Chiroptera (Part One)

The township was officially named the 56th charter of the Order of the Chiroptera. Every night at sundown, the monks would set up the altar at the edge of the cave, a swallowing mouth of darkness and stale air. They would light the red candles and hum softly, as the fading light of the sun kissed the temples of the townsfolk. Merchants would wind their carts slowly through the crowd, offering refreshments and trinkets, talismans to facilitate the worshiping process and jewels to attract good luck. Children would run circles around each other and laugh with sugar stained lips, until the moon began to show and the night crept in—then there would be a hushed silence and the children would huddle close to their mothers and husbands would wrap their arms around their family and they would wait for the Exodus.

On the night in question, there was a split second of silence as the sun disappeared.

And then the squeaking broke through the air and the sky was suddenly filled with black specks of bats as they washed over the countryside. Awoken from their sleep, they dipped and swirled, forming an almost impenetrable mass of darkness against the cloudy night sky.

And since when has darkness been her enemy?

Restless and stretching, bones and muscles, flesh and soul. Reach for the Moon's hand—and find empty air. She sits in the dark and contemplates her choices. Is this the witch's curse? To be so riddled with worry that her bottom lip begins to bleed? Her powers only extend to others and do little to console her own soul, damned as it is.

Her spirit-companion sits near the fire, though it can feel no heat nor cold, and only looks up when she moves around the room. It can feel her restlessness and understands that its immaterial form can offer her no solace at the moment.

With the ground so frozen, the worms do not come out to play and she fears she may have lost her one and only true purpose. A sickness has attacked the small town and there are many knocks on her door for a cure, but she needs the petals from a rose and no one can offer her such a delicacy. Why, then, has she been given this task? Materials are so bare here. Why does the Crow God insist she stay? He says there is a darkness out to get her, but why does he care? And since when has darkness been her enemy? There are many questions keeping her eyelids from closing tonight, and very few answers to satiate her worry.

Together

We came upon the milky gray river and washed our souls with rosemary.

We must never forget that feeling. The vibration of pumping blood is never too much to handle. Scrapes and bruises must equal severed limbs and crushed bones if we are to survive. The Witch grabs my hand.

We are in this together now.  

That's when she finds the spell

When the cold wind blows—that's when she finds the spell, carried along with the leaves of an ancient tree and the smoke from a fire on the other side of the world. The Gods are not happy; the child is an abomination in the face of nature. She must be destroyed tonight or the heavens will wreak havoc on the Coven.

But one witch does not care and she begs the Worms for their help. They desire her flesh and she promises them that.

The child lives.

Marla

She slept in the ground for forty-three years. She slept and waited, waited for the vibration of footsteps above her--waited for a savior, a shovel and sifting dirt.

She could still feel the knife blade in her stomach.

She could still see the drunken ignorance on his face.

So she slept and waited and gathered her strength.

She called upon the worms and spiders to help her.

I will give you my skin and hair and nails, if you will give me breath, she thought. The worms took her skin and the spiders took her hair. They shared the nails.

She breathed cool and deep and waited . . .