Private Tales Ash and Bone

[Dianaimh Ui Muirgheal]

Plockton wasn't much of a settlement.

It would have barely deserved the title of town somewhere more civilised but by the standards of this backwater it ranked as a metropolis. Four days ride off the main road linking Belgrath and Alliria. The majority of merchants passing through seemed to have taken a wrong turn or were on the run. Dirt streets that turned to muck when it rained. A suspicious populace that were quick to unite against outsiders when anything went wrong.

Which had just happened. Pestilence stalked the streets. A stall owner had pitched forward dead on market day, the telltale black spots all over their neck and arms. Guardsmen found a house off the high street with four more victims in their death throes. The reprisals began shortly afterwards. Anyone who looked, sounded, or acted strange or foreign, sound found themselves the target of the mob. Citizen committees stalked the streets.

Dianaimh pulled the curtain back with a wince. The three corpses strung up on the tree were starting to get ripe, the carrion birds had been at them. A wooden sign saying WYTCH hung around the centre one's neck. Dian shut the curtains again and sat on the bed with a sigh. She'd ran out of food this morning. Guards were on all the exits to the town and they were checking anyone trying to leave. They'd happily lynch or burn anyone they suspected of witchcraft.

Bloody typical. Every commoner was happy to have one when they needed a potion or they wanted a charm. But the moment something negative happened, of course the mage got the blame.

Daisya

 

[Daisya]

Daisya was endlessly, quietly curious. Any teacher would have found this to be an essential trait in a student—unfortunately, that was where the young mage’s positive qualities came to an abrupt and often grisly halt.

She’d arrived in Plockton exactly eight days ago, following the probably false lead she’d been sold by a heretical looking monk. His eyes had bulged nearly out of their sockets as he spoke in a forceful whisper, telling her of the soil found in and around the no-name town. Strange properties, my girl. Daisya recalled the way gobs of spit had landed on his unkempt grey beard, and it triggered a visceral shiver down her spine. With a bit of help, it can heal the most grievous of wounds and the most virulent of illnesses!

Whether the dirt of Plockton truly held such mystical qualities remained to be seen. Daisya’s attempt to enchant the magic mud had gone sideways rather quickly, and so the young witch dumped her failed brew into the stream. The good news was that she had actually managed to enchant whatever was living in the soil. The bad news was that she’d stimulated the bacteria within to grow far past what was considered normal replication.

The other bad news was that she’d deposited this hyper-virulent microbes into a water way flowing into the village, not away from.

And that was where the naïve Daisya’s good qualities ended.

Her quiet nature came in handy for the time being, and so far she’d managed to fade into the background of any aggressive circumstances. Pacing carefully down the nearly vacant street on her way back to the inn, Daisya balanced an armful of fruit. It was about a day or two out from rotting, but she was fortunate to have found a vendor brave enough to sell his wares considering the circumstances.

The dull thud of footsteps came from the opposite direction, and a voice called out to her. Head tilting upward, she peeked at the group—a motely mix of village men—through the tendrils of dark hair shifting over her forehead.

“Hey! Aren’t ya that strange girl I saw in the woods earlier?”

Daisya paused, lingering for a moment. An icy shot of adrenaline ran through her veins, and she knew all at once that there was no way she could smooth talk her way out of this. Or anything, for that matter. Ever sensible in her effort not to attract attention, she then took off running down the road, past the shops and houses that seemed so barren. The apples she’d been carrying landed on the ground with an mushy thud.

Dianaimh Ui Muirgheal