Bridge

Bridges are liminal spaces. Between land and land, where the running water that witches can't cross resides. Between here and there, where the power of the magic is strongest. Fragile lines of connection or weakness, in the places where realms touch.

Alys stood on the bridge and looked towards the mainland, where the mass of the army was already drawing up. Hundreds of soldiers, pillagers, destroyers, fat with the fruit of the land they had marched over. Staring at her and the bridge that must be held.

Behind them, somewhere in the dark and the wild spaces, the warriors of her people who remained slipped down the hidden paths, nipping at the edges and the weak spots of the invading host, hoping to cut supply lines and communication lines. They were still there, she believed, she had to believe. All resistance was not gone. The invaders' confidence would turn out to be arrogance.

Behind her, out of sight on the island, her people huddled – harried, hungry, desperate for safety and sanctuary. They had scrambled east ahead of the snarling mass, all the time aware that they were being herded towards the end of the line.

Towards the bridge, and the last, desperate thing that they could do.

“Alys.” Beside her, Ferze, her fellow priest, looked out towards the army. “You don't have to do this.”

“We're out of options,” she told him, knowing that he knew.

“We can destroy the bridge.”

“And trap our people on the island. Let them,” she nodded towards the invaders, “sit there and wait while we starve. You know we can't do that.”

“We can raise the barriers, work in shifts, let them wear themselves out attacking, hold on until ...”

Alys looked at the priests and acolytes getting ready to perform the protective spells. Looked at how few of them remained.

“Until what?” she asked.

“Until the warriors get here.”

“And then what?” She looked at his frustrated expression. “You know we have no choice.”

“This could destroy your soul!”

“It won't. I believe that. And you have to believe that too.”

“And if it fails?” His voice was resigned.

Alys looked back towards the island. “Comfort our people as best you can,” she said. “Surrender. And pray that we're clansfolk in the next life too.”

A young woman joined them. “We're ready,” she said.

“Thank you, Johana.” Alys reached out and gripped Ferze's elbow. “It's time.”

Ferze nodded and went to join the others. The chanting began, and Alys felt the strange thump of the first barrier coming into being. For one moment more, she paused, breathed, felt the force of all of Ferze's arguments and her own certainty clash inside her. Then she walked forward into the cleared space at the middle of the bridge span.

The second barrier thumped into existence behind her. She centred her breath, rolled her shoulders, and reached for the power of the place, letting it flow into her. Then she lifted her hands and began to move the the slow, building movement of the sacred dance.

All around her, the demons woke.

The Spirit of the Place

The building was a ghost. A lost artifact of a time of weath, surrounded and almost swallowed up by trees. The facade was filthy, with places where the plaster had come away completely, exposing the brick beneath. There were only two windows intact. And there was bound to be structural damage hidden behind the surface. No one had paid attention to this place in well over fifty years.

The woman opened the door and stepped inside.

It felt like a return.

Throughout the house, the spirits woke, moved. They gathered around the woman, tracking as she moved from room to room, following the footprints she left on the dirty floors. They watched her turn in slow circles, looking at the decorated ceilings or the remains of the wall panelling. They floated after her, silent and invisible, gazing at her with wary eyes.

The woman returned to the hallway and stood, frowning at herself. This house was a white elephant. It was unlivable-in, even if the asking price was within her means. And the money it would take to fix would be ... this wasn't a fixer-upper she could do herself. She would need builders, electricians, people with machinery who knew what they were doing. This was an absolutely impossible idea.

And yet. And yet.

It felt like home. A home unlike any she had ever experienced, or dreamed of. But home.

She moved towards the staircase and began to climb, testing each step carefully before she put her weight on it. The estate agent was just taking a call outside, but she still didn't want to have to be hauled out of a hole half-way up the stairs.

The spirits drifted after her.

The woman stepped into the central bedroom. Behind her, the spirits halted at the threshold.

The woman stopped, not quite in the centre of the room. The energy here was different, uncomfortable, no longer the uncanny pull of belonging that had been downstairs. Something else was ruling here.

She was suddenly certain. Something terrible had happened here.

Clustered in the doorway, the spirits watched as She emerged. This was Her territory. She was malevolent, vengeful, filled with rage and pain. They watched her smile at the woman and shrank back.

The woman looked back at the thing she could not see.

'It's all right,' she said, 'I'm here now.'

'Sorry, what was that?' The estate agent appeared in the doorway, his phone call ended.

The woman turned to him and smiled. 'I'd like to make an offer,' she said.