Episode 10: The Witch Queen Chapter III: Last Harbor: Season Finale Part 4

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I'll walk the easy hills

to leave these dark valleys

For I can't stay now in the lands unknown

Then the easy hills of

I've walked so often

I can feel the winds now holding you close

The town of Lost Harbor sat far to the south of the Kentucky Mountains in the high hills of the border separating North Carolina and Tennessee.

Founded by Portuguese sailors who had given up the sea and sought work and prosperity inland, the town was a close-knit community that, of course, took care of its own and was wary of outsiders.

She'd reported to town as she'd been instructed in a missive brought to her by the eldest of the six men.

The blank-eyed, half-dead servants sent to her by the thing that pretended to be a black stag and lived deep in the woods.

Another letter had been sent on to a young doctor who was trying to establish a practice in the community that a young widow with midwife and nursing training would be moving to town soon.

And did he have need for such a girl?

Folks with medical training of any sort were in high demand in Last Harbor.

Dr.

Harold Gillespie wrote back that he would indeed be happy for the help.

Within a few days of arriving and setting up in a local boarding house, our good daughter Dooley had herself a job, caring for some elder folk who were clearly near the end of their time.

See, a sickness had passed through the territory a few weeks prior, and most had recovered, except for these poor August souls.

Now one thing you can say about Daughter Dooley is that when given the chance, she didn't stay a stranger long.

She was kind and she was good at what she did.

And before you knew it, these good folks trusted her completely and came to love her like a grandbaby.

To them, she looked barely 18, despite her actual 30 years at this point.

And they lamented how she'd become a widow so young and how unfair it was for her beauty and womb to be wasted.

And did she know Doc Gillespie was unmarried?

And so on and so forth and the like she treasured her times with the mammas and papas of last harbor as they all treated her kindly

and she was there for the passing of each and every one of them

watching the light slide from their eyes or their bodies finding stillness in an everlasting sleep

It made her heart swell with peace to know their suffering and sickness was over.

But it also reminded her that as far as she knew,

she might never know such a rest.

Now, about two weeks after Papa Vester and Mama Myrtle passed, she called all the old folk, Grandpa and Papa and Grandma and Mamma and Granny.

It seemed to please them.

She started noticing the changes.

Now they were subtle at first.

Her skin felt smoother and seemed to glow.

Her hair grew softer and lush.

What few scars she had faded and were gone, outright vanished.

She slept deep and awoke more rested than she ever had.

Her energy during the day was boundless.

By the way of the bargain with the black stag, now her body resisted harm and healed cuts and turned away fire and coal, but...

This was different.

At first, she tried to attribute her newfound vim and vigor to just being around people, to not living alone in the woods with sick silent near corpses for her only company.

On her 64th day in Last Harbor,

she realized her shoes didn't fit right no more.

They were getting to be too...

Big.

Her clothes seemed to fit looser than usual.

I mean, she ate like a horse.

In fact, her appetite seemed unending, the end of each day leaving her ravenous and thirsting.

And when she took her meals at the town's only tavern, why the barkeep joked that she ate enough for three of her?

She wasn't exactly losing weight.

No bones poked through her baby soft skin, no telltale signs of malnutrition or sickness, but

something strange was happening to her body.

On the 78th day in town, which should have brought her monthly time with the moon to bear,

nothing came.

Which wasn't that troubling, but just unusual.

On the 88th day, it had still not come, but on that day, though, she worked with Dr.

Gillespie on a man who'd come in hurt on the job.

A carelessly loaded wagon resulted in his leg being trapped under the lion's share of an oak tree.

Now it was broke pretty bad, but it

shouldn't have been life-threatening.

The doctor reset the man's leg as best he could and left her to tend to it.

While she was cleaning him up, as he slept off a belly full of whatever the doc gave him to kill the pain,

she felt it.

She felt the same peace she'd felt when she watched the old folks slip off into God's grace.

She felt this man, Curtis Carter,

start to die.

It wasn't violent.

It wasn't no season affair of blood and gasping and drowning wheezes.

As she held his hand searching for a pulse,

she felt his life slip right out of him.

She felt herself start to sweat and she thought she was going to faint.

She felt like she'd been filled up with a slow fire.

Her sight dimmed and her legs wobbled.

She called for the doctor and once he'd come, she excused herself herself to a privy where she hitched her dress and sat down, fearing that her stomach was about to revolt on her one way or another.

When she noticed her legs,

well, they were smooth.

The tiny rust-colored curls that had grown there since she had turned the corner of womanhood were gone.

Her skin soft as a child's.

Further inspection later that night would reveal that her entire body was much the same.

And stranger still, it seemed like she was

a little bit shorter.

Shelves that were easily in her reach suddenly

weren't.

And the next day, she tried to go about her business as usual, but her thoughts were clouded.

She couldn't seem to clear her mind.

Everything seemed to be too much, too big, too loud.

Everything about this town seemed like it was trying to crawl inside of her head.

So she just left.

Without a word to anyone, she left town and took the road north for about an hour on foot.

Then stepped off the path and into the wood.

She found a small stream.

Well, off went her boots and her socks and into the cool of the water her feet went.

She sunk her toes into the stream bed and clutched handfuls of weeds and grass and just tried her best to find herself.

And eventually it came.

the noises quieted and the fog lifted

and there she sat in the heart of the green

soaking in the light of a late April afternoon

and now she could see all of herself and

now she knew

something was wrong

It had to have something to do with her arrangement with the stag.

The charm must have gone sideways or more like, no, more like he'd found some new way to shame her and keep her in his pocket.

Her body was growing younger,

reversing itself.

But not in the way of the fairy stories where old women just got young and beautiful again.

She was literally aging in reverse.

And what's worse,

she thought she knew what was causing it.

She also knew it had to stop.

Her instructions had been to remain in Last Harbor for six months to keep watch and observe, the paper said.

What she was watching for or observing was a mystery to her.

She needed time away.

And as far as anyone knew, she was a young widow.

And young widows can have all sorts of unsettled business from their late husbands' doings.

So she would need help to test this theory.

So that night before bed, she reached out with her mind and her gift

and called for the six men.

She called for the youngest, who she nicknamed Sixie, because, well,

he was the sixth and smallest one.

She also called for the next youngest,

who she nicknamed Eugene, because she always just liked that name.

But she told them to come on foot, to travel by the roads carefully and only by night.

They were to avoid interacting with any living soul, if at all possible, and they were not to touch or harm anyone or anything.

They were to meet her in the wood by the stream where she'd gone to find her peace.

And she sent a picture of the place as hard as she could with her mind.

After a few minutes, she felt them hear her

and felt their acknowledgement.

It would take them almost four days to get there.

She would wait

and she would not go to work on the days she waited for them to come to her.

She couldn't risk it.

If she got any younger, she'd start to forget.

She told Dr.

Gillespie that she had to return to South Fork to settle something regarding her late husband's land.

It was a Monday.

She'd be back on Thursday.

And Doc wasn't happy about that.

We got three pregnant girls in this town about ready to pop, and I need you here.

I'll be back as soon as I can.

They've held this long, haven't they?

I need you back for the Elkins girl.

That one's going to be a mess, complicated family history.

You have to be here for that one.

I'll need all hands.

The next day, she made the hour walk north of town and found the path into the wood and to the stream where she had gone to recover herself.

She set up a small camp with her bedroll and a few supplies she brought.

And for the first time in months,

she was alone.

There were no other people around.

She was back in the blessed silence and solitude that had been her life since her mama's die.

And she'd made her deal with the beast.

she thought it would be awful and lonely and too quiet

but instead it settled back over her like a well-loved quilt in a warm bed

she breathed easy and free and her body sang back to her in concert with the earth she felt her gifts swell within her felt the earth and water whisper her name and she wept with joy and sang

she might have been miles and miles from the house that was both her sanctuary and her prison, but right now she was home.

She was home here in the green.

After she pulled herself back together, she drew water from the stream and set it to boil over a small fire.

She prepared salt and a few other things and smothered the fire down to a smoking ember as she shed her clothes.

and followed the stream to a deeper pool that the land had told her would be there.

She bathed herself, reaching out into the green, trying to find a way to free herself of what was being done to her.

She washed and performed rites and rituals of cleansing, called to her mothers and to the mountain to take this curse away, this curse laid on her by a lying, good-for-nothing hornedhead bastard of a hate.

At first,

She thought she might have done it.

The growing wellspring of energy felt lesser.

Her body actually ached and twinged.

Her blood even came in all its cramping glory.

She lay exhausted and clean by the pool's edge, and she felt every one of her 30 years.

Her body ached with what suspiciously felt like growing pains.

She hoped so much she was wrong, but so far her theory was playing out.

She could feel the pact with the stag was still intact.

She hadn't been trying to break that.

That would take bigger magic than her, and it wasn't likely to happen on her own.

She'd been looking to push off whatever this new thing was.

This new thing that set her body to reversing its course through time.

This new thing that was undoing her womanhood, returning her to girlhood, to childhood,

clouding her mind,

making her memories harder to call upon.

And if she lost her memories,

she'd lose her mamas.

And if she lost her mamas, someone or something else would have to raise her all over again.

And there she saw the plan.

The stag knew good and well she'd never fully been to its will, knew she was too strong to be its willing little puppet.

But if it had been the one to raise her in the first place, her and her gift, to shape her in his burning antlered image,

why she'd be a very different creature indeed.

She could not let that happen.

She slept like the dead that first night and woke sore and aching.

The long walk to this place and the changes in her body had taken their toll.

Her clothes began to fit again, her feet to fill her shoes.

She had not noticed the absence of some of the curves of her form, but even they were more well-pronounced now.

Whatever had been turning back her clock seemed to have stopped, and time was catching back up.

By the time Sixie and Eugene got to the clearing, she was feeling much like her old self.

Her back ached and her head buzzed, her legs were prickly, and her skin was an oily mess.

Good lord, this had been bad enough the first time through.

But here we were.

Oi, you two, over here, now.

The two shambling figures made their way through the trees to where she stood.

Sixie was a small, scrawny man.

He'd been young when he'd been made into this, maybe even in his 20s.

A short, patchy beard covered his thin face, and he was dressed the way they all dressed.

White dress shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, brown tweed pants, black work boots, empty eyes,

slack jaw.

And just like his brother, Sixie felt no pain, gave no expression of any sort, just did as he was bad.

Breath shallow,

barely there.

Eugene was his opposite.

A hulking brute with a long matted beard, Eugene was the battering ram of the six.

She'd seen him rip trees out of the ground and split tree stumps the way some men split light firewood.

His arms were thick slabs of muscle, and he was bald as he was tall.

She honestly just needed Sixie for this test, but the last time she tried to call him somewhere on his own, he ended up in a fight with some local boys and got thrown in the lake.

Took his brothers days to get him out.

Eugene at least could offer him a bodyguard.

Gene, you keep watch on the hill there.

Sixie, you come here and stand.

Eugene lumbered up the hill without question and took up a lookout lookout spot about 50 yards away.

When the two men arrived, she'd felt their presence.

She even felt somewhat assured by their familiar creepiness.

Beyond that, her back had stopped hurting.

She felt the stiffness in her neck even out and fade.

She looked at Sixie and stepped a little closer to him.

All these years, she'd never touched any of them or even wanted to be close to them.

But she had to know.

She reached out and grabbed Sixie's wrist and the reaction was immediate.

The creature spasmed and flailed for a moment then sank slowly to his knees, then to the ground, dead.

Her touch had drained what little life was left in him.

She touched her face and found her skin renewed and soft.

She felt the familiar surge of energy and pep that had come to characterize this new part of her life and despaired.

Now she knew

her immortality came at the expense of others.

On the ground, Sixie made a rasping, gurgling noise, and his body spasmed and twitched for a moment again before he rose and wandered several yards away and stood waiting for her command.

See, the six men couldn't die.

They were true, fully creatures of the black stag.

and apparently her immortality, her sustaining life force was being siphoned from their presence.

The pitiful unlife of them acting as a battery, sustaining her youth and keeping her body young, but still a woman's body.

Dropping her in the middle of a thriving town with so many people of all ages and all levels of life and vitality while she was gorging herself on them.

Her heart froze.

The old folks.

The injured.

She was the reason they died.

Craig Carter shouldn't have died from that leg, but there he'd been, hurting, leaking out the ears he had left, and she'd just drunk them right up.

Leaving Craig's widow Martha without a husband and his two girls without a daddy.

And the mammas and papas of the town, well, they didn't have much life left, but she'd drained them just as sure as she'd cut their throats.

Her sinking despair suddenly grew hooked and snagged into the meat of her heart as she realized the job she'd been sent here to do.

The ones she was trained for.

The ones her mothers prepared her for.

Midwife.

She was brought here to bring new babies into the world and to handle and care for them and their mamas as they hung there in that moment of blood and water and light and dark on the precipice of creation and oblivion.

Why, it was like Doc said.

They had three women set to pop in the next month and he'd warned her to stay available around that last week because Bonnie Maggard, Tess Sizemore, and Missy Elkins were all set to go.

Missy Elkins would be a challenge, he told her.

Complicated family history.

She definitely needed to be there.

He needed her.

She thought it was just concern for the woman.

But the more she thought about the pregnant girl, the surer she became that Missy had the gift, whether she knew it or not.

Now, she had not met another witch since she had been there.

But Missy Elkins' ma did brew beer for the tavern and did keep a garden out back of the brew house.

She knew her way around herbs and hops and such.

She might be just more than a brewer.

Who knew?

Her mind led her further down the path.

Who had that letter gone to that set her up in this place?

Who had literally been in communication with old Hornethead?

Who had put her in contact with the old folks, the weakest of the sick and the injured?

Who had been fattening her up and turning her clock back this whole time?

Doc Gillespie had some explaining to do.

The trip back to town felt like an eternity.

Even with Eugene carrying her and running full sprint, it seems that nearly undead lumberjacks did have some use after all.

Doc G and Missy Gillespie's baby greeted them at the town limits marker.

A cart, fully loaded, sat behind them.

Doc, said she,

what are you doing?

Miss Dooley, said Doc, the baby fussing as he attempted to soothe her, you need to come with me.

Your sponsor's asked me to bring you home.

Sponsor my arse, she spat.

Have you seen him, Doc?

Do you know what he is?

Do you really know?

Oh, Miss Dooley,

I know exactly what he is.

He is the keeper of the black word, the minder of the door of death.

He is great and he is horrible.

The man's voice rattled like teeth in an empty skull as his zeal carried his words from him like vomit.

He is the pitch-stark flame, the nightseer, the lord of the day in the wood.

Oh, he is.

He's a goddamn hate in a deerskin, she cut in.

He's a liar and a cheat.

He's a baby still in ghoul.

He's a backstabbing, horn-headed, carny-ass jackass, and he's.

He's right

here,

rumbled a familiar and terrifying voice.

She had not seen the stag in the flesh in many, many years.

And yes, he was hard to forget.

But sometimes things of such magnitude have a hard time sticking in your memory.

So she was unprepared for his size.

He was as tall and thick as a draft horse, broad in chest and majestic in the rich darkness of his hide.

His hooves were smeared with gore and awful.

His eyes smoldered in the colors of blood clots and abscess.

And of course,

upon his massive head was that crown of amber antlers, burning and smoldering with an unholy internal light.

His mere presence sucked the light from the sky, and all Daughter Dooley could do was gawp.

The black stag.

The beast whose name sounded like horned head and hornet head and Abomination and Betrayer and Judas and Liar and Defiler, he was old.

But not the oldest.

But he might have been the cruelest and the most petty.

Before she could speak, he reared and one massive hoof smashed across her face and struck hard.

And all she knew

was darkness.

She woke covered in blood.

Not just blood.

But it was part of a mixture of burdock root, crawley root, and smooth pigweed.

All things used to heal and soothe, but mixed with this tainted blood, it was a corruption of the plants, a corruption of the green, and it was all over her.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings, and realized she didn't need to.

She was home.

She was lying in the yard of her own house in the valley where all this began.

She saw Sixie and Jean, both spattered in blood, which apparently came from Doc Gillespie, who lay dead a little ways behind them.

Sixie's hands were sticky with the plant medicine.

They stared blankly at her.

The stag's voice floated into her mind, tasting like cold burnt bread.

I felt it was fitting that we came home to finish this.

If you're gonna kill me, just kill me, you bloody cow.

Sweet little witch,

you're not dying today.

Quite the opposite.

And you minded your orders, you would have stayed in that town until most of them were dead.

And you were nearly an infant.

We'd have collected you and raised you properly.

The stag stood at the edge of the boundary where it had met her years ago, shown her her ma's faces, and tempted her into this bargain that had turned her into some sort of life-stealing monster.

Your lines were so strong for one so young.

Do you remember, little witch?

You lowered your wards for me.

Let me write inside.

The stag laughed and stepped across the original boundary, raising an eyebrow as that were possible, until they were breathing the same air.

Somewhere close, a baby began to cry.

Eugene stepped into view, carrying the Elkins baby and a large sharp knife that looked older than the Christian god.

You see, little witch.

We wish to wipe clean your sweat

and starch you over.

The blood of the good doctor has opened you.

The blood of this child will feed you.

You will wake new, barely more than a babe, and you will be no.

She said shaking her head.

What?

I I said no.

You are still the stupidest thing with hooves, aren't you?

The stag did not reply.

I've done your bidding.

Not always willingly, but always well, have I not?

The stag pondered and inclined his head.

So you would agree that I wield the powers you taught me well enough that you'd want more of me.

You can sense how strong my gift is, can't you, beast?

Hell, I bet you can smell it.

Which...

I...

No, no, no, you arrogant, petty little pony.

You do not get to tell me anything after you give me my life back, then use that very life to kill the people who have been kind to me.

You killed poor Missy and her mum, probably, and now you want to kill her baby too.

So I'll do more magic tricks for you, so I'll hop too more quickly, so I'll be a good little

thing like you are.

Is that what you think?

You got me all covered in the blood of a stupid man, and you think, her voice rose, and the earth seemed to hear it, seemed to echo it like a second heartbeat.

You think I would let you harm that child?

Then I'd lay here, bloody and helpless, and watch Gene over there kill that baby.

She stepped to the beast's muzzle and locked eyes with him.

If you think any of that would happen, you're a fool, beast.

She leaned in close for the next thing.

And if you think you've actually crossed my wards, you're a bigger fool still.

And with that, she smeared her hand across her bloody chest and pressed it to the cold earth of her yard.

Something somewhere thrummed, and barriers of enormous power shot up around the stag and Miss Dooley, trapping them together in a square of crimson light, barely 12 feet across.

The stag reared.

Blood wards, old boy.

Your magic, not mine.

But you were right when you said you could teach me thing mamas never could.

Oh, I learned plenty.

I learned that you're a shadow of something much worse.

I learned that you can be cut off from that something if you do it right.

She watched the stag's eyes go wide as it reached for power that was not there.

I think I did.

And they both turned and looked at Eugene and Sixie, who plopped down crisscross applesauce.

The two almost dead men sitting like puppets with their strings cut.

The ancient knife dropped and forgotten.

The Elkins baby landing safely in Gene's lap.

So let's see what you can do without your sponsors backing you up.

Your power versus mine, beast.

Winner takes home that baby.

What's Satan?

The black stag paused a moment, eyes screaming poisonous hate, and charged as Daughter Julie laughed and leapt to meet him, eyes filling with green light and her grin fierce and full.

There is a curse upon my every

waking breath,

and

I cannot escape

the darkness.

Oh family, I know you're probably cursing my name right now, but I told you season one would end in such a way that season two has to happen.

I know you needed to hear the story of Last Harbor more than you needed some other things.

Trust me, we're not done.

Season two is coming.

We just got to say goodbye to our little witch queen for now.

And family, our thank you list is long and lengthy.

I want to thank all the folks in the fellowship hall and everyone on Patreon.

The Patreon is absolutely absurd right now.

If you want to tithe and get in on Build Mama a coffin for $10 or more a month, that's something you can do.

Head on over to patreon.com slash old gods of Appalachia.

We'll be happy to have you and happy to make sure you get hooked up with all your swag.

We want to thank some individuals, Leah and Gary Witta, who are good friends of ours, who have made some things possible that you may not realize.

Charlie Ferraro at UTA, who has opened a million doors for this podcast and helped us find some really cool opportunities.

I want to thank Heather Hawkins, who is our third wheel and person who handles a lot of our Patreon business and who's going to be doing a lot more for us in the near future you got to have the support y'all you can't do it without it speaking of support i want to thank my cousin david dc shell the paladin himself for the research help in west virginia when we did our visit to tourniquet west virginia and really i'm going to start forgetting people because there's a ton of people that have supported us and i really really really appreciate you all of our family in the podcast community on twitter holy crap i wish i could remember all of you but i really don't want to make this super stiff and formal sounding please follow us on facebook and Instagram at Old Gods of Appalachia and on Twitter at Old Gods Pod.

We have merch at the threadless store, old gods of Appalachia.threadless.

You can find all our information at oldgodsofappalachia.com.

The live show is going to be happening.

Tickets go until February 1st on Patreon for Patreon patrons and then the fellowship hall a week later.

And then for the public, not until March 1st.

Only 160 seats a night at that thing in Marion, North Carolina.

We will be appearing at Days of the Dead, hanging out, not official guests.

We will be official guests at Raven Con in Williamsburg, Virginia.

Check out the fellowship hall for dates on that.

I actually believe that's the weekend after the live shows in North Carolina.

We have so much happening, family, and it's all thanks to you.

We love you.

We can't wait to see you for Build Mama Coffin.

We can't wait to bring season two home to you and show you where you're going next because really you're going to freak out because it's super spooky and super creepy.

Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media.

Today's story was written and performed by Steve Schell.

We'll see you soon, family.

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Must be 18 years or older to purchase, play, or claim.

At CertaPro Painters, we know that a happy place comes in many colors.

Like ones that inspire a sense of wonder or a new flavor that makes life just a little bit sweeter.

Or one to celebrate those moments that lift you to new heights at home or at work.

We'll make your happy place your own.

Certipro Painters.

That's Painting Happy.

Each Certipro Painters business is independently owned and operated.

Contractor license and registration information is available at Certipro.com.