The Horned Women (Reimagined)

 

The Horned Women (Reimagined)

The wind howled like a wolf at the door, clawing at the stones of the cottage and rattling the oaken shutters. Within, the woman of the house stirred her pot, a hearty stew bubbling and spitting over the fire's crackling heat. Her hair, streaked with the silver of a dozen harsh winters, was braided back tightly, revealing the sharp contours of a face lined with strength, labour, and loss.

It was past midnight, that hour when the veil between realms was thinnest. She felt it, deep in her bones, a foreboding cold that no fire could chase away. It was then, as she stoked the flames with a practiced hand, that the knock came. A hollow, grim rapping at the door. The kind of knock that brooked no refusal.

She hesitated but a breath, then set down her iron poker. Her hands, strong from work but trembling now, gripped the latch. With a creak that seemed to echo into the night, she opened the door. There stood a woman, cloaked and cowled, with eyes as pale as a winter's moon and a single, twisted horn protruding from her forehead like a thing of malice.

"Let me in," commanded the horned one, her voice thick with shadows and something darker - something ancient. Against her will, the woman of the house stepped back. The horned visitor entered, and with each step she took, the fire in the hearth flickered and dimmed.

Before she could bar the door again, another knock, sharp as a dagger's point, sounded. Another horned woman, this one bearing two horns like the crescent moon turned wicked, pushed her way inside. Then another. And another. Twelve in total came through that door, their horns sprouting and curling like roots of darkest yew. They moved with serpentine grace, their robes trailing dirt and frost, their eyes reflecting the dim glow of the fire like pale coins of death. The woman was powerless to refuse them.

They encircled the woman, hemming her in. One, who wore four horns twisted like a ram’s, thrust a bundle of raw wool into her hands. "Spin, woman," she demanded, her voice more rasp than speech. "Spin until the moon sets, and we shall have our way."

The woman's fingers worked mechanically, her heart a drumbeat of dread in her chest. Her thoughts raced. Her body was not her own but her mind still was. These were no mere travellers, but witches! The ancient ones who had lingered too long above ground in the world of man. They spoke in tongues older than time it seemed, their words a low, hypnotic chant that seeped into the stones of her cottage and threatened to rot them from within.

It was then that a voice whispered to her, low and soft. It came from beyond the darkened window. "Do as I say if you wish to see the dawn." She did not know if the voice came from a spirit or a man, but in that moment, she cared not. She listened.

"Fetch water from the well that lies beneath the ash tree and sprinkle it across the threshold," the voice urged. "Do not let them see."

Spinning done, control of her body regained and under the witches’ watchful eyes, she excused herself to tend to the fire. The witches lost in their casting of spells ignored her. The woman seized the pail and slipped out the back door. The wind tore at her as she ran in terror, each step became heavier than the last. After what seemed like an age with her breath fogging in the moonlight she reached the well. It  was ancient, the stones surrounding it worn smooth by time. She quickly lowered the pail into the icy depths and filled it full. Half the water lay upon the path as she hurried back before the terrible horned women noticed she was gone.

Returning, she scattered the water across the threshold as the voice instructed. At once, the chanting faltered. The witches hissed like serpents. "What trickery is this?" barked the one with the seven horns, her eyes blazing with green fire.

The woman stood proud and firm confident that the spirit had steered her correctly. "Begone!" she said, her voice more steady than she felt. "You have no place here." She cast the empty pail aside and lifted the iron poker, its tip still glowing red from the flames of the fire. She brandished it at them and repeated her command. The witches recoiled as one, for they feared iron and more so feared the strength of a woman unbent by fear.

Their leader (the first with the single horn) stepped forward, her solitary horn casting a terrible shadow over the woman's face. "We will return," she spat, her breath stinking of sulphur and rot. "We will see this house turned to dust."

"Then return and see," the woman said, feeling the strength of the earth beneath her feet. "But know this, you shall find no welcome here."

One by one, the horned women retreated, their forms flickering like candle flames in a tempest, until the last of them melted into the night, leaving only the faint stench of ash and despair. They returned to the underworld via a cairn at Slievenamon, the mountain of the women. Alone once more, the woman barred the door and salted the ground beyond her threshold. The wind died to a whisper, and the fire roared back to life.

The voice that had guided her spoke no more, but the woman knew she had been marked by darkness and light alike. In her marrow, she felt it. No stories would she tell to her family that slept on, only the wisdom would she pass on to keep them and their offspring protected. And so, with steady hands, she returned to the pot of stew, tasted it and added a little more black pepper. It was perfect now and would be perfect on the morrow for those who ate it.

She steeled herself as she gazed out the window pane. There were long, dark winter months ahead to get through. But however winter was long, she was ready.