Unsigned Books

A Modern-Day Fairy Tale

The song: Put Another Log on the Fire

Some believe witches were real. Some believe witches are real. Some believe witches. Witches were often treated cruelly. One might recall those of Salem. The last witch trial in England took place halfway through the last century. After that, they were no longer to be referred to as witches; henceforth they would be known as (fraudulent) mediums. This did not change anything about them. In the nineteenth century, a powerful witch went from village to village leaving a trail of death in her wake. She was never caught. It is said she still roams the Earth, carrying her leather satchel. There are whispers of her having a letter for each and every one in it. On the night described below, she had one for FitzWilliam.  

He sat at his table drinking while ignoring the rain outside. The fire in the hearth had just started burning away the last log for the night. A lantern on the table kept his hands warm. Tomorrow he would have to go out hunting. Anything would do, really, but he would probably go for some rabbits to turn into a nice stew just like his mother used to make it. The last of his meat was being smoked over the fire and that would make a solid breakfast for him. 

Lost in his thoughts, he did not notice the quiet knocking on his door. It would have been for the best if he had also not heard the second louder knocks either. Then again, I am sure she would have got him to open the door in any case. After all, she had come all the way specially for him. FitzWilliam did not know her. He did not know she was coming. They had never met before and would never meet again. Hilda only visits once.  

Carrying his lantern in one hand, he made his way to the door. He had made this one himself when a fierce storm a couple of years before had torn the old one away. Upon opening it, a wrinkled old finger appeared right in front of his grey eyes. Pointing at him. “You!” came her high-pitched voice like long, dirty nails scratching a blackboard. “It is you I seek. You are FitzWilliam. Son of the late Joane and William the Elder. Father to none. Ex-husband of Rosaly from Edinburgh. You are him!” 

FitzWilliam was a strong and well-built man, a skilled fighter, and not easily scared, but the sudden appearance of this hideous being in a dimly lit doorway playing hell with his ears caught him off guard and he jumped up. The black eyepatch covering her right eye, fresh-looking scars in her face and tangled mess of bewildered hair under a muddy brown cloak gave her an appearance that could make a grown-up have sleepless nights for weeks on end. Despite the heavy rain, she was bone dry. Not a drop of water on her.  

“You are right. I am whom you are speaking of. FitzWilliam am I. How … ?”  

“It is my duty to know and my burden to visit.” 

“I have not got much to offer, old woman, but would you like to come in? I could put another log on the fire, if you’d like.” 

“In need of a fire I am not. You have always been a kind man, FitzWilliam.” Her boney fingers gently stroked the side of his face. “Too kind. You let your best friend carry away your girl without a grudge. She wanted all you had; you gave it without questioning. It pains me so to be standing here in front of you. Alas, it is fate.” 

Even though it seemed to him this woman was speaking in tongues, he kept his wits about him. He was unafeared and at the same time had pity on old woman. It did not occur to FitzWilliam Hilda was a witch. Her name and fame were unbeknownst to this poor, lonesome man in the dark of the forest.  

“Pray, what brings you to my house at this time of night?” 

“In my satchel I carry a letter.” 

“Who is it for?”  

“It is for you.” 

“I was not expecting a letter from anybody. Who is it from?” 

“That is of no importance.” 

“Why, then, should I want it?” 

“For the message it holds.” 

“You know what is written in it?” 

“For decades I have been delivering the same message.”  

“Don’t keep me in the dark. Is it bad news?” 

“The letter, FitzWilliam, tells you exactly how and when you are going to die.” 

“Is that something I would like to know?” 

“That is what you will have to consider. Take all the time you need.” 

She opened her satchel and took out an envelope. FitzWilliam got a quick glimpse inside and saw it only held just the one. Other than the single letter the leather bag was completely empty. He took it from her crooked fingers and stared at the envelope. On it was written his name and the words ‘Memento Mori’. When he looked up to ask her why him, she had vanished. Another letter had already magically appeared in her satchel and now she was on her way to meet Jörgenson; a distant relative of a Viking warrior killed in the battlefields. He would not show Hilda the same kindness and understanding as FitzWilliam had.  

The door was closed, and he walked towards the table staring at the ominous looking words written in dark red ink. The envelope had no name, no address, and no seal, just a shapeless red dot of hardened wax to keep it closed. He put down the lamp and laid the yellow envelope on the table to empty his hands so he could pour himself a drink. The old lady was right; he could use another one. There was enough gin left for him to get dead drunk. No need for that, a little bit light in the head would be enough. With a glass half full of gin he went over to the fire and threw another log on it. The flames growled at him as he hit it with a poker. 

He would decide what to do with the letter before the fire was out. The letter lying in front of him on the table held information that could and would alter the entire course of his life. He had questions without answers. Is this something I would want to know? Is it right for one to know the exact time and date of one’s death? What if death comes sooner than I want it to? What if I die in the most horrible way anybody can think of? He held the letter up to the light of the candle but could not see the words through the thick envelope. There is no way to cheat. If he wanted to know, he would have to open it.  

Knowing when and how I am going to die would sort of render me immortal until that time and date, would it not? I would know that no matter what, I would survive anything until the date written down in the letter I have just been given. He had meant to go easy on the gin, instead he poured it down his throat like a cool glass of water. Immediately, he refilled his glass. This was too much for any man to bear. This knowledge was only meant for the Gods.  

He downed another glass. It blurred his thoughts a little. Might this make me do reckless things? Might this cause me to be sad for knowing my life was coming to an end? Do I tell people? Will they ask? What if it was all just a hoax? More gin. More reckless thinking. More gin. Less sensible thinking. To hell with it. I will open it. What is the worse that could happen!? He drank the last drop of gin, tore open the envelope, unfolded the foolscap and held it up in front of his puffy eyes red from the drinking. 

FitzWilliam died right there and then after the last written word had been read. As he had few friends and was living alone in the forest, it would take months before somebody found him. The man, a huntsman looking for a place to hide from the rain, looked through the window and saw the poor, young lad, sitting at the table as white as a sheet. As he got no response to his frightful yelling and pounding on the door, he broke into the shack and ran towards the dead man. Oddly enough, FitzWilliam’s body had been well-preserved. It was as if he had died not half an hour before. His eyes wide open, staring at the yellowed piece of paper his hands were still holding onto.  

The huntsman, pried the letter from the dead man’s hands and read the words aloud, “Dear FitzWilliam, Your heart will stop beating as soon as you have read the last word of this letter. No sooner. No later.” 

It is said that a similar letter for Hilda was found in what was believed to be her home. The letter lies hidden in a vault in the basement of the British Museum. It is unopened and still there waiting for Hilda. 

Writing prompt by L. Stevens from Everyday Strange.

“Imagine you have been given an envelope that contains the exact time, date, and manner of your death. Would you open it? What would the possible consequences be if you did or did not?”