When the geese flew east, not north or south, the villagers knew it an evil omen. Sent three boys to the forest. To the Witch’s Oak.
Though never said aloud, the three knew what was expected.
Demanded of them.
Days spent moving through the thick forest. Roots like skeletal hands grasping at their ankles. Black eyed birds watching silently from the canopy. When the wind blew right, the smell of copper and wet fur dogged them.
Until at last they came to Witch’s Oak. Branches sinewed over the clearning, choking light and letting nothing grow beneath.
They drew their blades.
Prompt courtesy of Sue Vincent’s #Writephoto.