“Hither and yon, hither and yon. I see you, John Stilton, riding on your prideful steed Magnolia,” said the crone.
“My gracious Magnolia, what trollish being accosts us,” remarked the man.
“I see what you can not, John Stilton. These eyes see your doom if you fail to turn from your murderous ways,” said the woman. She raised a gnarled hand and pointed a crooked finger at John’s face.
“How now? You speak as if you know me. Yet I have not laid eyes on such a revolting creature as yourself,” the rider said.
“You do not see what your heart will not let you, for black is your soul. You see it when you gaze into the mirror, John Stilton.
“Enough of this insolence, clear off, or I will have my steed teach you a lesson you shan’t forget,” said John.
“Like you did to Mary Cromwell and Abraham Stalwart?” asked the crone.
John’s blood froze in his veins. “Where did you hear those names? Have you been sneaking about the kitchen? Hiding under windows?” said John.
“No need, no need. The birds and worms tell me all I need to know. I speak for those who can not. I bare witness at the day of reckoning,” cackled the woman.
The old woman withdrew a withered finger and picked her teeth with its long, pointed nail. “Why, John, you have gone pale. You should rush home and have a posset and lie down,” said the crone.
“What is it you want? Speak up. Money? I have none until my twenty-first birthday. If this is some game of extortion, then you’re out of luck,” John said.
“Oh, John, if it were that simple. I’m here to save you from yourself,” said the woman.
“I need no saving. Enough! Strike Magnolia,” cried John, but the horse could not.
“Her pride fuses her to the ground. She’ll be no part of another murder. I’m here at the bequest of two who loved you and whose love you could not take,” said the crone.
The blood drained from his head. “How? No one saw,” said John.
“I see what is not seen and am told the rest by the birds and the worms,” said the woman.
“What is it that you wish of me?” asked the man.
“I want nothing—the Lovers request peace. Let them go. Hell awaits you at the end of this road if you don’t,” said the woman.
“Lovers?” questioned the rider.
“Time enough to change your ways, young Master,” said the crone who faded right before John’s eyes. Magnolia shook her head, whinnied, and then raced homeward.
“It must have been a dream. Yes, I dozed off, and I dreamt that horrible old woman,” said John as he prepared for bed.
When John saw that the reflection was not himself but that of Abe and Mary, his breathing froze.
“No, you can’t be real. I buried you long ago in the woods,” cried the man.
Their faces smiled as their hands remained locked in a tight embrace. “Free them. Those were the crone’s words,” said John.
John thought a moment, then he turned and walked to the wardrobe and withdrew a small wooden box. Opening the container before the mirror, John removed a single dried rose.
“You swore when we were young you would be mine forever, and to seal the pact, you gave me this rose,” said John.
“You spoke these words to me as proof of your devotion. As long as this rose is perfect and whole, I am bound to you,” said John to Mary.
John held the rose toward Mary and then crushed it into dust. The reflections faded, leaving John hollow. He had lived so long in misery that he knew nothing else.
“The Lovers know they broke the bond and do not blame you for your rage. The fault was theirs and theirs alone,” came a voice from behind.
John spun around to see the crone’s image fade as she spoke these words. “The road is clear, seek, and you will find the treasure which awaits you at its end.”
John sat on his bed and wondered who the woman was who had given him back his life. John vowed to follow her words until the time when he would stand before the ancients at the time of the reckoning.
For More Fun:
Folksburywoods Story Blog 
Leave a comment