Burning The Witches

By Penn Fawn

Burning The Witches is the prelude to the Underworld series of books, a spin off from author Penn Fawn's Necropolis dark fantasy novels. It is a semi-biographical account of the witch Hespatia and her peers in a world of enduring apprehension and terror for those who dared to try practicing their pagan faith.

 

Witches, wizards, wicca, nature worshipers and paganists of all kinds are invited to read about its protagonist and central figures whose interest lay in exploring subjects like the afterlife, spiritualism, divination, the question of supernatural forces or entities, magic and mysticism, etc. while rejecting the upcoming and sweeping rise of Quranic or Judeo-Christian dogma and dictates.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Penn Fawn
• Release date: Apr 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201814502

Penn Fawn

Penn Fawn is the author of the dark fantasy series, Necropolis, and its spin off series, The Underworld, a terrifying place in the afterlife where men who believed they will find eternal rest there discovered that isn't true. They also learned their death was a portal to the continuation of life in that world that was far worse than whatever they heard about hell. Fawn is the owner of Penn Fawn Books, which also publishes short form fiction and coloring books.

Book preview

Chapter I ♠ Not Much Time Left

THE WITCHCRAFT BUSINESS has roots so deep, it goes so far back in time, that anyone who claims they can give you a fair account of its origins is a liar.

Understand, therefore, all of whatever you’ve probably heard or read about people like Johann von Schonenberg, or Roger Nowell, or Mathew Hopkins, or whomever, or whatever you’ve likely read that occurred at places like Würzburg, or Salem, is relatively speaking, recent history.

One cannot find a universally acceptable point of reference from which to begin.

As such, let this conversation that a certain young Hespatia had with her grandmother, at some unspecified early time in the year of our Lord, serve as our entry, since the sources from whom this story was received could not provide a specific date.

Her grandma, who thought the time had come in which she should impart certain wisdom to the youngster, looked earnestly into her eyes.

Hespatia, who loved her dearly, sensed it was going to be a moment to cherish.

Her heart warmed and opened to hearing her words.

Beauty has its purpose, you know, the wise old soul, who literally could see—it must be emphasized—her granddaughter was going to blossom not merely into a diamond in the rough, but into an enchantress, remarked.

Not only could she see it, but she also felt Hespatia was going to be different in other ways, too. Powerful ways.

She felt assured of it.

There was simply something about her.

Simple, that is, if one could see, or see certain things.

Grandma felt the child had an energy and a capacity to attract that was much stronger than she could recall personally ever having, and Grandma understood that was not something to take lightly.

Now, speaking about what one ought to take lightly or not, a hot debate back in those times was whether witches were born or made.

There was about a fifty percent split among those who believed the passing on of unusual or supernatural ability was something hereditary.

Grandma was one who felt that way.

While her daughter was never the subject of gossip and the kind of nasty and dangerous talk that seemed to now have an ever-growing audience of believers, she was not so sure her granddaughter would be as fortunate. Nor was she sure whether that was a good thing.

The rumors and the old talk were getting to be quite vicious, and the people, or so it appeared, were growing impatient with taking the subjects that were raised in stride.

They wanted things done about them.

Certain developments were taking shape faster than could be accounted for. Chief among them was not necessarily anything that might be discussed in a court of law, but in the court of public opinion.

Hespatia’s grandmother was not sure which was worse.

She felt stating one could heal or may be able to help with healing, or speak strongly and feel assured about one’s intuition and such, begun to feel like something ill advised.

Beauty’s purpose, dear child, she continued, is a very specific one.

Hespatia wondered why she was telling her this.

Have you ever stopped to think about that? she added.

I can’t say I have, Grandma, Hespatia replied.

Hespatia dear, she said, placing her hands around her arms, just above her elbows, while looking into her eyes. I don’t mean to be inquisitive, but surely, you’ve spoken with your friends about this. The girls I mean. Surely, you must have noticed boys looking at you in ways like they’ve never done before.

Hespatia blushed.

A couple of the youngsters immediately flashed across her mind.

One was a fine, daring, and confident fellow named Jahad. In stark contrast with regard to looks, was a certain Fotafah.

Now children and youngsters being frank to a flaw, even as they grow older, or especially so, can be very cruel. They often laughed at Fotafah’s unusual name to his face. Then, one day someone decided to call him Uglyman.

His peers laughed and encouraged the taunting to the point where the nickname stuck.

Some of his tormentors were gracious enough, however, to abridge the appellation to Ugman to take some of the sting off it.

As is often the case with maligned individuals, nature dealt a terrible hand. Ugman, despite his looks, was one of the kindest, warm-hearted, and well-meaning souls one could imagine. ’Twas to the point where it was impossible to not notice he possessed these traits.

Hespatia surely noticed it.

Although Ugman was never as daring in his attempt to speak to her with his eyes as the bold and brazen Jahad was, she felt he communicated with her in his own way.

His manner, although passive and inadvertent, also involved using one’s eyes.

Whereas Jahad would appear to hold her in the vice grip of an impassioned one second stare, which he artfully averted after exactly a second’s duration, so as not to appear brash or instill any alarm, Ugman, when in her close quarters, sheepishly did his best to avoid her eyes practically altogether.

A millisecond was about as much as he could bear, and Hespatia, without being much aware of it, always became drawn to wishing he would give her just a fraction of a bit more time’s worth of eye contact.

Either approach, although the latter was hardly anything assertive, but rather bashful, produced the same unspoken yet powerfully communicative effect. And, like her grandmother had said, Hespatia did mention such things to her girlfriends in confidence.

Now that Grandma brought it up, Hespatia was shocked.

She could not have seen such a thing coming.

Well, she thought, maybe at some point it may have come from her mother.

Maybe! she privately emphasized, acknowledging that at somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d felt safe thinking what her grandmother stated was one of those topics that was perhaps too mortifying for most mothers to raise with a daughter.

Grandma caught her by surprise.

Hespatia found she could not look her in the eye.

If you haven’t noticed, she continued, I have.

Hespatia felt too embarrassed to comment.

It was inevitable, Grandma added, because that is what beauty does. That is what it is for. Its purpose is to attract.

Now that she’d mentioned it, Hespatia could not think of any other purpose for which beauty might serve.

She felt a loosening of the grip around her arms. Thankfully, she said to herself, but her grandmother’s eyes were unwavering.

You’ve always been a lovely child, and now you’re blossoming into a beautiful young woman. As I have said, already, the boys have noticed it, so they will be drawn to you like moths to a source of light.

Hespatia was all ears.

Although she was taken by surprise, she conceded she was in no rush for the conversation to end.

The truth, she was yet to admit, was the shock to her modesty felt good.

They will not be able to help it, her grandmother added.

Is that such a bad thing, Grandma?

It is neither good nor bad, she replied. It is natural.

Hespatia listened.

To come across anything they consider beautiful is their great weakness. As you grow older, you’ll notice you can scarcely find anything so considered that they are able to resist. As such, they become determined that they must interact with it, her grandmother said, mindful of choosing her words judiciously.

Hespatia did not comment.

For example, Grandma added, observe their reactions the moment after they’ve discovered the joy of music and the tools they can use to produce it.

Instruments?

Indeed, her grandmother replied. What else is there, other than the voice, by which one can produce music?

Hespatia didn’t reply.

Grandma continued, The minute they realize the joys these tools can bring, they become adamant they must get their hands on them. They ‘insist!’ she added, stressing on the word, that they must possess them. This way, the subject that captured their attention can be at their disposal whenever desired. It becomes what they desire above anything else!

Hespatia’s chest heaved.

Notice the amount of time they invest in their flutes, harps, or what have you. Notice how they’re always sure to find or make time out of even their busiest days for them. That is boys, young men, and men for you.

Hespatia aimed to return to breathing in a normal manner.

Grandma added, Having been hopelessly drawn to their beauty, their every aim is to procure mastery over it, even after having reached near improbable levels of craftsmanship.

Hespatia now better appreciated how serious was this matter. She felt she had a more thorough understanding of how weighty it was.

Have you not noticed the manner in which they finger their flutes, how they shape their lips so as to procure the sweetest sounds from the depths of them, or the delicacy with which they caress their harps, as if these are not inanimate things?

Hespatia had never paid attention to this.

"Next time, observe, if you will, how, while playing a particular passage they might be particularly fond of, how often they close their eyes. Observe how the look on their faces is one of heavenly bliss, like they’ve been transported to the most delightful place.

They appear as though their very souls have gone beyond being gently caressed, like they’re approaching a state of nirvana.

Although it was no doubt a weighty factor, Hespatia was not so sure it was intense as her grandmother presently professed it to be.

However, now that she’d mentioned it, she recalled the men did often close their eyes. At such times, she could not deny they appeared almost as though they were hypnotized, or in some kind of trance state.

So great, her grandmother continued, is their love of being spellbound, their desire to be enraptured from intoxication. They live for these moments, those in which they’re swept up in the excitement.

But not all of them.

Says who? her grandmother returned.

Hespatia was silenced.

"For those who truly know and can appreciate the joy these instruments can bring, the relationships they aim to form with them are nothing short of unbridled passion and devotion.

These are love affairs the men are only happy to let take possession of them for as long as they have strength and vigor.

Hespatia thought this was great.

"But I must tell you, probably half of all women aren’t aware that men, and I don’t mean just musicians, I mean all of them, are a hundredfold more passionate than they know. Women believe they are the more emotional gender. They are gravely mistaken. All of them.

Men are, or in your case, young men, are quite simple and straight forward figures. They are very easy to understand, and this does not change when they get older. But, strangely enough, many women fail to grasp this, and they make them out to be something they are not. Do you hear me?

Hespatia shook her head. You really think so?

You may rest assured of it! Grandma emphatically replied.

"Don’t suffer to berate or unnecessarily condemn them. Only the most heartless of their kind do not carry these passions I mentioned in their chest. Those exceptions are the true beasts. They are the ones worthy of disdain.

Their hearts are like stone. But, I must repeat, they are a minority. These darker souls are crafty and deceitful, so I pray you may be able to identify them no matter how well or not is their guise.

Hespatia hoped for the same.

Her grandmother continued, I can make no guarantees, but I can tell you to look out for, or try to identify, these traits: They often think the world of themselves when, in truth, they may be little more than frauds or pompous asses.

Hespatia laughed.

Grandma continued, "They are always square and soulless, wicked and artless, and are often with a dry and tasteless sense of humor.

"Their every thought is about what they can acquire for conquest as an end in itself, which is quite unlike those creative types I mentioned earlier, mind you.

"Their differences may appear subtle, but, upon closer inspection, nothing could be further from the truth. The latter’s interest is always the consequence of vanity and greed.

Beware of these types, child, who often try to mask their ugly souls. If you are a good or honest person, after closer observation, you should be able to discover them, see beyond their masks.

Before one offers her hand, I suppose.

Yes, indeed, lest you get trapped and are condemned to a life of torment and misery.

Hespatia listened attentively.

Given the dictates of our laws, more women than you may care to know fall victim to this trap daily. It is one from which there is often no way out other than when they die. They often suffer in silence, which in itself is like a death, or worse, for theirs is a life of prolonged anguish and agony.

Hespatia prayed that wouldn’t happen to her.

Judge people not by what they say, child, but by what they do. A girl or woman may speak delightedly with her friends to no end about her desires to procure a husband. She may delight or never tire of hearing stories about love and conquest, even women well advanced in age may do this, and may consider themselves romantic or passionate, but few, on a conscious level anyway, comprehend how boundless by comparison are their male counterparts.

The youngster’s chest heaved again.

For good or evil, you understand? Grandma added, with fire in her eyes. Passion, you see, is a double-edged sword!

Is that really how it is, Grandma?

Search within your heart. What does it tell you?

The question stunted her.

I . . . I guess I’m not sure.

What are your thoughts? What went through your mind after I questioned you?

Mm. I . . .

Hespatia was at a loss for words.

Did you feel excited? Encouraged? Hopeful?

Hespatia thought about it.

I . . . I’d have to say yes.

That’s good, her grandmother said. Then you’re in a good place.

Am I?

Indeed.

How so, Grandma?

In time, you will come to know and understand, her grandmother replied. Like no other.

You think so?

I know it. All things will become as clear to you as a bright and cloudless sky.

Hespatia smiled.

My hope is you will act sensibly and responsibly after you discover those things your young mind wants to know. I hope you will endeavor to always make wise choices and never suffer like so many do, having made rash decisions.

I hope so too.

Hope? Her grandmother gripped her around her arms again.

She looked into her eyes.

All that I’m asking is for you to be careful, dear child. You must exercise great caution! Do you hear me?

Hespatia shook her head.

To desire love is no vice, but one ought not to pursue it to excesses.

Hespatia continued to shake her head.

You must use sound judgement and common sense, her grandmother urged.

Yes, Grandma.

You will be challenged. Tested. Those times will come, more so with you than most women can hope to dream of. They will come when you’re alone with a suitor, and there is no one around who you can ask for advice.

How do you know, Grandma? Hespatia asked.

All beautiful girls must go through this, her grandmother reverently said, as if she was delivering a sermon.

Hespatia listened carefully.

I am not mentioning these things to scandalize you. No one is aware as much as I am that this is an adult conversation, but the truth is, within the blink of an eye, you will become one.

It’s okay, Grandma.

Good. So, you should know.

Hespatia shook her head.

I am not happy to add, and this may be a bit too much to admit to one as young as you, but I will say it now anyway, there are those who may come to you and will not care whether or not you are a wife.

Hespatia blushed.

In their eyes, they will view you as a temptress above all else, and they will feel it is their duty to bring the woman out of you, when what they really mean to bring out is the devil.

Hespatia’s blushing continued.

These are men who have sold their souls, all in the pursuit of passion, but you must never let them have their way.

Hespatia shook her head.

Never are you to allow them to make a plaything of you, as that is what they will intend to do.

Yes, Grandma, she said.

Her grandmother released her grip.

Again, I’m sorry to have had to spring this all on you, child, she said, but, I have seen the looks in the boys’ eyes should they see you, and the time is fast approaching when I will no longer be here.

Chapter II ♠ Difficult To Bear

THE CONVERSATION YOU read from the opening chapter stuck in Hespatia’s mind. There was something in particular her grandmother mentioned that rang in her head like a bell.

The time is fast approaching, she recalled her saying, when I will no longer be here.

Whenever that hour was to be, the last thing Hespatia could have expected was it would arrive so soon.

More than ever now, the youngster considered her Grandma must have known very well what she was doing.

Seemingly, or all of a sudden, she took a turn for the worst.

That figure who spoke to her in a gentle, yet firm, and at times what Hespatia held was an admonishing tone, could no longer project her voice anywhere near as authoritatively.

Hers became thin and weak.

She lay bedridden, and to Hespatia, it seemed like the towering figure, one who was as strong as a grandma in advanced age could be, turned weak and frail almost overnight.

Did she see this coming?

Hespatia wondered.

Perhaps not literally, but she must have felt it.

Again, Hespatia thought Grandma must have known very well, much more so than the youngster could have imagined, what she was doing.

This, she reasoned, was why she spoke to her so fervently that time, which it appeared was to be the last.

All of a sudden, their household became very popular.

Relatives and others they did not often see started coming to visit after word spread about Grandma’s impending demise.

Nasty words were spread too.

Those who she once considered friends, or associates who came to her in better times, when they wanted healing rituals performed, spoke about death finally reaching out to claim the old bitch.

And, did you not see how she turned from a nice, healthful looking lady to a hag within the blink of an eye? Only witches go through things like that is what some said.

Their claims grew more elaborate.

There were nights, some claimed, and you should not be scandalized to hear many did not question the improbability of it, when very beautiful but rather strange sounds were heard escaping from her window during the wee hours.

This supposedly came from a horned and winged creature with a long tail who sat at her bedside with a stringed instrument the world would not know for over a thousand years.

He’d come to pay his respects.

It was not the angel of death, but rather the devil himself, with a violin in hand, and a bow in the other, playing a sonata in G minor, whilst Grandma endured what would be her last hours.

So, there was your proof. Her future, they theorized, in the afterlife was bound to be unspeakably grim, for she’d spent a lifetime dabbling in the occult and dark arts with her horned friend’s encouragement and approval.

Yes, they believed in an afterlife. Hespatia, however, was not sure what to make of that.

All that she knew was her grandma looked far from being her best, and that was difficult, to put it mildly, for her to bear.

She passed away two days later.

At her funeral, through teary eyes, while the last rites were performed, Hespatia, with a mixture of sadness and gratefulness, recalled the last time she spoke to her when she was well.

The boys she’d warned her about continued to come by.

The confident and courageous Jahad, satisfied that after using his eyes, he’d already let his intentions known, took pains to try and use any opportunity in which he could get close enough to her to whisper sweet things in her ear. This way, she could have no question about his interest.

Hespatia, mindful of her grandmother’s warnings, found it all very exhilarating, and was not sure how one was supposed to resist such things.

Now that she was in the middle of it, it didn’t seem like so simple a thing to do.

Jahad, as far as she could see, did not appear to be the kind of monstrous character Grandma told her she ought to be on her guard against. Nor did he appear to have four heads.

She supposed few monsters did. Also, she recalled granny never singled out Jahad for criticism, but if anything, or so she suspected, danger probably had a way of dressing itself up, liking to appear well disguised.

A week to the day later, at a time when that thought could not be further from her mind, word broke that Ugman’s mother died.

Unlike the case with Hespatia’s grandmother, no one saw that one coming.

There were no warnings. No signs.

She appeared to be the picture of perfect health, as far as women her age go, then just like that, out of the blue, she was struck down by nothing anyone could identify.

This was normal for such times.

The ignorance surrounding death and its causality was at a level one can only invite you to imagine.

There was no hospital to go to and within a relatively short time get an official report stating the cause of death was due to a stroke or cardiac arrest, or whatever.

One was far more likely to get a consensus in which large numbers of the population agreed either this was some kind of divine intervention or foul play was at hand.

Already, wild suspicions began circulating.

Some claimed someone must have put a damnation curse on her, and it may have been none other than Hespatia’s grandma who’d reached from beyond the grave, that old wretch and buzzard, to lay claim to her soul.

Witches, as most knew, had a way of doing such things, and misery, as the saying went, likes company.

Hespatia, who not too long ago endured a loss she was not sure how she’d manage, could only imagine how terrible Fotafah was feeling.

One expected to eventually have to say goodbye to their grandparents, but to lose a parent? That was a different animal altogether.

This world, she thought, sure was a cruel and unforgiving place.

Now, she could not get Fotafah out of her mind, and the thought of what he was going through, as if she needed any reminding, brought memories of what she was trying to contain racing back.

The nights that preceded her grandmother’s passing, the scores of visitors that came to their home to pay their respects, the helpless feeling, that feeling of inevitable doom over a situation she wished she could change, they all came back to mind full force, all when she’d reached a point where she was beginning to think she’d find some way of being able to cope with the loss.

Suddenly, once again, she was not so sure about that, although she knew she had to find a way.

Having to cope with death, she needed no reminding, was unfortunately the end to having been on this plane.

The next thing she knew, Fotafah and his family were at the receiving end of what her family recently went through. And, now hers was one of the families paying respects, as opposed to being the recipients of those who did.

I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, Fotafah, she said.

It’s okay, he replied in a monotone, recalling it was not too long ago when he was at her residence and they spoke the very words, only he said what she just did, and it was she who told him it was okay.

It was not.

He knew that then as much as he knew it now. Or, perhaps more so, he said to himself, for he felt like he wanted to die.

Hespatia was flabbergasted. From looking at him, it was clear, the pain was evident in his eyes.

He was trying his best to appear stoic, but it was easy for her to see through the diaphanous emotional façade.

She’d, after all, had her recent bout with trying to hold one up. It was not easy to pull that off.

Although Fotafah was not the most handsome fellow in the world, she never felt he was as ugly as their peers asserted.

But, as has been already mentioned, although not in so many words, it does not matter whether one is talking about children, adolescents, or adults, there never was a time when you could not find those who take a special delight in being cruel. That was as common a find as the air they breathed.

Ever since one of their peers, she was not sure who, jokingly took to calling him Uglyman, there was no one she knew who continued to call him by his name.

Whether he was as hideous as was suggested didn’t appear to matter to them either.

You will not be surprised to hear the first mention of this dreadful appellation drew lots of laughter, not shock and horror, like one might have expected from those who would have asserted they were conscientious and respectable youngsters.

Their parents, no doubt, some who contributed to spreading talk about Hespatia’s grandmother being an old hag and witch, would, of course, have maintained their kids were good.

Hespatia never joined the self-righteous bandwagon in which she felt some of their peers must by now have forgotten what Uglyman’s birth name was. And then, there were those who met him later during his life who never knew.

Hespatia wished there was something she could do to make his pain go away. Then, she immediately recalled her situation.

She acknowledged hers certainly didn’t go anywhere, nor was she expecting it ever completely would.

Chapter III ♠ Enter Jahad And Dydac

ENTER JAHAD, THE CONFIDENT and impressionable young man first mentioned in chapter one.

His hair, like that of most of his people, the Raishites, was very dark, near black. The same was true for the color of his eyes.

His friend, Dydactic, who most called Dydac for short, was no different.

Both of them wore hair that was cropped short, around an inch or so.

They cut it often because they grew dismayed by how troublesome it was to manage at longer lengths, and it grew quite fast.

The same was true for their beards, which they always groomed, trimmed very low. In times to come, this would be called a shadow.

What’s with you? Dydac, who watched his friend grin broadly, asked.

Nothing, he replied.

Oh, come now, Dydac returned. All that grinning out of the blue like that can’t be for nothing.

Jahad continued to grin.

Out with it! Dydac demanded.

I don’t know, Jahad replied. You know I’m not one to kiss and tell.

Stop with your nonsense. Who are you talking to? He looked around, acting like he meant to see who else was there, like he did not know they were not only alone, but far away from anyone eavesdropping.

Jahad continued to grin.

What is it? Dydac pressed.

Not much.

First you went from nothing to not much. I see we’re making progress.

Jahad laughed.

Who is it this time? Dydac asked, thinking he could only be acting in such a manner for one reason, and one reason only.

Oh, only she who half of you wished you could lay claim to having conquered.

Dydac was stunted. He had to think about who that individual might be.

There were many good-looking young women about.

From time to time, he and their peers would talk about who they wished they could either corrupt and/or engage to marry.

Jahad was an exception.

Anyone who knew anything about him knew it seemed like that was all he talked about, but never did he speak about women in romantic terms.

He noticed his friend was laboring with thought.

The crown jewel, Jahad added, but Dydac still had to comb his mind to find out who he meant.

Hespatia, you fool, he said.

Oh, came Dydac’s nonchalant reply.

Oh, a bemused Jahad echoed, and this time, it was his friend who appeared amused.

Why do you laugh? he asked while his smile quickly disappeared. A bewildered appearance immediately aimed to take its place.

Oh, nothing, Dydac replied, grinning now.

The grin, which was so prominent on his friend’s face, and the light and delight in his eyes, was gone.

Now Jahad was left wondering. Come now, he urged. What’s so funny?

Nothing, Dydac replied.

Stop it. Will you? Jahad said. What is it?

Dydac grinned even more.

Jahad, losing patience, breathed in deeply, then exhaled.

He expunged the air from his lungs with such force that it made a whizzing sound as it blew past his nostrils.

I don’t know about her being a crown jewel, Dydac said.

What?

Dydac, who became even more amused, laughed.

I wish you’d stop laughing at me.

Dydac did not stop.

Stop it!

Okay, okay, Dydac said while he tried to regain his composure.

Why did you say what you did?

Dydac shook his head from side to side. You surprise me, brother, he remarked.

Why do you say that?

Why? What kind of ladies’ man are you?

Jahad was flabbergasted.

He looked at his peer with his mouth hanging open. It seemed like the more he tried to get an answer from his friend, the more questions he had to ask.

What does that mean?

Exactly what I said.

Either you don’t believe me or you’re jealous, Jahad said, but what I told you is the truth. I had her.

You’re so full of yourself, his friend returned. You’re so wrapped up in your own aura that you can hardly see anything else around you.

What does that mean?

There ain’t no mystery to it. I mean exactly what I said.

What does that have to do with anything?

Why, it’s like you have on blinders, Dydac added. Everyone but you must already know Uglyman has placed a stake there.

What! Jahad replied with widened eyes.

Dydac grinned.

What’s so funny?

You heard me, Dydac said.

You can’t be serious, Jahad returned.

Why not?

Stop it.

Stop what?

You’re pulling my leg, Dydac.

I am not.

You’re serious? Jahad, who could not believe it, asked.

I told you. I am.

A couple seconds passed in which Jahad looked directly at him.

You’re the best at playing these kinds of games.

I’m not playing any games. I told you I’m not joking, Dydac asserted then laughed.

Jahad didn’t see anything to laugh about.

You’re a sad fellow, his friend said. You’d like to think you’re the man but you’re so slow.

Slow? What? Who’s got more moves than I do?

Again, you’re so full of yourself, Dydac added. So much so that you can’t see what’s going on around you.

What do you mean Uglyman laid a stake there?

What, am I speaking in riddles? There is nothing to explain. I mean exactly what I said.

How come you never said anything about this before?

I thought that was clear. You mean to tell me you can’t tell something is going on there?

She only patronizes him, son. They both suffered terrible losses.

Dydac emitted a hearty and boisterous laugh.

The sound and speed at which it came on the heel of his last remark sent a chill down Jahad’s spine.

His face contorted in horror.

That’s what you believe? Dydac managed to mention between his fit of laughter.

He did not reply.

Boy, you sure are an ass, Dydac added.

Jahad