The Unreturning. NEW FLASH FICTION

New Flash Fiction: A knight seeks his destiny from a witch’s cards, unaware that some futures are written in stone.

This story made the final shortlist for the Wild Atlantic Writing Awards. The prompt for this piece was power. Writing it made me question where inspiration arrives from because it is so far outside my usual style or subject matter. However, I am really proud of this short witchy story.

The Unreturning by Jason Ward

Once the seventh candle is lit, I remove the black silk binding from his eyes. He has worn it since dismounting his horse at the Forest’s third crossing: the place where the River Stour runs faster and more shallow. Magda led the Knight to me, his hand heavy on her right shoulder, her voice his only guide.

Now he sits by my empty stone fireplace. On a rough wooden chair with his hand on the broadsword’s hilt, his pupils contract and expand, tuning into the light. His musky presence spreading to fill the room.

On a bare table are nine hand beaten brass boxes: each one containing 74 cards. He must choose his.

The black hair on the back of his hand stands up as scarred fingers hover over the set. He looks for clues in my face as if it would help him discover his destiny. He licks his lips and taps box number six.

The candles flicker and the first hints of fragrance from the incense settle between us.

“Tell me the truth, witch.” His whisper implores and threatens.

Only I can read the knowledge in the cards, but only he has a weapon.

I slide the pot of tincture towards him, lift it and fill both our wooden cups. We drink the potion in one gulp. Perspiration forms like wet gold on the knight’s temples.

“The reading can begin.”

I start the incantation, grasping his hands across the table as the light from the seven flames moves in infinite patterns. His grip is firm and I wince as my fingers are bent back beyond what is natural.

With the last beat of my chant, he is released and slumps in his chair. His eyelids shine and droop.

I deal the cards in the ancient order. The Knight cannot threaten me now; the tincture has his mind in its herbal grip. Soon he will return. Soon his hand will be on his sword and soon his fear of the future will reorder his young, handsome features.

Placing the cards face down, I feel their message slide up my veins like serpents. Coils wrap around my biceps, and sharp fangs sting my hot neck.

The Knight’s eyes snap open. He has also been stung.

We sit erect, locked together by the cards.

“Witch.” He leans towards me and I hear the breeze outside rushing to stroke the cottage walls. “If you lie, then I will be back for vengeance.”

He reaches for the jewelled hilt with both hands now.

I stay still and silent. I know that my fear may fly away like a falcon, and, just like the noble bird, it will return to its gauntlet when coaxed with fresh meat. I will provide no flesh and let his threats drop like pebbles swallowed by darkness at the bottom of a well.

For no matter what commands, expressions or pleadings the Knight spews, the cards reveal that he will never return.

Of this, he is unaware.

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The cards sealed the Knight’s fate, but his story doesn’t have to end here. What do you think happens to him after the tincture wears off? Let me know your theories in the comments.

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