Old lady of the village, motherly, caring, and speaker of the old tongue.
In the woods she wanders among wild mushrooms and hedgerows, beneath the ever-present aroma of moss, bark and sticky amber. She walks solemnly on a late autumn morning, with a new frost beneath her feet and heavy mist hanging between the trees.
Unbeknownst to her, deep within the fog, an old spirit bellows. Listening. Watching. This shapeshifting profanity noticed a herd of sheep and rams moving along their sodden paths, carrying with them the smell of mud, and a foul acidity which origins are unknown. Among them stood the fairest of the herd: a ram of great majesty, lordly and bearing golden locks. The unclean spirit fixed its gaze upon him. With a whip of speed and grotesque purpose, it sought to destroy the ram and take his place as ruler of the flock.
The golden locks turned to dark matter, matted with filth, stank and corrupt.
The once-great king of the muddy road was turned foul. And in merriment, the false ram began to sing and dance upon its hind legs. A disgusting glee filled the woods. A new perversion and power raced through the spirit’s blood. In vice and sick song, it wandered beneath the trees, while the old lady of great repute and favour walked nearby in rhyme and joy.
Then, in the darkness of the weighty fog, the depraved spirit saw her. Its eyes widened. A greater prey had presented itself. It began to speak in the old tongue. She heard the voice and smiled and imagined one of her beloveds had returned. Without thought, she ran to embrace them. She ran with no regard for her age, clambering over moss laden roots and scraping herself against crooked trees as she followed the voice.
A heavy black mist, thick with what seemed like bile, descended.
Rank and putrid.
Heavy as ancient stone.
It seemed to lambast her very soul. Lost and blinded, she heard the sound of thumping hooves draw closer. Then silence. A pause so complete that it seemed to send the whole world into the abyss. A rotten air forced the dear old lady down upon the soil and tangled weeds. Then came a growl so abysmal that the wilted flowers themselves seemed to leap from the earth, seeking safer abode. Blackness fell and consumed her. The spirit of the dear old lady was no longer clean.
The damned depraver, corrupt in its nature, adorned itself with the ram’s now-black coat, and with the dear old lady’s motherly face. A weapon like the trident of Lucifer, the corrupter of trusting souls — ye cretinous betrayer!
The unholy spirit now ruled her previously held dominion.
Still upon its hind scrawny legs , it clambered across the fertile ground. Fungi hid from the foulness beneath their caps, while the smoke of the grey village meandered between the trees, clinging to leaves like moths to the flames of night. The spectre saw the direction of the smoke, it was its guide, like a wisp travelling across a fallow lake.
Behind the village walls, murmurs of the old lady’s late return began to unsettle the townsfolk. The weather grew sullen, a darkness brewed. The people felt sickness in the air. A despicable stench. A sense of loss and dread.
From beyond the palisades came the sound of heavy herds of stomping hooves devoid of life. Then, softly came a voice. At the warden’s gate, the townsfolk heard the voice of the dear old lady. A glimmer of hope. A solace. A slither of light within the darkness. Peering through the peephole, they saw her. She smiled with such motherly love.
With haste, the orders were given, “open the gates, please unburden us from our dreadful sombre moods!…”
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