Five hags hobbled into the village of Chardwick. “Keep your
heads down,” Gretchen told her four sisters. She was the oldest, but even with
her deep wrinkles, thinning hair and severe stoop, she was by far the least
ugly of the five.
In a small, wispy voice, one of the triplets asked, “What if
we’re recognized?”
“Don’t be foolish. Look at us,” another triplet retorted.
The last triplet agreed. “Indeed, the years have not been
kind, sisters.”
“Silence, all of you,” Gretchen hissed. The first triplet,
who was about to ask another question, closed her mouth and choked back her
words.
The hags walked in a straight line, each taking care to
appease her individual ailments. Leaning on a wooden staff, Gretchen set a slow
pace, but her sisters didn’t mind.
Behind Gretchen was Mina, a waif whose cloudy eyes and
nearsightedness kept her close behind her older sister, and behind Mina, in no
particular order, were the triplets. In their youth, people could tell the
triplets apart by the colors of their hair—Pyre’s was red, Meryl’s an
unnerving blue, and Mistral’s the whitest of blondes. As hags, gray had claimed
even that, and all that differentiated them now were their dresses, which were
reminiscent of the colors of their hair. But their dresses were hidden under
long black cloaks at the moment, as the hags were doing their best not to draw
attention to themselves.
The cobblestone road stopped in the village square, and the
hags found themselves walking through black dirt. Gretchen stopped, turned to
her sisters, and said, “This is the place.”
While the triplets gathered around, Mina bent to inspect the
ground. Her knees cracked and her hand trembled as she reached out, grabbed a
pinch of black dirt, and put it to her tongue. After spending a moment smacking
it around her gummy lips, she spit it out, and then scooped a new pile of dirt
into her hand, which she lifted to the air and watched trickle back to the
ground.
“Yes,” Mina said in a small voice. “There was great sorrow
here.”
“Speak up, sister. You forget that you’re speaking to old
women,” crowed one of the triplets.
Gretchen shot her sister a hard look; the triplets should
know better than to tease Mina. Then, in her most encouraging voice, she said, “Tell
us what you see, Mina.”
Mina’s milky eyes stared forward, past her sisters and
beyond the worn buildings around them. A tear rolled down her face and splashed
in the black dirt. “There was a recent death here, a warrior slain.”
Another triplet sighed, tired after their days of travel.
“Yes, we know this. We all heard the Calling.”
“Hush,” Gretchen said, and then, leaning precariously over her
staff, she patted Mina’s arm. “Go on, Mina.”
Mina’s distant expression hadn’t changed, and it was
doubtful she was much aware of her sisters’ bickering. “The battle consumed
great power, but in the end it was a quick death—a warrior’s death.”
The sisters moved in closer, perhaps better to hear, or
perhaps out of anxiety, sensing that Mina’s words were growing in import.
“Was there—” a triplet began before Gretchen silenced
her with a quick jab of her staff.
Mina said, “The warrior fought bravely, but there were too
many, oh so many.”
Straining to hear, the sisters were almost audibly holding
their breaths.
“The warrior was not alone,” Mina continued. “She had a
mahr
.”
The triplets gasped.
“A
mahr
,” one triplet whispered to herself.
“After so long,” another triplet added.
“But we’re too late! A chance to regain our youth, our
power, lost,” cried the third.
Gretchen pounded her staff to the ground and the earth
shook. “Silence,” she repeated as the triplets struggled to maintain their
balance. “Not another word from any of you until Mina finishes.”
The triplets hushed.
“But the
mahr
was not lost,” Mina cooed. Smiling
wickedly, she turned to Gretchen. “The creature lives, dismissed from the Host’s
service by her dying breath.”
Gretchen tightened her brittle fingers around her staff. “But…
How? No
mahr
can survive alone. Surely the villagers didn’t let a Host
escape.”
Mina squinted blindly at her sisters. “That I don’t know,”
she replied. “I can only see that no
mahr
was vanquished on these
grounds.”
Giddy speculation filled the air, with each sister fighting
to be heard. It was Mina’s quiet voice that silenced them. “I sense a trail,
but it grows weak. The creature is feeble, little more than a puff of smoke.”
“The
mahr
is near?” a triplet asked.
“Hurry,” said Gretchen. “Lead the way, Mina.”
As the hags fell back into line, all but Mina saw the villagers’
eyes upon them. Several women leaned out their windows; the more discreet hung
laundry or attended to their shriveled little plants. A small girl holding a
ball watched from the street, and two boys stood next to her with their hands
at their sides. No one watching the hags moved.
Under her breath a triplet said, “We are discovered.”
“No,” Gretchen replied evenly. “They fear we are spies from
Newick, nothing more. Perhaps a little distraction?”
One triplet nodded, understanding Gretchen’s cue. Suddenly
the sky darkened, the temperature dropped, and a flash of lightning streamed
across the village. Thunder echoed down the cliffs, followed almost immediately
by a deluge. The children scattered and the women pulled away from their
windows, closing their shutters behind them.
“I hate the rain,” grumbled a triplet to no one in
particular. Her sisters ignored her.
“Good work,” Gretchen said to the other triplet. The color
had drained from the triplet’s haggard old face, leaving it as gray as the rain.
To Mina, Gretchen added, “Continue on, sister.”
The sisters left the village square, one after the other.
The rain was clearing away the smell of dirt and manure from the roads, as well
as from the sisters’ own clothes and feet. The roads were small and narrow, but
Mina led them with aged confidence. The hags hadn’t walked far when they
stopped in front of a dreary little building.
“The trail ends here,” said Mina.
The hags took a moment to take in their surroundings. Like
all other roads in Chardwick, the homes here were several stories tall and
piled side by side. Above them hung a tattered old sign with flaking red paint:
The Bitter Hart
, it read.
“Shall we?” Gretchen asked.
Never ones to turn down the opportunity for a drink, the
five hags shuffled inside. Though the sun had not yet set, half a dozen men
crowded the dank pub, soaking in the smoke and alcohol.
A fat barkeep stood behind the bar cleaning a mug. An old
stag’s head was mounted on the wall above him, its antlers little more than
nubs. The lines on the barkeep’s face would suggest that he was a jovial sort,
but there was no hint of it as he appraised the hags. Uneasily, he said, “Good
afternoon, ladies. What can I do ya for?”
The hags walked in and took their time taking off their
cloaks and arranging themselves at a small square table, indifferent to the
fourteen eyes watching their every move. From a plain pigskin purse, Gretchen
pulled out a silver coin and slammed it down on the table with a surprising
amount of strength.
“Five bitter malts,” she said. She and her sisters sat
stiffly in their chairs, water dripping from their clothes and hair, while they
waited for the fat barkeep to bring their drinks. Steam began to rise from the
dress of the triplet in the red, but a look from Gretchen warned her not to draw
more attention to them. When the barkeep came and laid the frothy mugs in front
of them, he grabbed the foreign coin and eyed it suspiciously.
“What’s this?” he mumbled. But he was closer to the hags
now; he could see their blackened nails and smell their decaying skin, and
thought it best not to linger.
As soon as the five hags had their mugs in their hands and
warmth in their bellies, they leaned forward to whisper to each other conspiratorially.
The men at the bar began muttering to each other uncomfortably, which helped
drown out the hags’ own voices.
“What do we do now?” asked one triplet.
“We need to find the
mahr
, obviously,” said another.
“But how do we do that?” asked the first.
Color was only just returning to the last triplet’s blue face.
“A real live
mahr
,” she said, still shaken.
“Until the
mahr
acts I have no further way of
tracking it,” Mina stated.
“Obviously,” snorted a triplet.
Gretchen said, “But where could it be? Who took the Host’s
place?” The sisters looked at each other uncomfortably while they tried to
drink away their concerns.
With a burp, a triplet said, “Magic is scarce these days. A
mahr
is a cause for celebration, even if it is only the chance of finding it. We
could be young another thousand years.”
“Yes,” Gretchen said. “But we must proceed carefully.”
“Indeed,” said a triplet. “The Host must be powerful to go
unnoticed in a village like Chardwick.”
“No,” said Gretchen, shaking her head. “I dare say you’re
wrong. Mina sensed the
mahr
to be feeble, little more than a puff of
smoke. And it is unlikely a Host could survive above ground these long years.”
“I would have sensed a Host,” Mina agreed. Her voice shook.
Gretchen grabbed her hand reassuringly. “No doubt you would
have, Mina. No sisters, I suspect the Host is so weak that it goes unnoticed.” Gretchen
smiled a small, mischievous smile.
“Why so smug, sister? What good does a weak Host do us?”
asked a triplet.
“A
mahr
broken by the death of its old Host, its new
Host weak—have the years left you so senile that you don’t see what this
means?”
The triplet’s cheeks flushed red with anger. “Have you grown
so senile that you don’t remember the last
mahr
? Its weak, pitiful
spirit hasn’t sustained us long.”
Another triplet’s eyes grew big with understanding. “You
think of the key,” she said.
Gretchen nodded. “Of course I do. At last we may have the
chance to claim what’s ours.”
One of the triplets gasped and another clapped her hands. Gretchen’s
fiendish smile returned. But the last triplet only snorted. “The key again?
Look at us, we’re old women. We have wasted lifetimes seeking the key to the Host’s
Tomb.”
“No,” Gretchen said. “We have wasted lifetimes seeking
another
key. We have always known the
mahr
to be the true key.”
The triplet shook her head, her long gray hair a tangled
mess against her red dress. “But no
mahr
would ever serve us, no matter
how weak.”
“But its new Host might, given the right incentives,” Gretchen
said.
The triplet’s eyes narrowed. “You suggest we let the
mahr
live free? And what if the villagers were to find it?”
“We must proceed carefully,” Gretchen acknowledged. “Never
fear, the
mahr
will be ours. But first we must find this new Host. And
if the opportunity is there…”
“The Host’s Tomb—ours,” a triplet mused in the
quietest of whispers.
“Not yet, sisters,” Gretchen said. She took the last gulp
from her mug, slapped another silver coin on the table, and ordered another
round.
A drunk bearded man sat at the bar talking into his glass.
“Look at ’em old hags drinkin’,” he said loudly. “Don’ they know they should be
buying
us
drinks? Drinkin’ ’emselves sure innit gonna make ’em look no
better.”
There was a modest chuckle from another man at the bar. The
triplets simmered, but Gretchen turned to the barkeep and smiled her
snaggletoothed smile.
“Would you also be so kind as to bring me that candle with
our drinks?” she asked, gesturing at one of the small candles at the end of the
bar. Smiles spread across the hags’ haggard faces.
An excited triplet said, “Are you planning what I think you’re
planning? After so long?”
“Yes, sisters,” Gretchen said to the table. “I agree that
today is a cause for celebration. And look at us; it’s time.”
She reached under her cloak and into her deepest pocket.
From its depths she pulled out a small black candle—all that remained of
the last
mahr
to be taken alive—and placed it on the table.
“Besides, I think these are just the men to help us. Wouldn’t
you all agree?”
“Oh yes,” her sisters chimed.
Moments later, the barkeep waddled over with a tray stacked
with five more sticky mugs and the small candle. After a moment’s hesitation,
he grabbed the coin and left their table, disturbed by the sight of five giddy
hags.
Gretchen took a draft from her mug and watched her sisters
do the same. Only after the barkeep’s interest had returned to the other
patrons did Gretchen slowly lift the barkeep’s candle to the wick of her own
stubby black one.
“Do it, do it!” said a triplet, bouncing slightly in her
seat.
The black candle crackled and the long unused wick sizzled
and sparked a moment. Whispering to it, their words harmonious and encouraging,
the hags leaned forward and breathed in the black smoke. The bar was dark and
already covered in a thick haze, but still, to the sisters’ trained and
expectant eyes, the black smoke left the candle in long, tentacle-like wisps,
traveling from man to man before returning.
The men, no longer taking an interest in the workings of five
tattered old hags, remained unawares. But afterwards it was said that seven men
of Chardwick appeared to have aged twenty years that day.