Witch’s Clutch

Simon Strantzas

Rusty Cleft had to be seeing things. Until that moment, he’d almost convinced himself the Witch’s Clutch wasn’t real, and yet there one was, planted in the background of a newspaper advertisement for a small hotel pub, invisible to anyone who didn’t know what they were looking at.

But Cleft knew exactly what it was. And what it meant.

The hotel was in Caledon. It would take less than three hours to get there. All he needed was a ride. By the time Siobhan returned his call he already had his meagre duffel packed. She resisted at first, citing her existing weekend plans, but being a graduate student meant she’d have to make sacrifices, and Cleft wasn’t above reminding her of them if it led to a real Witch’s Clutch.

Once Siobhan arrived, Cleft folded himself into her tiny Kia. Even with the seat pushed back, his knees brushed uncomfortably against the dashboard. She fumed for the entirety of the trip, not speaking at all, but Cleft hardly noticed. Everything was secondary to his discovery. It would change both his reputation and career. No longer would he be called a copper-curled stick insect by his undergraduates. No longer would he be dismissed for the awkward way he dressed, or mocked by his peers for his views. The Witch’s Clutch would rewrite everything, prove he had something to offer.

The town of Caledon was smaller than he expected, tucked within tall woods and autumnal colours. There seemed to be only one road leading in, as though there were nothing more to see beyond its furthest border. Cleft watched the worn-down houses pass by his window with increasing excitement.

By the time they arrived at the hotel pub, The Bull & Goose, Cleft could hardly keep still. The hybrid was so close, as was his imminent success. He imagined himself being honoured before a room full of his peers, his pockmarked face beaming down at them with satisfaction. Their applause was still ringing in his ears when he stepped out of the car, barely giving Siobhan time enough to put it into Park.

“Are you excited?” he asked, looking up at the unpainted and splintered sign hanging above the pub’s door. When he glanced over, though, he found her silently thumbing through her phone. He wasn’t surprised: being silent was something Siobhan was good at. She still hadn’t told him she had requested a new advisor, nor that her request was already granted. In only a couple of weeks she’d be gone. He wondered if it ever occurred to her that he might discover her betrayal before she left. He also wondered if she even cared.

The photograph from the newspaper clearly showed the pub’s exterior, so it didn’t take Cleft long to estimate the spot from which it was taken. Siobhan followed close behind him, eyes still on her phone, as he searched the area for the Witch’s Clutch. She didn’t look up until she collided with him, not expecting such a sudden stop.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered.

There, in the fresh loose dirt at his feet, was a shallow hole. Whatever had been there had been removed.

Siobhan readjusted the sunglasses seated atop her head.

“You seriously telling me we drove here for nothing?”

Cleft had to force himself to speak.

“It was here. Someone took it.” He pointed at the footprint pressed into the damp soil. Large enough for an adult woman or small man. “They must have known what it was.”

“How? I don’t even know what it is.”

“The Mi’kmaq called it a ste’gmiui ge’luswa’latl, or spirits’ embrace. The plant – well, hybrid, really – has a lot of myth and folklore surrounding it. But no one has actually found one.”

“And you think some other sociologist just happened to stumble over it before you? Isn’t that a little too convenient?”

Cleft looked down at the hole again. She was right. What were the odds? Unless…

“What if it wasn’t a researcher?” he said, tamping down his renewing excitement. “We know the Witch’s Clutch has connections with the New World. What if we’ve stumbled upon some vestigial pagan religion? What if one of these cults knew exactly what it was when they saw it?”

Cleft’s mind started spinning. It seemed impossible, yet was there a more probable explanation?

“Why don’t you go check us in at the hotel,” he said. “I’m going to look around some more.”

“I thought you needed me here. Isn’t that why you had me drive?”

“I won’t be long,” he said. “I’ll call when I need you to come get me.”

She studied him for a moment and Cleft half-wondered if she was about to insist on staying. Instead she snorted.

“I guess I’ll keep my phone on.”

“Thanks,” he said, under his breath, as she retreated through the underbrush. The faint rustle of plants and branches followed her. By the time they finished their song, Siobhan had loaded both her and Cleft’s bags onto her shoulder.

Cleft adjusted his glasses – the yellow lenses the colour of his skin – and watched until she was safely inside the hotel, then turned his attention back to the underbrush where the Witch’s Clutch had once been. He searched for any sign of ritualistic activity from those who might have found it first. A tree with rope burns, perhaps; or a cluster of stones laid with intent and purpose. What he discovered, though, were only more footprints. They proved him right, though – a cell of worshippers had to be nearby. And he had to find them. In his Moleskine he noted the various prints, their different sizes and shapes, as well as the prints of the herd animals that were intermingled with them. These looked to be made by sheep. Possibly a large goat. The meandering tracks led deeper into the thick underbrush beneath the overgrown maples, ashes, and pines. He hurriedly followed them, his head stuffed with more fantasies of his academic coming out.

Cleft walked for hours, his attention so focused on the footprints ahead of him that he failed to notice how dim the daylight had grown. Only when he looked up did he realise he had no idea where he was or how to get back. There had been no roads, no telephone wires. Not much of anything to suggest a location from which Siobhan might pick him up. No, that wasn’t true. There was, amongst the thickest boughs and trunks, the flicker of artificial light off in the near-distance. It was a beacon hidden by leaves. Perhaps if he followed it he’d find his way back to the Bull & Goose.

But that would also mean giving up his pursuit of whomever had taken the Witch’s Clutch. If he abandoned the trail he might never be able to pick it up again. He might lose the hybrid for good. Cleft stood in deep green underbrush and stared at the light glowing brighter in the distance, and wavered.

Then he remembered that welcoming applause.

* * *

When Cleft finally travelled far enough to see where the tracks ended he was surprised. There was a small rundown house ahead of him, squeezed between a pair of ancient birch trees. Its peeling white exterior gave the impression it was abandoned – none of the wooden slats of its siding ran parallel to the ground. The trees that flanked it only worsened the house’s appearance, buckling its walls as though the trunks had tried and failed to crush the place but were gathering strength to try again. Yet the moment the breeze quieted he heard soft giggling from the rear of the dwelling. Cleft’s heart skipped.

He had done it. He had found them.

It was all he could do to keep from running. Cleft followed the tracks past the trees and along the side of the house. He dragged his fingers along the wood siding in hopes it would slow him down. He wanted to savour the upcoming moment – his discovery of a heretofore unknown religious sect.

What he found instead was far more mundane and confusing.

The yard was made of a hard dirt that supported only patches of grass and clover. Along its edges stood a row of trees in a circle, thick woods that had been carved out for the homestead. At the foot of these trees were various sized pens, some holding livestock, others empty. In the middle of the yard sat an older woman on a tree stump. She was near his age, her grey hair streaked with fading chestnut and tied in a loose bun atop her head. In her lap she held a young girl less than ten years old, who waved a small stick in the air as though it were a wand. The child wore a white dress and tights that made her look like a porcelain statuette. In front of them a woman in her late twenties sat cross-legged, denim shorts cut high enough to expose her thick pocked legs. The three smiled and laughed with one another. Cleft immediately felt the embarrassing heat of intrusion. He tried to back away.

But it was too late. The child spotted him.

And she screamed.

“I’m sorry!” he offered in a rush, frantically waving his hands. The younger woman leapt up and snatched the child to her bosom as though to shield her. The older woman’s eyes were similarly alight as she bolted to her feet, brandishing a pair of shears that had appeared in her hand.

“Who are you?” the older woman demanded. It took a moment for Cleft to remember that answer.

“I’m from Marsden College,” he stammered. “I was doing some research and…and…I thought you might be…” He realised what he was about to accuse this family of. Instead, he fumbled his Moleskine from his pocket and unfolded the newspaper clipping he kept between its pages. “Have any of you seen this plant before? I’m trying to find the people who dug it up. I followed their tracks here.”

The older woman glanced at the photo.

“No,” she said.

Some of his hope slipped away. He folded the clipping and returned it to his notebook.

“Is there maybe anyone else who could have taken it? Anyone else who lives in the area?”

She shook her head. More of his hope fled. He couldn’t accept what was happening. His plea, almost in defiance, to no one in particular: “But I saw a light in the woods. Just a little ways back…”

The old woman’s face changed. Softened.

“Forgive us, we weren’t expecting anyone today,” she said, lowering her shears. “There have been others. In the woods, I mean. We sometimes see them. I think they have a farm nearby.”

Cleft flipped through the pages of his Moleskine, his other hand digging out the small pencil from his jacket’s front pocket. “Can you tell me where to find them?”

“We’ve only seen them at a distance,” she said. Then, to the younger woman: “Have you spoken to them?”

“I don’t speak to people I don’t know,” she said. Then looked at Cleft.

The older woman smiled.

“Sorry we can’t be more help.”

And that was it. A dead end. Crushing disappointment. Cleft lowered the Moleskine. He’d followed the wrong tracks and had lost his chance – at recovering the Witch’s Clutch; at finding those who had it. Around him grew longer shadows, the sun fell closer to the horizon. The trees, the bushes, the footprints began their fade into the encroaching dark. There was nothing left to do but go back.

“Are you okay?” The woman touched his arm.

“I’m fine,” he muttered.

He had to call Siobhan. Let her know where to find him. She’d be angry he stole her weekend, but he didn’t care – she’d be gone soon anyway. Off to a mentor who could do more for her. He probably would have done the same in her place. But when he took his phone from his pocket to dial her number he discovered it had no signal. He resisted the sudden urge to hurl it into the woods.

Instead, he sighed. Collected himself. Then slid the phone back into his pocket.

“May I borrow your telephone?” he asked, adjusting his glasses. “It’s getting darker and my assistant needs directions to pick me up.”

“Sorry. We don’t have one,” the older woman said.

“But what if there’s an emergency?”

Both her and the younger’s brows furrowed as though confused. The animals in the surrounding pens huffed and snorted. It would be dusk soon. How was he going to get back to the Bull & Goose?

The child seemed to read his mind. She appeared beside the older woman, tugging her sleeve.

“Is he coming inside?” she asked. Her smile was wide and toothy.

Cleft blanched. That was not what he wanted. But it was true he had no way of getting back.

The women must have realised the same. Why else did they seem so uncomfortable? He wanted to say something but was conflicted.

The old woman spared him the suffering.

“Of course he is,” she replied, her eyes fixed on his. “We wouldn’t want him to get lost again.”

The inside of the house was as cramped as Siobhan’s Kia. He had to duck when passing through the door frame, and continued ducking as the top of his head narrowly brushed each joist in succession. The odour that greeted him was as vague as it was sweet and comforting. Like linseed and lemon. Like leather and a burning pine log. For a moment he forgot his disappointment and closed his eyes, inhaled deeply.

“I appreciate the help,” he said as the old woman directed him to a beaded couch. He sank into it immediately upon sitting, the fabric scratchy as hay. The younger woman sat across from him on a small love seat, hoisting the child into her lap. An awkward silence followed.

“My name’s Rusty Cleft,” he eventually said.

“Is that so?”

He shifted awkwardly. The beads pushed into his spine.

“My name is Atrai,” the older woman said. “And this is Lasha. The young one is—”

“I’m Cleo!” the girl shouted.

“You certainly are,” he smiled.

Cleft surveyed the house. He noted the wrinkled curtains, the slanted windowsills. Everything appeared askew; it made him uneasy. “So,” he said, “you three live here? In the middle of nowhere?”

“It’s not nowhere,” Cleo giggled. “And not just us.”

“No?”

She rolled her eyes like marbles.

“Daddy lives here, too.”

“He’s travelling,” Atrai informed him. Then, to Cleo: “But he’ll be home soon, won’t he?” The child nodded excitedly. “When he does I wonder if you’ll even recognise him. It’s been so long.”

“I will! I will recognise him!”

Atrai smiled. Then to Cleft once again: “He’s been gone a long time. And she’s still so young.”

“I understand.”

“I thought you might.”

“Or maybe he’s never coming home,” Lasha said before Atrai could hush her. “Maybe he doesn’t want to.”

Cleft felt the temperature drop. He shifted again in his seat.

“Maybe I should leave.”

Atrai shook her head, brushed away his concerns.

“Oh, it’s much too late,” she said.

And she was right. He bent to look through a small dirty window at the starless night. Siobhan would never find him even were he to call. He wondered if she was concerned. He suspected his absence had escaped her notice.

“You must be hungry. We’ll make you something,” Atrai said.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that.”

“Nonsense. It will make you feel better.”

Atrai stood. Lasha and Cleo followed. As she turned toward the kitchen, Cleo dashed to Cleft and handed him her stick. She smiled, then scrambled after Atrai. Only Lasha remained. She hesitated, as though about to say something, then silently followed, leaving Cleft alone.

Immediately his thoughts spiralled toward the Witch’s Clutch and those who took it. They were out there, somewhere in the dark, while he sat with these three strange women. He tried calling Siobhan again but the calls would not go through. Everything was collapsing around him. Marsden College and his future never felt so far away. Nor as unreachable.

A rich and meaty smell distracted him; caused such stomach growling he worried the women had overheard it. He stared at the kitchen door, listening for their voices.

Without warning, the door swung open, startling him. Atrai emerged, large black stone bowl precariously balanced. Its contents steamed, the vapour twisting around her head, and close behind her were the younger Lasha and the child. One carried a thick loaf of bread, the other a set of mismatched utensils.

“Any luck getting a hold of your friend?” Atrai asked, beckoning him to a table and setting down the stone bowl in front of him. Cleft watched the oil congeal on the surface of the broth in rings around the floating vegetables.

“Not yet,” he said, his head swimming from hunger.

“Let’s hope she calls soon. The air feels ripe for a storm.”

“It always storms when Father’s coming back,” the child said before Lasha yanked her arm to quiet her. Young Cleo yelped. Cleft did not like the sound.

“Please—” he started to say before being hushed.

“Your broth is getting cold,” Lasha said, dropping half a bread loaf to the side of the bowl. “Eat while there’s still time.”

Cleft looked at Cleo, who was frowning and rubbing her arm, then at Atrai, smiling and unalarmed. Cleft felt he should say something but was distracted by the meal they’d prepared. He wiped his mouth. Then did so again before tearing a piece of bread and dipping it into the broth. As soon as he tasted the morsel his hands were moving spoonfuls over his tongue as fast as he could swallow them. The meal was salted and warm and expanded in his stomach, soaking up his discomfort and worries. Numbing and soporific satiety flowed through his body, and he was powerless to prevent himself from putting the bowl to his mouth and slurping down the dregs. His only regret was there wasn’t more to savour.

Across from him, the three women watched.

He leaned back in his chair. Exhaled a greasy heat. Atrai carefully collected the empty bowl and handed it to Lasha. The younger woman took it wordlessly and carried it into the kitchen. Cleo, on the couch, swung her small white legs slowly. Hypnotically. Everything felt strange, as though time were being drawn out. But it was a good feeling, and one he did not wish to disrupt. Instead, he allowed himself to sink further into his chair. Sink until its arms reached out and embraced him.

Cleft blinked and suddenly Lasha was back, seated beside Cleo. When had she returned? She placed her hand on the girl’s legs before speaking. Those legs stopped swinging.

“Why did you come?” she asked. All three women appeared at once larger and less substantial. Light flickered like fire across their faces.

“Information,” he mumbled. “Research.”

“Research?”

He murmured, then leaned to the side and struggled to pull the Moleskine from his pocket. It was more slippery than expected. Perhaps his fingers had grown too large.

“Have you seen this?” he asked as he fumbled through the pages. When he found the clipping of the Witch’s Clutch he showed it to them.

“You’ve asked us this before.”

“I have? Did I tell you what it was?” The women glanced at one another. Cleft couldn’t recall if he even knew. The words eventually came to him, as though rising through molasses.

“It’s an…an anomaly. Plants – nightshade, mandrake, and jimsonweed – entangled, fused with one another in…I guess in a ring. The Witch’s Clutch appears in so many cultures, going far back. Far, far back.” There was something else he wanted to say about it but the thought slipped free. He knew it was close, but he couldn’t find it. “The name’s kind of a botanical joke: the three weeds happen to also have wiccan importance. You know, like witches and warlocks. And the circle…” Cleft wondered why it was suddenly so dark, then realised his eyes were closed. He opened them and discovered he had been somehow transported back to the beaded couch. The three faces hovered over him as their hands gently laid him down.

He had more to say but couldn’t. His mouth was dry. Gummy. Not that he minded. He didn’t mind much of anything. Those faces floating above him slipped in and out of his vision, confusing themselves with one another, blending and shifting and overlapping.

The women muttered in a slow monotone and their words twisted in wrong directions. He felt the pressure build in his head. Cleft squeezed his eyes shut and opened them to find the child, sat astride him, kneading and stretching his face. Her head turned as she spoke to the others. Yet they didn’t look how he remembered. Their faces were plastic as he weightlessly lifted into the air. The walls trembled and hummed, lulling him. It took effort but he smiled at the child, then closed his eyes a moment to rest. He opened them later, well after dark.

And in the midst of a violent storm.

Rain pelted the sides of the small house with fury; bright flashes illuminated the sky. Cleft’s heart pounded as he leapt from the couch, disoriented. Everything looked twisted in the dark. And worse than that whenever lightning struck.

But that wasn’t what woke him. Something thrashed in his chest – not looking for escape, but instead to grab hold of everything and pull it in. A sucking insatiable need. He clutched himself tighter but it did no good. The hunger could not be quelled.

The sound of pounding continued. He realised it hadn’t been his heart. It was the door. The door that led into the house. It was too small to fit through, and yet it sounded tremendous. Was there someone there?

Cleft heard voices behind him. Around him. He glanced back but saw no one. He stood alone, facing the door as it throbbed with pressure. Hinges creaked and buckled. The pounding intensified as though a pair of giant fists were splintering the wooden frame. The storm hurled itself against the entrance, demanding to be let in. And the need inside of Cleft welcomed it, told him to open the door. It begged and it pleaded. Cleft took an unsure step forward.

And then the frame exploded. The door swung so hard on its hinges Cleft felt the crack. But all he knew was someone was standing in the doorway.

Or, rather, someone wasn’t.

Because there was no one. No matter how it felt, no matter what he imagined in the corner of his eye, there was no one. Just a deluge of rain and howling wind. There was no one stepping into the house as furniture blew aside. There was no one growing larger as the sky flashed bright then black. There was no one reaching out for him as the storm threw Cleft back over his heels, drove him into the ground.

There was no one towering over him as everything went dark.

No. Worse than dark.

Went to nothing.

* * *

Nothing but the floral smell of tea brewing. Cleft’s eyes opened and saw daylight across the low ceiling. Sitting up made his head swim, and standing took a great effort, but he eventually found his balance. He wiped his face and brushed off the leaves and dust that had collected on him at some point while he slept. All that remained of the night before was a carousel of images that didn’t make sense. He sat again on the couch, held his head in his hands. What made him agree to stay in such a strange house?

Cleft lowered his hands.

He had to get out.

Siobhan was not going to rescue him. She was at the Bull & Goose somewhere outside the woods, no doubt still asleep. Even if she weren’t, he couldn’t get hold of her – his cellular phone had turned black overnight and stayed that way. He felt anxious, abandoned, but pushed the feelings aside.

He heard a chair move behind the kitchen door. Before he knew why, he was stumbling toward the sound.

The three women – the older, the younger, the child – sat among clutter, holding one another’s hands at a small table, eyes closed. Cleft’s entrance awakened them, however, and their stares turned toward him. Only Cleo had an expression he could read. It was disappointment.

“Did we wake you?” Atrai asked, releasing the hands of the other two as she stood. Lasha put hers in her lap. Cleo, on the edge of the chair, spoke disappointedly into her chest.

“I thought he was Daddy,” she said.

Atrai hushed her. “He’ll be here soon.”

In the daylight, things felt even stranger. Something was off, but Cleft could not explain what or why. Only that nothing felt as it should. Nothing looked as it should, either.

“Are you okay?” Atrai asked him.

“Of course,” he said. “I’m just surprised I didn’t hear you cleaning up.”

Their look, queer. Unsettled. Lasha’s eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean?”

“The storm last night. I opened the door. The wind, it…it turning everything over. But I don’t see any sign of it now.”

An expression flitted across Atrai’s face. Lasha did not acknowledge it. Instead, she shrugged.

“There was nothing wrong with the house this morning.”

Did he dream it?

Cleft looked at the women but his mind raced with how he’d misjudged the situation. What happened with the house and the storm didn’t matter. Or he ought to pretend it didn’t.

He fixed a smile to his face. Everything was okay. Normal.

“I should be on my way now that it’s day,” he said. “My assistant is expecting me.”

“You were able to get hold of her?” Atrai asked.

“Oh, yes,” he lied. “Thank you for letting me stay the night.”

“It was no trouble,” Atrai said.

Cleft gathered his things as quickly as he could while the women silently watched him. Something was about to happen. He needed to escape before it did.

“Where is he going?” Cleo asked. Lasha pulled her close. Embraced her. Stroked her hair.

“It’s time for him to leave.”

“No!” Cleo shouted, pulling herself free. She ran to Cleft and wrapped her arms around him. “You can’t leave! You can’t!”

Cleft didn’t know what to do. The door was so close. He was almost out.

“Cleo—” he began.

Then he saw it.

And instantly he knew it was already too late. He wasn’t going anywhere.

“What is that?” he sputtered, unable to express his confusion and disbelief.

“What do you mean?”

He pointed, unable to speak. By the door from the kitchen hung what looked to be a wreath. But it wasn’t.

“The Witch’s Clutch.”

The two women looked back. Then at one another. Cleo squeezed tighter yet Cleft was too numb to feel it.

“That’s a strangleweed,” Atrai said. “To feed to the animals.”

“No, it’s a Witch’s Clutch. It’s… Oh, God,” he said, crumpling over his knees. “You took it. It’s you I’ve been looking for this whole time.”

There was no religion. No discovery of an unknown sect. No paper. No book. There was only three women collecting plants for their farm. He’d been chasing nothing, and that’s what he had. Nothing. In an instant he saw himself back on that imagined awards stage, but there were no longer any applauding peers in the audience. The theatre was empty.

“I’m sorry,” Atrai said, placing her hand on his as she looked at the others. “We didn’t know.”

“But… I showed you the clipping…”

Lasha reached out for his other hand. “We would have told you had we realised. We were distracted.”

“Distracted? By what?”

“Daddy,” Cleo said, placing her hands on his chest. “We want Daddy home so badly.”

“We do our best with the plants and livestock while he’s gone, but it’s his garden,” Atrai said. “He’s the only one who knows how to keep it going.”

“Would you like to see it? The garden?” Lasha asked.

Immediately Cleo’s face lit up. “Yes! You need to see it! It will help.”

Atrai replied, “It’s the least we could do.”

But Cleft barely looked up. His life was in ruins.

“I really should go.”

“Come, let us show you,” Atrai said. “And afterward you can take the Witch’s Clutch and be on your way.”

“You need to see it!” Cleo repeated.

The women all stood and each took the hand of another – oldest, younger, child – and when Cleo extended hers to Cleft he did not resist. Her tiny hand burned like an ember in his massive palm, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he allowed her to pull him up from the chair.

The four left in procession; Cleft, the last link, stooping to move through the tiny door frame. Outside he realised how cramped he’d been; he stretched his limbs and looked up at the trees swaying above, all moving in the same continuous direction. As though circling.

Atrai led the train across the trodden dirt that surrounded the small home and toward the sound of livestock. Cleo’s hand flexed and pulsed within Cleft’s like a tiny bird; he did not squeeze tighter for fear of crushing it. He saw no more evidence of a thunderstorm than there had been inside – no mud or downed branches or faint odour of rain. Nor was there a cloud in the sky. Everything was bright and clear and slightly unreal. As though the moment wasn’t one he was experiencing but instead one he was watching be experienced. A spectator at far remove.

Why hadn’t he left? Was the Witch’s Clutch and what it might bring really worth staying for?

When they reached the rear of the house, Cleft saw the tree-encircled yard once again, its edges lined with small pens. The animals, however, were silent – he heard only snuffling in the woods and the scrabbling of hooves and claws on the hard dry dirt. The ground had become littered with tracks overnight, and all appeared to be pointing toward the area the women were ushering Cleft toward. As though the animals had been gathered in a circle for an audience. Or, no, not a circle. A spiral. A spiral that wrapped around and around the garden, drawing in tighter and tighter toward its eye. Cleft pulled back, hoping to get a better look at the myriad of hoofprints – some the size of his own feet – but the women were unwilling to slow until they reached the centre of the whorl.

“What is this?” Cleft asked.

“This is Father’s garden,” Atrai said, releasing her sister’s hand and stepping in front of him. Standing a bit too close. “You want to remember it, don’t you?”

Cleft swallowed.

“Where is he?”

“He’ll be here. Soon.”

“Yes, but where is he?”

Atrai smiled, put her hand on his chest, then began to slowly pace around him, dragging her fingers lightly across his flesh. His skin prickled.

“What…what are you doing?”

“We tend the garden every day,” Lasha said, releasing her other sister’s hand and placing hers on Cleft’s face, slowly grazing it with her fingers as she followed a step behind Atrai. “We tend it for Father. You can smell it, can’t you?”

Cleft could smell it. At once the smell of manure and hay, but also something more, something musky and pungent. Something that made his thoughts swim.

“What’s happening to me?” he whispered, his mouth dry as cotton. He felt a tug, as if Cleo were trying to release his hand, but his fingers wouldn’t open. When he looked down he discovered why.

What he expected to find was Cleo’s hand clamped on his, fingers interlaced and locked tight. Instead he saw a knot of dark green tendrils twisted around his hand like vines. He didn’t understand why; only that he needed to be free. He yanked his hand away in panic but only managed to lift Cleo from the ground. Her limbs flailed lifelessly.

The tendrils that looped over his hand thickened as he watched, his thoughts swimming further away. The tiny leaves that sprouted grew quickly, curling in on themselves. Little pink buds the size of buttons sprung up along his arms. He felt Cleo’s hand coming apart in his own like a crushed flower. He gripped tighter to keep from losing her but her hand had already gone.

Circles and spirals and circles. Spinning around and around him. Like a pinwheel. The world constricting upon him, then spreading wide in pulses.

Cleft couldn’t think. He looked down into Cleo’s face but it too was coming apart. Pale skin sliding away, green stalks unfurling. The white cotton of her tights tore as twigs pushed themselves out. Her eyes collapsed.

There was no air left in his lungs to scream. Atrai and Lasha continued to encircle him, droning underbreath. No matter how he struggled he could not turn his head to follow them. Each time they reappeared they were changed. Tendrils extended, bright petals turned colours, small berries grew in clusters, elaborate flowers lifted from thorny stalks and stretched outward. With each revolution the vines around him tightened. The circles drew closer to constrict. To strangle. Like the slip of a noose.

Cleft’s mouth. Wide. Silent.

Frantically he clawed at the weeds interweaving around his body. The green from Atrai fused with the green from Lasha fused with the green from Cleo. The end of one disguising the beginning of the other. An ouroboros of serrated leaves and browning stalks. Their looping vines climbed his body, squeezing his limbs until they were numb, choking his throat until the blood slowed and a darkness full of stars enveloped his vision. The strangling weeds grew thicker and tighter as he succumbed to them.

But no, that wasn’t quite right.

He didn’t succumb.

Beneath the muddy numbness he felt something else. Some secret only just revealing itself. Some primal connection to a current within the earth. One into which he was tapping. Into which he was rooting. As his mortal body weakened he felt that underthing slide into him. Undo that which had been locked away. A caged animal breaking free.

It happened in his legs first. Bone reshaped, seams split. Leather came apart and cotton tore. His feet touched the ground, remade. Stronger, tougher. He clomped down in an overload of sensations. Then the transformation took his body. An overwhelming feeling of warmth as the world embraced him. The secret world. And he realised in his final fleeting moments that the Witch’s Clutch was not what he believed. The hybrid wasn’t strange; it was the only thing that was right. The joining of the disparate into the whole. Every single thing a piece of the one thing. The everything.

His clothes shredded. He snuffled. Made a sound like a bleat. And felt for the first time in forever that he was part of something.

In the embrace of his daughters, he finally belonged.