Witch Hunter [Story #6]

My sled hits a rut and I am jostled from my thoughts. In an instant, I become aware of my cold-numbed cheeks, the soft fringe of my fur-lined black hood, the heavy breathing of the sled dogs as they strain against their harnesses. They were born with running in their blood, just like I was born with a thirst for justice.

My husband doesn’t understand the quickening pulse, the boiling-blood feeling when I read about another witch attack. He’d rather patch the holes in our fence or install another lock on the front door and pretend that will fix things.

My eldest two are a lot like him–complacent, hopeful that someone else will take care of the problem so they don’t have to dwell on it much. But my youngest understands. He and I share long discussions over rye toast and lox about what it means to be a Venro–a witch hunter. He smiles when I don my black robes, hugs me around the waist, and whispers, “Catch her, Mommy. Make us safe.”

Tonight, I hunt for him.

We’re nearing the cottage now. I lead two other Venros and their dog teams; the overhead stars map our way to the north and east. The modest town Birtaverre lies several kilometers behind us, shivering between fjords, cowering under the witch’s watchful eyes. I picture her alone in her house, conjuring black spells and dreaming up tricks to play on the village. She’s a young witch, we’ve been told. Just coming into her own. When we stopped in Birtaverre this evening, some of the villagers defended her, claiming that she mostly keeps to herself. But others were relieved by our arrival. “You can never fully trust a witch,” one wide-eyed man said. “Turn your back, and they’ll snatch up your children for dinner.”

I nodded at the man, placed a caribou hide mitten on his shoulder. “That’s why we’re here, sir,” I said. “To cut the head off the snake before it can bite.”

I think about this interaction now and smile to myself. I’m proud of my career. I’m turning the world on a wheel, running my hands over it, and buffing out the rough spots. My family will live in a smooth-edged place.

A pinprick of light peers at us from the horizon. The hut. I feel my blood tremble through my veins; my grip on the dog sled tightens and I urge the team on. Soon, we will creep up to her door. Soon, we will burst through the home and pin the witch to the ground. We will slice her open and watch the evil flames in her eyes extinguish.

We will feed her to the fire and listen to her flesh whine as it drips off the bone.

This is my gift to humanity. This is my gift to my children. My heart rattles against my rib cage as the dog team slows to a stop.

Kate Bitters is a freelance writer, marketer, and author of Elmer Left and Ten Thousand Lines. She is writing a story a week in 2015-2016 on the Bitter Blog. Subscribe to follow her journey.