for his purse; he hefted it once and made sure it was tied securely. Always get paid in advance, Verdyn used to tell him. Folk are more willing to credit God than a professional once the miracle comes. And if the miracle doesn’t come — better to be halfway out the door.

Once he was able to capture and secure him, the Witch Hunter had given the Father a strong dose of asfi root, boiled, then rubbed against the skin. The case was severe, so the Witch Hunter made the dosage severe. It was tricky work, and it took time. The dosages needed to be applied half-hourly under a full moon. The Witch Hunter didn’t believe the full moon was necessary, a vestigial superstition, he supposed, but he followed the procedure anyway. Slowly, each dosage calmed the creature further until it finally closed its wild eyes. Now all he had to do was wait. The asfi root had an equal chance of expelling the Demon successfully or killing the host. Time would tell. Once dawn became morning, in full, he would know. Either the skin would melt away or the eyes would awaken, clean and clear, upon the world once again.

The Witch Hunter looked out at the trees, stretching their bony hands up to the leaden sky, begging for Spring to bring life back to their branches. He hoped the family would have their Spring, too. This world was cruel, he knew, better than most, and the kindness of Chance was rare. He’d seen what happens when Chance wasn’t kind, and the remedies didn’t take hold. He’d seen too many families look on, helplessly, as their loved ones descended into madness — or worse. A long time ago, he decided he could see no more of that; he no longer wanted to feel the eyes of a grieving mother burning into him, silently blaming him for what Chance had given; he no longer wanted to walk out of a family’s hovel, taking nearly all the coin they had and leaving only the lifeless body of their loved one behind. And so he took what peace he could from the snow, and waited until he knew it was over — one way or another.

As unforgiving as it was, it was necessary work. The Clergy of the Great Knowledge, seated in the Walled City, did not officially recognize the Order of the Hunt. Indeed, they condemned all Faethlamin as folklore and superstition. Everyone knew the story of The Stranger, and the importance of tending your fire against him, but it was understood as a folktale. And while the Clergy sermonized against a metaphorical Evil, Death and his servants hunted openly. In truth, the number of Faethlamin was falling; their ranks were thinning every season. It had been years, in fact, since the Witch Hunter had come across a Demon — a true Demon — like the one in the shack behind him. But it wasn’t because of the Witch Hunters; he didn’t know why, but he could sense something else was happening. He could feel it in the trees, in the stone — in the cold winds that blew through the lonely valleys of Trist. As the numbers of the Demons grew smaller, he could feel Evil growing stronger.

Finally, through the rough-hewn door behind him, he heard a sudden cry from the Mother and he knew it was over. The Witch Hunter got up, quickly checked his purse once more, and walked into the trees beyond the clearing, leaving the little shack and its family behind him.