Missed
The mist creeps up onto the ridge, its ash-grey coils slinking like a cat around Alys and the others, before sidling towards the gallows. But it’s already filled the valley of Deadman’s Vale, where it’s thick and deep and dark.
“A strange phenomenon,” says the witnessing city magistrate, peering down the sheer drop. “One might almost think it possible to walk upon that fog.”
Alys agrees, as she’s agreed to everything since the men arrived. As village reeve she knows how to propitiate those in authority, while making them do exactly as she wants. Even the witchfinder, whose men have finished binding the two young women.
At the horizon, a pale dawn begins to break. The women’s struggles have ended and they weep quietly. Their uncle is in high good humour – with their execution, their dead mother’s wealth is his.
“A pity, Mistress Reeve, that you did not identify the witches when they arrived at your hamlet,” the witchfinder says yet again. “We would then have been spared these weeks searching for them.”
“We’d have been spared this lengthy walk, if we’d thrown them into the river as I suggested,” says the uncle.
“Witches can swim,” he’s reminded. “They cannot fly.” The witchfinder nods to his men. “It’s time.”
The two women are hurled into the Vale. Screams end abruptly as they plunge into the mist.
The uncle grins and congratulates the witchfinder. Alys smiles to herself. On their long ride back to the city, the two men will become enraged, fight, and kill each other. The drink she gave them earlier will ensure that.
Meanwhile, down in the Vale, her sisters would be freeing the women, the thick valley mist having caught and held them safely.
And the city men would never know they’d missed the real witches.
