The shadow that emerged from the dungeon of the castle was cast by the witch who crouched in that sunless place. Her greatest desire was to torment Princess Clementine. Her long, bony fingers stabbed at the tender parts of Clementine’s body until she cried. She played tricks and read Clementine’s private diary.
The face the witch showed to the princesses was hideous—sneering, with gleaming red lips and a tongue that snaked out of her mouth and across those lips, making the red even more vibrant. Her hungry eyes seemed to drip blood. Strands of hair clung to the witch’s thin face, making it look as if a spider had plastered the silvery strands of its web there, surrounding her jaw and cheeks, ready to creep inside and devour her brain.
When Camille tried to grab the creature’s wrists, pulling those tough, fibrous hands back from tormenting Clementine, the shrew laughed in her face. It was a laugh that cut through both princesses like a serrated knife, tearing everything in its wake. It was a laugh that had made Clementine feel weak, powerless, and vulnerable to whatever that greedy, ravenous witch wanted to do with her.
From time to time, the witch wandered to other realms, leaving the princesses alone and bathed in relief. Camille held Clementine close and stroked her soft hair. She put her lips close to Clementine’s ear and whispered that she would take care of her, yet the tears poured out of Clementine’s eyes—she knew the witch always returned.
It was impossible to count the number of tears Clementine had shed over the witch and her cruelties. Sometimes it seemed to Camille that her gown was drenched with the liquid leaking constantly out of Clementine’s eyes. Camille wanted to stop that steady flow of tears, but no matter how she comforted Clementine or promised that the witch couldn’t truly hurt her as long as the princesses remained devoted to each other, Clementine still wept.
The years passed. On a warm day, as if she’d appeared out of nowhere, rising through the stone walls out of her dungeon, the witch suddenly had her arms around Clementine. As Camille watched, their eyes overflowed with tears that had turned joyful. As they laughed and danced in the sunshine, the memories burned hot inside Camille. What was wrong with Clementine? How could she fail to recognize the ugly, sneering face? Had she forgotten what the witch had done? It seemed that Clementine now gazed at the witch and saw only beauty and grace.
Camille soon learned that the witch had blinded Clementine to her true nature. But to Camille, those blood-red lips and that snakelike tongue were still exposed.
One day, a door opened into the wooded area surrounding the castle, showing Camille the path, leading her toward the place the witch escaped to every morning. Camille hid in the shrubs, observing the witch’s daily ritual.
Before the sun came up, the witch stepped onto the narrow trail that wound past massive shrubs and golden aspens. The trail snaked gently through the forest and scrub, twisting and turning among rocks, ascending the mountain into open fields of wildflowers and back into areas of densely growing trees. With the sun still below the horizon, the morning sky was charcoal gray. Occasionally a coyote howled into the emptiness.
Camille began following the witch, matching her own movements to the other’s as closely as if she were a shadow. She concealed herself behind boulders on the rare occasions when the witch seemed to sense Camille’s presence and turned. Finally, Camille saw what she could do to rid their world of this creature.
She went out in the still, silent hours when every living being sleeps. She tugged a branch free from a cluster of fallen trees. She hunted for a rock and found one the size of a russet potato, fitting it neatly into her hand. An hour before the sun breached the horizon, Camille heard the crunch of the witch’s feet on the path. Camille took a slow, cooling breath, filling her lungs with strength and the power that came from righteous rage. She rose out of her hiding place and swung the branch at the witch.
The witch screamed with the same terror she’d elicited from Princess Clementine all those years ago. The ends of the branch scraped at the witch’s face, drawing thin lines of blood. It caught in her hair, and she thrashed at the twigs, trying to fight it off as if it were alive.
She whirled around, trying to grab the thick part of the branch. The force of her turning flung her sideways. Her ankle twisted, and she crashed onto the hard, dry earth. “Get away from me!”
Camille moved with silent precision. She let go of the branch. The witch, with her blood-drenched lips and long hair, struggled against the branch that still clutched her hair, refusing to let go. Camille picked up the rock and moved behind the witch. Raising her arm, she brought the rock down on the evil creature’s skull.
The first sound was a thick, soft thud. She raised her arm and drove the rock into hair and bone a second and third time, and more after that. Finally, she heard a crack. Blood spilled out of the witch’s head, spreading through her silvery hair, turning it a filthy brownish red.
Camille saw the energy seep from the witch’s limbs as her body settled into the dirt, the blood spilling onto the ground, which waited hungrily to consume her lifeless body.
Because of the veil that had fallen over Clementine’s eyes, blinding her to the true nature of the witch, she collapsed with grief when she found the witch’s lifeless body. She wailed, lamenting her loss. She told lies about the creature, calling her a beloved sister, forgetting everything that had happened all those years ago, as if it were all a bad dream.
Camille comforted Clementine, offering stories of her own loss, biting her tongue until it bled, to prevent herself from speaking about the witch’s true nature. Camille knew that Clementine was not yet ready to face the truth.
Now the hour had come to bury the wicked creature, removing her from their lives forever.
Camille had seen the interior of the coffin, the empty body of the witch lying on soft white satin, a single white rose in her bloodless fingers. Her eyes were closed, her face devoid of life. Camille had turned away, hoping that in death, Clementine would see the horror in that face. She did not.
As the time came to lower the coffin into its resting place, Camille moved closer to Clementine. She pressed her shoulder against Clementine’s and held onto her arm as if she wanted to prevent her from being carried away on the breeze. When the tears began spilling out of Clementine’s eyes, Camille handed her a hankie. It wasn’t a flimsy tissue, but a real linen handkerchief with a lace edge. Clementine held it to her eyes and let her tears soak into it.