I cast one last glance at my mistress, sprawled facedown across the table. I was proper this time and didn't weep.
I limped from the cabin. There was no one around to appreciate the act, but it was good practice. Newt waited by the door, and a pack of wolves had gathered around the mangled bodies of Ghastly Edna's killers. They had not been drawn here by the scent of blood.
The leader, a thick brown hound, approached. "It is time for another to return to the earth."
Talking to beasts was the first trick Ghastly Edna had taught me. "She's inside."
"Very good."
The leader barked, and his pack filed into the cabin. The sounds of tearing flesh issued forth.
"I would ask a favor of you. Please do not eat those two." I nodded toward the dead killers. "They do not deserve the honor of your stomachs."
The wolf bowed his head. "As you request, but you need not have asked. They are false flesh, not true men at all."
"What do you mean?"
"Just as I say." He shrugged. "I cannot explain. I am, after all, only a wolf, and can only understand the world through a wolf's eyes. And nose. They do not smell of men. Or of anything natural. I would not eat them if I were starved half to death."
A good witch heeds the wisdom of beasts, and I thanked him for his insight.
"You're quite welcome. My sympathies for your loss. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm famished."
"Certainly."
He strode inside and joined his family in their meal.
I checked the bodies. They looked of real flesh and blood. But then again, not quite. It was hard to tell with the condition Newt had left them in, but I trusted the wolf's nose. Something larger was at work here than two thugs happening upon a cabin in the middle of nowhere. Something more sinister.
"Perhaps you should try to raise them," Newt suggested.
"Too late for that. Their souls must be gone already. Even if they remain, you left little to work with."
"Sorry. Guess I got a little carried away."
"Quite all right."
He milled about in an embarrassed fashion. "It's the demon in me. I can't always control it."
"I understand."
"I'll try to be more careful in the future."
"Very good. Come along, Newt."
I limped away from the cabin and my old life. And I didn't look back.
WE WALKED IN SILENCE. The woods were deathly quiet. There was no wind off the lake, no singing birds, not even the rustling of leaves. The forest mourned Ghastly Edna. Neither Newt nor I broke the silence. Only after the wind returned did we know it respectful to speak.
"Nice limp," he said.
"Thank you."
"Have you decided yet? The path, I mean."
"I haven't really thought about it."
"No rush, I suppose."
We walked awhile more without speaking. I didn't think about the fork ahead. It was a decision I wasn't ready to make.
"What would you do?" I asked.
Newt stopped. "You're asking my opinion?"
"Yes."
He squinted at the sun. "Strange. All those years, the mistress never asked my opinion on anything. It was always 'Newt, do this,' 'Newt, fetch that,' 'Newt, find my woolen socks.' But never once did she ask my advice."
"You're my familiar now, and I'm asking for it."
He rubbed his bill with the tip of a wing. "I don't know. Give me a minute to think it over."
We walked around the lake and into the hills, knowing that each step brought me closer to a decision I was no more ready to make than before.
"I'd go west," Newt finally said.
"That wasn't one of the choices."
"Exactly."
I got an inkling of why Ghastly Edna had never asked his opinion.
"That's me though," he said. "I'm part demon, and demons despise being told what to do. They aren't very fond of fate either. And they greatly enjoy being contrary for its own sake."
"I'm not a demon. Nor even part demon."
"True enough. In which case, if I were not part demon, and a witch, and in your position, I suppose, taking everything into consideration, then I would go east."
"Any reasons?"
"Seems a simple decision. North, you'll find happiness. Nothing against happiness, and there's no rule saying a witch must be miserable. But, ultimately, it isn't a very witchly reason to do anything. But east, you'll get a chance to avenge your mistress. Vengeance. Now there is a witchly motivation."
"Or horrible death," I added.
"Exactly. A horrible death seems a goal every witch should aspire to. In fact, it seems to me that too many people are neglectful of their deaths. It is the last act of their lives. Give me a memorably gruesome demise over a long, boring life any day. Just ask Skewered Bob."
"Who?"
Newt hopped in front of me, turned, and walked backward. An impressive feat for a duck.
"You've never heard of Skewered Bob?"
"No."
"He was a soldier. Fought in some battle somewhere. No one remembers who was battling who or why anymore. Don't even know anything about old Bob's life. Other than this was his first real battle. A small skirmish of no real importance. The kind that pops up all the time over land rights or a maiden's honor or some other triviality."
He waved a wing. "Like I said. Unimportant. So Bob, he's just a young grunt, one of dozens of boys looking to kill each other. But Bob's so eager, he wants to be at the head of the battle. Like he's a great hero or some such nonsense. He's so enthusiastic, in fact, that when the bugler blows the assembly call, Bob thinks it's the call to charge. So he dashes onto the field, all by himself, and he's so eager to slaughter his enemies that he doesn't even realize until he's halfway there."
"What happened?"
"These were military men and great believers in excessive force. So a rain of arrows comes down on Bob's head, and he's thoroughly punctured. Pierced from every possible angle and two or four impossible angles as well. Falls dead to the ground on the spot."
"And the battle?"
"Who knows? Who cares? Of every man that fought on that field of honor, amid all the bravery and blood-soaked savagery, only Skewered Bob is remembered. Not because he was a great hero. Not because he fought well. Not even for his foolhardy courage. But because he was wise enough to die in memorable fashion."
Newt flapped his wings and skipped a few steps. "You see my point? Obviously, Skewered Bob wasn't all that bright. Had he not died as he had, he would've no doubt lived a perfectly dreary life, hardly worth remembering. But now he's famous. He lives forever."
"I'd never heard of him," I remarked.
"Now you have, and one day you'll tell somebody else, and his name will go on."
"How do you know he even existed at all?"
"I don't. But that's not important either because even if he didn't, even if he's just a story, then he only illustrates my point further. A horrible demise, even an imaginary one, beats an ordinary, real life."
"There's more to life than being remembered," I said.
"I guess."
"And I am capable of living forever. In theory."
Newt shook his head. "That doesn't mean you shouldn't give the matter serious consideration. Just in case."
I tested a more exaggerated limp. It slowed my walk and gave me time to think. Much of what Newt said made sense.
Ghastly Edna spoke from my memory. "You must remember, child, that death is not something to be frightened by. Everything dies. Well, not everything, but most things. And this is as it should be because if everything lasted forever, the world would soon become a very boring place. Death is merely nature's way of mixing things up.
"Not that there's anything wrong with living forever. I myself wouldn't care to, but I suppose it wouldn't be all that bad. Just remember to keep yourself busy, and I suspect forever will pass surprisingly quickly. Time is like that. Even endless lengths of it tend to go by faster than we'd like when we're enjoying ourselves."