Barefoot Poetry

SS Matthews

A Season of Wolves Ch. 2 / Pt. 4 The Witches of Malzieu

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Perhaps it was a howl, a growl, or just the sound of paws approaching that distracted them. Regardless of which, the sudden appearance of a large and menacing wolf-like animal put a halt to the proceedings. Enormous in size and of imposing feature, it was now the turn of the three women to tremble in fear. With crimson colored fur and eyes looking like lanterns of fiery death, it emerged from the veil of dusk putting the trio to immediate flight.

So unearthly and savage was it in appearance, that I’m sure the beast had no need of showing further aggression toward the women. Certainly they believed the devil was upon them and like the stroke of a saber, fear readily severed their tether to hatred. Stricken with such panic that two of the three fouled themselves, Claudette and her companions fled the site of desecration in want of their lives.

Although unable to complete the act of witch-burning, I’ve no reason to believe that any of the three involved ever spoke a word of what they had seen. Certainly they never told another of abandoning the young witch to the mercy of the beast. Only by chance was it that I came upon the scene two days in the aftermath. So excepting myself and one other, the fate of Antoinette Debaraz was likely never mentioned or even speculated upon.

Having been successful in hunting a stag of reasonable measure, I set out to deliver a fresh packet of venison to Antoinette’s cottage. Finding her away from home, I chanced upon her footprints and decided to follow them through the wood. Leading to a clearing that seemed an obvious witch-hold, at first exposure I could hardly comprehend what it was I beheld.

Discovering Antoinette’s clothing upon the ground appearing purposely trampled, I came to realize that no ritual of worship had last taken place there. Stunned by the horror of what lay before me, with unhurried and careful action, I made a thorough study of the area. Isolating and retracing the movements of each actor involved, the brutal nature of the performance became clear.

Arriving at the sapling still tangled with twine and piled round with wood, my wretched heart was taken by grief and gnawed by anger. The purpose of the wood pile was apparent, but splashed with many droplets of blood, it also bespoke of despicable torture. The details of a dire play told a story of foulest conception.

By this time in my life, I had long ago deduced that where the passions of men and their female counterparts are involved reason will hold uncertain reign, but even so, there was something more here than could be sanely reconciled. Even should I be able to correctly interpret, and in some way accept, the nightmarish treatment of an innocent maid, the tale as I could read it was as yet without conclusion. Sad a scene as it was, the resolution should be obvious. The girl Antoinette, though dead, should lie somewhere about. But what I saw stood in defiance of rational explanation. Strange as it may sound, after considering the evidence, this is what my deductions led me to consider.

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Author: SSMatthews

Author of The Moon and Rowan Wolfe and Wolfe's Banes.

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