Up to the age of 18, I have only fond memories of life. I lived on a farm with my mother and father where we bred horses as a means of making a living. Our horses were highly sought after in the area, with people coming from all over to acquire the prized steeds. Things were definitely much simpler then...and much easier.
Then, in the spring of my 18th year, that all changed and the world as I knew it came crashing down around me. That was the fateful evening that set my life in a new direction.
Ma had just gotten over a strange fever that had seen her bedridden for the better part of a week. Thankfully, she seemed to have recovered completely and was busily fixing dinner as she usually did at that time of day. I was out back chopping wood for the night's fire, and my dad was bringing the horses in from one of their favourite grazing fields.
Losing myself in the rhythm of the chopping, dusk crept up on me unnoticed. The voracious howl of a wolf brought me out of my brief reverie. I had heard wolves howling many times before, but for some reason, this howl inexplicably sent chills down my spine. Wolves usually didn't cause us any problems, but when hungry enough, they had been known to bring down a grazing horse or two to sate their unnatural appetites.
As I chided myself for the chills that ran down the length of my spine, a number of howls rose from the surrounding woods in answer to the original howl. From the sound of it, the beasts were close - too bloody close for my liking.
Filled with an inexplicable feeling of dread and foreboding, I slammed the axe deep into a nearby block of wood and took off at a run towards the field where our horses typically grazed. The wolves would likely not attack a herd of horses with my pa there, as they generally shied away from humans, but something about their howls made me run as fast as I possibly could nonetheless. As I tore through the night air, the howls got louder, more excited, and frantic. Somehow, I managed to quicken my pace, although I was already running as fast as I thought I could.
The scene which greeted me as I crested the rise at the base of the grazing field was one that would stay with me forever, haunting my dreams, both waking and sleeping. My pa was standing over the body of a fallen horse, quarterstaff in hand, crouched in a defensive posture. The rest of the herd was galloping away at top speed, whinnying in terror. Around my pa circled a pack of 5 wolves, snarling hungrily.
Before I could call out or move any further, the wolves attacked as one, darting at my father from all sides. My dad was a farmer, not a fighter, but he still knew how to use that quarterstaff. He swung it around like it was an extension of his arm, knocking the first 3 wolves to reach him out of the fight with quick, successive strikes to their skulls. Unfortunately, he was unable to spin in time to defend himself against the fourth wolf which came at him from behind. It lunged in and tore at his hamstrings, sending him toppling to the ground. Trying to use his quarterstaff to keep his balance, he was left completely open to the fifth wolf's leaping attack. It showed him no mercy, powerful jaws fastening tightly around his throat, cruelly tearing away a large chunk of flesh.
Screaming at the top of my lungs, I rushed down the embankment, scooping up some good-sized rocks along the way. The two wolves that were left standing turned from their supposed meal in surprise and let out long, guttural warning growls. Their growls quickly turned to whimpers as I began pelting them with the rocks I had picked up on my dash down the hill. Realizing that their meal was no longer going to be quite so easy, the wolves gave a frustrated howl and loped off into the nearby forest.
When I finally reached my father's side, things looked grim indeed. Blood was gushing from his gaping throat wound at a fearful rate, and he did not appear to be conscious at all. I quickly removed my cloak and pressed it firmly down over the wound to help lessen the loss of blood. All too soon, the cloak was sodden with blood.
I soon realized that if my father was to stand a chance at surviving, I would have to get him back to the farmhouse. There was no help to be had in this field, and those wolves might return at any moment to attempt to reclaim their meal. I gently picked him up in my arms, careful to keep as much pressure as possible on the wound, and began running home. To this day, I do not recall any part of that journey, carrying my pa from the field to the farmhouse, but I must have made it, as I showed up on our door step, tears streaming openly down my face, crying out for help. As I had no free hand to open the front door, I kicked it in and called out to my ma.
When she saw us, or more specifically, saw my dad dangling limply in my arms, all of the colour drained from her face and she stood rooted to the spot. About to collapse from exhaustion, I shouldered past her and set my father gently down on the table, scattering plates and utensils to the floor in the process.
I turned pleadingly towards my mom and begged her to do something to fix him....to make him right again, but she returned an empty stare, saying nothing. Then instantly, something in her changed. She immediately got a wild look in her eyes and shoved me out of the way, hands outstreteched towards the yawning throat wound.
My dad's eyes flickered open for a heartbeat, but he seemed to be looking beyond anything that we could see. As they closed once more, an almost peaceful expression settled over his features.
And that's when it happened - the most terrible thing fathomable. As my ma's hands neared the wound in my father's throat, tongues of flame shot out from her fingertips and completely engulfed my father's face. He must have had some life left in him because he instantly let out an agonized scream. Oh how he screamed! The anguished, piercing, pain-filled scream accompanied by his tortured writhing seemed to go on forever, but in reality, it likely only lasted a couple of seconds. The unnatural flames quickly died down, but the deed had been done - my father's eyes would look upon this world no longer. The peaceful expression that had just recently marked his face was gone. In it's place was a charred visage of sheer terror, utter disbelief, and eternal suffering. His lips were pulled back in a silent, never-ending scream.
Realizing that he was lost to our world, I immediately turned on my mother.
"What....did....you....do?!?!?", I hissed through clenched teeth as I approached this stranger that I used to believe was my mother.
She just stood there, unmoving, with that wild, frantic, faraway look in her eyes.
"What did you do? What are you?", I screamed into her face as I grabbed her shoulders and began violently shaking her.
Suddenly, her eyes blazed and an unseen force sent me hurling back against the fireplace on the other side of the room.
"Please Loch...you must understand....", she began as I clambered to my feet, grabbing the nearby iron fire poker from its stand in the process. I advanced towards her, poker held ready at my side.
"Loch....please....you must believe me......I....I....urgh...".
The iron poker I had just plunged into her abodomen cut her sentence off short.
"I don't know you....you....bloody witch!", I hollered at her. "Murderer! Pawn of the Dark One!", I yelled, weeping, as I yanked the poker back out of her abdomen, bringing a coil of viscera with it. She struggled in vain to keep the loops of intestine from slipping out of the hole in her torso as I ruthlessly drew the poker back even further.
"You're not my mother!", I roared as I brought the iron poker down hard on her head with a vicious overhanded blow which caved in her skull. Her body toppled forward, landing atop my father's charred corpse on the table.
"Get off of him!", I cried, tossing the empty husk that once was my mother to the floor in a rage. I proceed to rain down blows upon her body with that heavy iron poker, over and over again. I'm not sure how long I continued to do so, but when I finally realized that I couldn't move my arms anymore, there was nothing recognizable left of her.
My father was buried in a beautiful copse of trees that he was overly fond of, and I pray that he has found the Creator's warm embrace.
My mothers remains were lost in a tragic fire that swept the farmhouse that same night.
Since that day, I have spent more and more time in the company of the Children of the Light. They are the only ones who really understand the dangers posed by the witches, and they are the only ones not taken in, like I was, by the witches' lies. Mother, sister, friend, it does not matter. A witch is a witch, and a witch is a tool of the Dark One. It was my father's death that helped me to realize this, and I will spend the remainder of my days ensuring that his death was not in vain.