Chapter 33 #2
I sit rigid beside Ashland, the boat swaying and rocking as he moves the oars back and forth into the resistant waves, while another boat of sailors follows us.
After an hour or so, we arrive at an alcove on the farthest tip of a nearby peninsula.
A small house sits atop a cliff, smoke swirling out from its crooked chimney.
The drizzling rain clings to our skin as we climb onto a beach littered with thousands of broken seashells. They crunch under our feet as we fight the wind and trudge up the shore to the steep, winding stone steps leading upward.
“That’s the Sea-Witch’s hut, that is,” says a sailor from behind, cupping his hand over his eyes to better see the cliffside.
Ashland leans down to ask over the wind, “Are you sure you still want to come along? It’s not too late to turn back.”
Not wanting to be left out, I shake my head, my heart thumping.
He nods in agreement before motioning for me to move ahead of him.
We climb the path higher and higher until I’m out of breath.
I grip the cliff’s rough-hewn wall to brace against the wind’s abuse—but it isn’t enough support, and I lose my footing on the stone steps slick with moss and sea spray.
As my foot slips, my body lurches awkwardly to one side.
In that split second when the rush of my heartbeat meets freefall, Ashland’s steady arm shoots out, wrapping firmly around my shoulders.
His grip anchors me while his other arm hooks around my waist, pulling me against the barrier of his chest and providing unexpected shelter as I regain balance.
The warmth of his hands contrasts starkly with the cold, wet air, and for a moment…
I nearly forget he’s the enemy until a sudden, sharp shift occurs between us.
We’re both remembering last night.
My eyebrows draw downward as I look up into his rain-soaked face, rivulets running down his sharp jawline.
His breath billows out in calm swaths of steam above me as my heart pounds against my ribcage.
“Don’t fall,” he says, his voice a whisper against the roar of the crashing waves.
We share a brief, awkward, and somewhat annoyance-laced moment before he releases his hold stiffly and we restart our climb.
After what seems like hours, we mount the cliff’s crest to find a weather-beaten hut nestled among the boulders and scrubby vegetation. A delicious aroma of cooking tangs in the brine-filled air.
As we walk through the yard, the sailors murmur about the men tilling and working an overgrown garden behind the house. There’s something inhuman about their jerking and automatic movements. They don’t bother looking up when we approach.
Apprehension slides down my insides as Ashland studies the structure. Holding their weapons at the ready, the sailors who accompanied us encircle the home, setting up guard.
Ashland pounds on the front door.
A female’s clear voice answers from within: “Come in, come in!” The invitation’s gleeful welcome makes me shiver. Ashland pushes the door, and it creaks open. Gripping the pommel at my hip with white knuckles, I step into the hut behind him.
The interior is dimly lit, illuminated only by a few grimy tallow candles. Dried herbs and plants hang from the rafters, lending a pungent aroma, and a copper cauldron rests in the corner, its contents bubbling and steaming despite no fire under its belly.
At a table crafted from driftwood sits a striking woman with gray-tinged skin, long greenish hair accented with black and turquoise streaks, and sunken eyes of the clearest azure, just like the deepest ocean.
A pet raven perches on her shoulder, its beady eye fixed on us.
The woman bats her thick eyelashes and giggles with delight.
“Welcome,” she purrs in a featherlight tone, flashing pouty red lips when she smiles. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Ashland takes a step toward her. “You know why we’re here. Release the men immediately.”
The Sea-Witch grins as she stands, revealing a delicate gown of pure black lace clinging to her body, the curves of her breasts and nipples clearly visible underneath.
Her pet raven flies up toward the rafters, looking down at us as it lands.
“Oh, but they’re having such fun. Why would I give them up when I’ve been horribly lonely after so many centuries bound to this sea? ”
“Name your price,” Ashland demands through gritted teeth.
She taps her chin in mock thought. “Well, now, let me see…” A tense silence falls.
The witch is clearly playing with us. “My apologies. The price doesn’t matter because I won’t be able to help.
You see, my garden lacks the ingredients it takes to remove the love spell, so there is nothing I can do.
” She gives a high-born curtsy and shrugs.
“How convenient for you,” Ashland says as he strides to the window, pulling back the curtain to check on the cursed men.
“I could do what you ask… if you bring me what I need.”
He lets the curtain fall. “And that would be?”
The Sea-Witch’s grin widens, revealing a forked tongue. “Oh, not much,” she says. “Just a letter between bonded lovers, a lock of virgin hair, and rosemary that blooms under the watchful eye of the Spirit Goddess.”
I balk at the impossibility of the demands. Ashland remains unimpressed, although he raises his eyebrows. “Then you shall have them.”
I shoot him a bewildered look.
“Better hurry!” She giggles, clearly savoring the discord she creates. Her pet raven emits a scratchy kraa kraa that grates into my eardrum. “The full moon rises tonight, but once it falls below the horizon, their condition becomes irreversible…” She trails off with an ominous hum.
Ashland turns on his heel to exit. I’m about to follow him when the witch halts us. “Wait.”
Twisting around in the doorway, Ashland asks, “What now?”
“Our trade requires one more little thing—which only you can provide, my big, brave king.” My face burns at her implications. She flutters her eyelashes at him before giving me a scornful look. “This chit must retrieve the ingredients. I need you here with me.”
Ashland returns inside, his face unreadable. “Go on,” he orders, settling into a rickety chair at the table and nodding me toward the door.