The Broken Circle: Yarns of the Knitting Witches

by Cheryl Potter

  “Step aside,” Aubergine commanded.

  Ratta reluctantly made way. Sierra brushed past to stand between Ratta and Indigo Rose.

  “The tale will be told, then?” Sierra asked lightly.

  “It will be told,” Ratta fumed. “But you will not like the yarn, nor the destiny it holds for you.”

  Aubergine gave Ratta a stern look. “If you have ever hoped that Mamie Verde would pass from this world peacefully, you will recite the yarn exactly as she uttered it.”

  “Why must I, when I have funeral raiment for her?” Ratta pulled out the shimmering Land-of-Dreams scarf that she had taken from Esmeralde’s cottage. “This should be enough to guide Mamie safely to the land of dreams.”

  “Where did you get that?” Esmeralde narrowed her eyes.

  “A scarf has little power to aid one of the Twelve, in this world or the next.” Aubergine told Ratta coldly.

  “I challenge you!” Esmeralde pointed at Ratta, but spoke to Aubergine. “The scarf is not hers. I dyed that alpaca in a color I call Winterberry, because as all know berries do not grow or ripen in the season of snow. I knit the star design myself to sell to a certain someone who was to meet me at the Middlemarch fair. The funeral scarf is mine.”

  “If what she says is so, give it back,” Aubergine ruled. “Time grows short. Tell us the tale.”

  “As you wish.” Ratta handed the scarf to Indigo, who passed it to Esmeralde. “But first the boy must leave.”

  “I’m fed up with banishment,” Warren said. “I see the fossicker known as Traitor. What makes him special enough to be here?”

  “I recognize you too, sledder,” Trader jeered. “I beat you handily at dice in Winter Watch not long ago. My specialty lies in the fact that I am a maiden and you are a boy, easy to fool.”

  “It is so,” Lily confirmed to Warren. “We do not condone the magic of men here.”

  “What magic?” Warren asked. “Does it have anything to do with this hat?” He pulled the Snowflake watch cap from his head. “Mae let me wear it. It’s not mine.”

  “Keep the hat.” Aubergine shot a questioning glance to Sierra, who shook her head slightly. “Join your brother in the kitchen,” she said to Warren. “The maid can fix you a plate. Then send her in to stoke the fire.”

  As soon as Warren left through the still-smoking doorframe, Aubergine addressed the others in earnest. “Tonight we have serious work to conduct in our simmer. The fate of the world hangs on what happens here among us. The vision we seek starts at the secret entrance to the glacier. Northlanders call it the Blind Side, because each morning the sun striking the ice is fierce to the eye. To discover this passage unnoticed, we must conjure from our dye pot a colorway in the likeness of multicolored flames licking frozen outcrops.”

  “Fire,” Smokey Jo breathed, “with ice.” She relished the words. “We shall call the new colorway Fire and Ice.”

  “Mae, select for us a series of crystals.” Aubergine beckoned Mae to the table beneath the shelves that had housed the dyestuffs. The crone pulled a handful of crystals from her pouch and set them on the shelf. As she did so, she seemed almost sane. Next Aubergine turned to the shepherdess. “Winter Wheat, where is the fiber?”

  “Ready.” Wheat withdrew a snowy fleece from a burlap sack. She laid it on the table. “It is freshly scoured, long-stapled Suri alpaca,” she said, pleased with her find. “It should suit nicely.”

  “We will dye it and then spin it into fine yarn for a shawl,” Aubergine decided. She turned to Smokey Jo. “The shawl, as well as its color, can be called Fire and Ice.”

  Sierra looked at the fleece approvingly. “I shall spin and ply this fiber into lace weight yarn myself,” she said.

  “No,” Aubergine said gently. “Only Skye can treadle fiber from our simmers now. You shall touch neither spindle nor wheel, for now you will tell the story of each yarn, as Mamie Verde did.”

  Sierra lowered her eyes. “As you wish.”

  Mae rummaged in her pouch again and produced an amber crystal, which she placed next to the raw ruby and topaz stones already on the dye table. Humming to herself, she reordered the gems several times before she reached to the shelf behind Aubergine’s chair for the mortar and pestle.

  “Let’s begin.” Aubergine lifted a heavy hourglass from the dye shelf and set it on the table. The bottom of the clear glass container was filled with fine shards of broken crystal that had not been disturbed in years. “Esmeralde, bring the mordant,” she said briskly. “Indigo, the assistant.”

  Esmeralde stepped forward to fill a gallon pail with clear vinegar, which she poured into the cauldron. A cloud of steam rose. Indigo sifted a measure of sea salt into a silver scoop and sent it cascading into the pot in an arc of white granules. Together, the two witches took the long-handled wooden paddle and began to stir the liquor slowly. The pungent smells of weak acid and salt water permeated the air.

  Aubergine beckoned to Ratta and Lily. “Bring what remains of Mamie to the simmer,” she commanded. Silently, Lily went to the back of the room, where the old woman’s body lay in the shadows. Ratta followed slowly, unshed tears welling in her eyes. Together they lifted the still form and brought it to the circle just as Mae came forth with the ground crystals, arranged in salt dishes. “Mae?” she asked, recognizing the old woman’s likeness. She gazed up at Aubergine. “Mamie?”

  “Yes,” Aubergine said. “Do you remember what to do?”

  Mae nodded solemnly. She sifted first golden grains of topaz, and then burnished bits of ruby, and finally dark amber ground fine as silt, into the iron kettle. Esmeralde and Indigo stirred the bath unceasingly, trading the paddle between them, until the crystals dissolved. Multicolored ribbons swirled through the current they created, before each in turn disappeared into the vortex.

  Smokey dragged her stool closer the pot and climbed back up so she could peer into the steaming mixture. The shaded water pooled and repooled in a medley of colors as it simmered, seeking fiber. “The pot is ready,” she announced.

  “Wheat, it’s your turn,” Aubergine said.

  Winter Wheat lifted the mass of curly alpaca from the table brought it toward the dye pot where it glistened in the candlelight.

  As Wheat lightly held the shining Suri over the steaming cauldron, Aubergine began the incantation. “Tonight we circle the great pot, seeking to wield the power of the ancient stones, much as the First Folk did, as we have practiced countless times before. Over a shared vision we shall meld crystal to fiber. From this we will spin a magical yarn that will someday become the fabric of our story.

  “Just as the natural world draws upon elements of earth, water, wind, and fire to flourish, so do we channel the lore and legend gleaned from this circle. Above all, know this: Fire and ice can be used to destroy the lands, but never to rule them. If the Middlelands freeze, or if the Lowlands burn to fuel the Northland wars, we shall all die.

  “What happens next is up to the Twelve,” she concluded. Scanning the small gathering, she tried not to dwell on the gaping hole between Skye and Trader. Only eleven witches, she thought, only eleven stones.

  The pot began to boil.

  “Wait!” Smokey shouted. “We are not enough!”

  But Wheat had already released the fleece into the simmer. “Fire and Ice,” she whispered.

  “Fire and Ice,” Aubergine declared.

  With a flick of the paddle, Esmeralde coaxed the mass of fiber into the swirling liquor. She handed the heavy oar to Indigo, who stirred the whirlpool of color until the fiber spun deep into the dye bath. When she pulled the wooden stick from the pot, nothing clung to its dripping edge.

  The bubbling liquid sent up surges of steam, redolent of ground stone, vinegar, and wet wool, as Indigo stowed the paddle and she and Esmeralde resumed their places in the circle.

  As the vapor above the vessel began to collect into an opaque cloud, Aubergine continued. “Now it i
s time to let Mamie pass from this world, if she will.” She turned to Trader, who was watching the ceremony in awe. “Little Teal, upend the hourglass,” she instructed, beckoning the girl to the table. “You will mark time.”

  Trader regarded the mound of crumbled crystal in the bottom of the hourglass and her eyes flew to Aubergine in alarm. “I don’t know how to tell time,” she protested. “I never learned.”

  “Gifts are not taught,” Aubergine said brusquely. “They come from within. Approach.” Trader moved forward, slowly. “Young Teal, you are called to count down time, as Tracery Teal did before you. Turn over the glass. When the last grain of crystal falls through the funnel, time will stand still. Mere shadows of Mamie Verde will remain, and you alone shall witness what comes to pass.” Aubergine looked to Ratta. “Free her.”

  With Lily’s help, Ratta lifted the sparkling shroud tenderly from Mamie’s stiffened form. As the fabric fell to the floor, the glittery pinpricks of light began to burn out, and Ratta understood that from this moment on the wrap would be just a shawl, no longer infused with magic to stall passage between life and death.

  As the last light winked out, Aubergine directed, “Lay her body across the bed of clouds.”

  As Lily and Ratta lifted the frail form over the roiling steam, Aubergine gestured to Trader. “Mark time now,” she said, hoping the billowing vapor would hold.

  Trader reversed the hourglass, surprised to find it was heavy, and carefully set it back on the table. Tiny fragments of amethyst began to sift through the narrow neck, slowly at first. Now and again the jagged shards caught on each other, threatening to clog the funnel, but somehow they kept slipping through.

  Standing tall, Aubergine raised her arms. “Let Mamie go,” she said at last. “Let her go.”

  Tears streaked Ratta’s face. Lily gently pulled her own fingers away from Mamie’s feet and stepped back. Seeing that the body remained aloft, Ratta let go of Mamie’s head and wiped her eyes. The old woman’s frame drifted lightly above the pot, pillowed by the steam.

  “Tell the tale for all that is true and good,” Aubergine told Ratta. Ratta’s eyes flitted to the witches waiting in the circle. “Nothing’s coming back to me.”

  “Start somewhere,” Lily said softly. “Anywhere.”

  “I was a girl when Mamie told me the lost yarn,” Ratta said, sounding desperate.

  Aubergine clapped her hands. “Everyone, help her remember.”

  “This legend, does it have a name?” Wheat prompted.

  “Guardian of the Crystal Caves.” Ratta replied.

  “Ask her the question,” Lily urged Ratta. “You promised me.” Taking a deep breath, Ratta looked directly at Sierra. “Do you know such a story?”

  Sierra shook her head slowly. “Not at all,” she said raising her eyes to the group. “It must be the one.”

  “Mamie had already begun to leave this world when she revealed the lost tale to Ratta,” Aubergine observed. “Only the fact that we did not yet have it, tethered her here.”

  “Her demise was slow.” Ratta felt the familiar prick behind her eyes, feeble at first. She gazed sharply toward the body cushioned on the cloud, but the vapor obscured the form that rested there. “I should have let her go years ago.”

  “Her failing health was impossible to diagnose,” Esmeralde added. “Nothing in my Possibles Bag helped.”

  “We all tried to ease those days,” Lily said quietly. “When she ceased to walk with her cane, I cleaned out that old study to bring her bed downstairs.”

  “I took her favorite rocker to the workshop and made it into a rolling chair to wheel her from table to bed, yarn shop to dye shed.” Ratta closed her eyes as a faltering hand fluttered like a butterfly through her mind. “It’s coming now,” she breathed. “Keep on.”

  Sierra took up the thread. “Mamie began to sleep more, converse less,” she recalled. “When she stopped talking altogether, none of us were surprised—it seemed the natural order of things.”

  Esmeralde shrugged. “I never knew there was another tale.”

  “Oddly enough, although she no longer uttered sounds, I still heard her words in my head.” Ratta’s voice grew stronger with the memory. “I named her silent language Mind Speak, unaware that the Guardians had called it so since time began.”

  She scanned the group. “Do you remember how you taunted me? Calling me a kitchen wench, and laughing when I answered my lady’s inaudible questions aloud. You, Winter Wheat, went so far as to burn holes in my clothing with your bejeweled beetle staff. One day I finally realized that I was the only one who could hear Mamie’s words. I stopped voicing my replies. I understood that we could converse in silence, and you would not know. None of you would.”

  Wheat and Indigo began to speak at once, in what might have become an argument if Aubergine had not held up her hand to stop them. “Let Ratta continue,” she said.

  “No one realized that Mamie spoke to me. I didn’t realize at first that she used the ancient way of the Guardians because she was destined to become one someday,” Ratta said. “Later, this was a connection I became aware of, but still do not understand. All these years I have kept her shrouded in a magical cocoon to keep her from death. All I really did was suspend her between this world and the one in which she belongs.”

  Ratta raised red-rimmed eyes. “I acted selfishly. Although it was time for Mamie to claim her legacy as the next caretaker of the ancients, I was unable to bear the thought of being alone. Her time here was done twenty years ago. The Guardians revealed the tales of old to her, and she fulfilled her pledge to pass them on to us. Who is her successor? You think you know, Aubergine, but I fear you do not. You named Sierra Blue, but I am doubtful, because that tale is yet to be told. Mamie is fated to dwell in the Crystal Caves with the Watchers, safeguarding First Folk secrets, until her stewardship is complete. Only then shall we see who succeeds her—or not.”

  Aubergine looked around the hushed circle. “Ratta speaks the truth. Our future is far from certain. I have summoned you all here to free Mamie. Once she assumes the Guardianship, she may be able to lead us to the ancient crystals. Then perhaps we will possess renewed power to fend off the Lowlanders and the Northlanders.

  “We must act swiftly, for the Lowlanders have broken into the Crystal Caves from the Blind Side. Before long they will plunder the ancient tombs. Secrets of old could easily fall into the possession of the Dark Queen, who might then find a way to use them against us. The present Guardian’s watch was up twenty years ago. Who knows if he still safeguards the First Folk remains? Who knows how much longer he has been able to wait?”

  Esmeralde looked at Aubergine in disbelief. “Men guard the ancient graves?”

  “One did,” Aubergine affirmed.

  “But no more?” Indigo asked.

  “Mamie should have been able to release him twenty years ago, as she promised.”

  “He was just a man,” Ratta tossed back.

  “He was my husband.” Aubergine’s voice vibrated with anger. “Tell the tale.”

  “I do not claim to understand the Lost Tale, because I discovered it deep inside Mamie’s failing memory,” Ratta said. “Over the years, she unraveled the lost yarn in fits and starts, while the rest of you stood by, unaware, murmuring your regular incantations. For me, time stood still, and images started coming to me like a waking dream. Nothing I saw made sense, but I was so delighted to have Mamie back again that I didn’t care. I didn’t realize then that she would never show me the tale again, so I failed to ask questions.” She searched the others’ faces. “I was young, and thought I had all the time in the world. So much of what Mamie offered seemed like addled mutterings, that I didn’t pay enough attention, much heed. I should have told you the story at once, even though I couldn’t make sense of it. I knew it had to be important, and I knew that Mamie spoke nothing but the truth.”

  Trader tapped gently on the table, as a
signal that the sands of time were half gone. From her perch on the stool, Smokey peered into the pot. Locks of dyed Suri alpaca fleece had begun to float to the surface of the dye bath. The tendrils reminded Smokey of mountain maples touched by first frost, their leaves streaked fuchsia and gold, scarlet and rust. As the fiber took up the colors, the liquid surrounding the fiber had begun to lose its brilliance and its scent was becoming less heady.

  Smokey hopped off her stool and took a birch log from the nearly empty wood box, to toss into the flames under the pot. “We need more sticks for the fire.” She bustled to the doorway and looked down the hall. “Where is that girl?”

  “Continue,” Aubergine prompted Ratta.

  “We all know the tale of the Ancients’ Folly from Sierra Blue,” Ratta said. “In that yarn, the First Folk tried to bend nature to their will and succeeded only in destroying their suns before perishing in a world covered by ice. This is all any of us knew, and we assumed it was Mamie’s last legend. Now you will hear the companion tale, that of the Guardian of the Crystal Caves.”

  Smokey burst back into the room carrying a few sticks of kindling, followed by the kitchen maid, who hauled an entire armload of firewood. Smokey thrust her bits into the blaze under the cauldron while the girl dropped her logs into the wood box. The pot boiled more vigorously, sending up fresh clouds of steam that further blurred the edges of Mamie’s body. Smokey resumed her place in the circle. With a fearful look at the vapor swirling above the cauldron, the girl backed away, but only until she disappeared into the shadows at the edge of the room.

  Aubergine adjusted her shawl and reached her hands toward the pot. Across from her, Ratta closed her eyes to focus her sight inward. Between them, the air trembled with energy, like lightning generates before a storm fully breaks.

  “Show us,” Aubergine said.

  “We are but eleven,” Smokey warned.

  “Hush,” Aubergine said sharply.

  Over the cauldron, the air crackled. When Ratta spoke, the voice that came from her mouth sounded as if it came from some place far away, perhaps even dead. “After their suns turned black and fell from the sky, the first few folk that froze to death were placed in tombs by those who survived,” she said, as the smoke cleared to reveal the vision that she had begun to see in her mind’s eye.