by Paula Guran
Michael had lain in his hospital cot, so dashing and heroic, his arm in a sling, his vivid blue eyes shining from beneath his bandaged forehead. The attraction had been so intense, so complete, that Jessamyne simply assumed he was a warlock friend of her cousin out to enchant her. Imagine her dismay when she learned that he was mortal. Her family’s fury when she had married him and announced they were moving back to America. How it had hurt to leave them all!
The homesickness. And then, Michael’s edict: No Witchcraft. None. Not even for protection. He would not have it. And if she would not agree to it, he would send her flying back to England.
“In an airplane,” he had added firmly.
Alone, perplexed, homesick, and desperately in love, she had agreed.
At first, it had been terrible for her. The laborious chores, done by her instead of familiars and enchanted household appliances, the endless sameness of mortal life. Watching herself age, and doing nothing about it. But worst of all, feeling her powers weaken from lack of use.
But what could she do? If she did otherwise, she would lose Michael’s love. And that was a power she had no ability to withstand. So perhaps he had been a warlock after all. At the least, a demon lover.
She managed a wistful smile. Drucilla misread it, saying, “Isn’t it wonderful, how they’re taking care of us?”
“Oh, yes, quite,” Jessamyne said. Taking care of us. That’s what Michael had said when he had laid down the law: I want to take care of you, Jessie. It makes me feel like a man.
How puzzled she had been, and how confused. But she had permitted it, even perhaps growing to like it.
She thought of the brochure for the Home: Three meals a day to tuck into! Your own room with a lovely view of the Kentish countryside. Our staff on hand twenty-four hours a day to anticipate your every need.
Her every need. She didn’t suppose they would let her fly Aphrodite, her trusty broom, but she had brought her nonetheless. She barely knew how to ride anymore, had fallen off last night when she’d tried to take one last turn around the small Connecticut village where she had lived with Michael. They would probably pack Aphrodite away somewhere where she would be “safe.”
“No!” she cried. She clapped her hands. “This is a terrible mistake! What are we doing?”
Drucilla stared at her goggle-eyed. “Jessamyne?”
“You’ve forgotten,” Jessamyne said. “You don’t remember the glory. The wonder. Think for a moment. Think of riding the moon! Riding the night wind! Think how splendid! How free, how marvelous!” She squeezed Drucilla’s biceps. “Remember it!”
“What?”
“Or will you go off to the airy coffin in Kent with everyone waiting on you?”
“Coffin? Coffin?” Drucilla echoed, distressed. “I thought we were going to a pensioners’ home!”
“Let’s get out, go, before it’s too late,” Jessamyne told her fiercely. She raised her voice and called, “Aphrodite!” There was a rumbling beneath their feet.
Then parts of the floor whooshed up toward the ceiling, as Aphrodite flew into the compartment and hovered beside Jessamyne. The flight attendant hurried toward the broom, repairing the floor with a wave of her hand as she said, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but all brooms must be safely stowed in the baggage compartment.”
“Move, move,” Jessamyne hissed at Drucilla, who got out of her seat and took a few steps down the aisle, out of the way.
Jessamyne grabbed Aphrodite by the handle. The broom nickered in her grasp. “Gone!” she shouted, pointing at the nearest window. It shattered instantly. Wind howled around them, the suction pulled at everything in the plane.
“Madam!” the stewardess remonstrated, raising her hands to repair the damage.
Jessamyne hopped on Aphrodite and shot through the window. A few loose pieces of straw were caught in the window as it sealed up again.
And then she was outside the plane in the icy night, the howling blackness, with a half moon overhead. At first she faltered, plummeting a thousand feet downward, but she felt the blood move in her veins again, felt the magic circulating again.
“Aieee, hee-hee-hee-hee!” she shrieked, speeding to catch up with the plane. She flew, she soared, she turned in huge circles. Aphrodite reared and pranced beneath her hands. The old broom was overjoyed to be back among the stars.
Through ice clouds she flew until she was beside the large jet. Hundreds of witches peering at her, some in shock, some with tears in their eyes. A few were cheering. To those she called, “Come on!”
Suddenly a dozen windows popped and a dozen witches flew out. A dozen more, and more. Soon there were a hundred. They coursed behind Jessamyne, shrieking and cackling, calling to the others in the plane.
“Freedom!” shouted an aged witch with wispy green hair.
“A new coven!” another cried.
“A new queen!”
They looked admiringly at Jessamyne. “Let’s ride, sisters!” she cried, with her fist above her head. “And as the Dark Brother is my witness, we’ll never eat oatmeal ever!”
“Aye!” they all cried as one, even all the very old witches who could barely stay astride their brooms.
“To England! And Spain! And Japan! To curdle milk and make two-headed calves!” Jessamyne grinned and jerked her head toward the jet. “And to terrify old ladies who have forgotten how to live!”
“Aye!” came the shout all around her like a thunderclap. With Jessamyne at their head, they screamed into the night, flying as witches were meant to fly to their dying day . . . and as all wise witches do!
Ceren, in Richard Park’s story, is considered to be young for a “wise woman,” but she soon shows she is wise not only beyond her own years but beyond the “wisdom” she was taught. Although there were male healers, women were, in most cultures, the ones who took care of the sick or injured. Knowledge of healing properties of various plants and herbs was often passed down from the females of one generation to the next. Possession of what we now view as simple knowledge could improve chances for survival. Although the role of hygiene and germs were not fully understood, ancient Romans cleaned wounds with vinegar and Roman surgeons boiled their instruments before use. Ceren knows to look for a fleck of rusty blade left in Kinan’s wound—doubtlessly saving him from gangrene. Arousing someone with a minor head trauma to consciousness by releasing ammonia from a “pungent blend” of herbs and cider, triggers an inhalation reflex that alters the pattern of breathing, and improves respiratory flow and alertness.
Some folk healers employed “magical” incantations along with their remedies. As Christian influence grew in Europe, such “spells” had to be separated from the physical cures, or replaced with prayers. And, since the Church taught that God sent illness as a punishment, the very act of healing could be viewed as countering His will.
Skin Deep
Richard Parks
The hardest part of Ceren’s day was simply deciding what skin to put on in the morning. Making an informed decision required that she have a clear view of her entire day, and who other than a prisoner in a dungeon or a stone statue on a pedestal had that particular luxury?
Ceren went into her Gran’s storeroom where the skins were kept. She still thought of the storeroom as her grandmother’s, just as the small cottage in the woods and the one sheep and a milk goat in the pen out back belonged to her Gran as well. Ceren still felt as if she was just borrowing the lot, even though she had been on her own for two full seasons of the sixteen she had lived. Yet she still felt like a usurper, even though she herself had buried her grandmother under the cedar tree and there were no other relatives to make a claim. She especially felt that way about the skins, since Gran herself hadn’t owned those, at least to Ceren’s way of thinking. Borrowed, one and all.
They lay on a series of broad, flat shelves in the storeroom, covered with muslin to keep the dust off, neatly arranged just as a carpenter would organize his tools, all close to hand and suited for the purpose. Here was t
he one her Gran had always called the Oaf—not very bright, but large and strong and useful when there were large loads to be shifted or firewood to cut. There was the Tinker—slight and small, but very clever with his hands and good at making and mending. On the next highest shelf was the Soldier. Ceren had only worn him once, when the Red Company had been hired to raid the northern borders and all the farmers kept their axes and haying forks near to hand. She didn’t like wearing him. He had seen horrible things, done as much, and the shell remembered, and thus so did she. She wore him for two days, but by the third she decided she’d rather take her chances with the raiders. The Soldier was for imminent threats and no other.
The skin on the highest shelf she had never worn at all. Never even seen it without its translucent covering of muslin, though now that Gran was gone there was nothing to prevent her. That skin frightened Ceren even more than The Soldier did. Gran had told her that at most she would wear the skin once or twice in her life, that she would know why when the time came. Otherwise, best not to look at it or think about it too much. Ceren didn’t understand what her Gran was talking about, and that frightened her most of all because the old woman had flatly refused to explain or even mention the matter again. But there lay the skin on its high shelf. Sleeping, supposedly. That’s what they all were supposed to do when not needed, but Ceren wasn’t so sure about this one. It wasn’t sleeping, she was certain. It was waiting for the day when Ceren would be compelled to put it on and become someone else, someone she had never been before.
It’ll be worse than the Soldier, she thought. Has to be, for Gran to be so leery of it.
The day her grandmother had spoken of was not here yet, since Ceren felt no compulsion to find the stepstool and reach the mysterious skin on the high shelf. Today was a work day, and so today there was no guessing to be done. Ceren slipped out of her thin shift and hung it on a peg. Then she slipped the muslin coverlet off of the Oaf. She had need of his strength this fine morning. She could have even used that strength to get the skin of its shelf in the first place, but for the moment she had to make do with what she had. She used both hands and finally pulled it down.
Like cowhide, the skin was heavier than it looked. Unlike cowhide, it still bore an uncanny resemblance to the person who had once owned it, only with empty eye sockets now and a face and form much flatter than originally made, or so Ceren imagined. Gran never said where any particular skin came from; Ceren wasn’t sure that the old woman even knew.
“They once belonged to someone else. Now they belong to us, our rightful property. I also came into a wash basin, a hammer, a saw and a fine, sharp chisel when my own mam died, and I didn’t ask where they came from. Your mam would have got them, had she lived, but she wouldn’t wonder about those things and neither should you.”
Ceren had changed the subject then because her Gran had that little glow in her good eye that told anyone with sense that they were messing around in a place that shouldn’t be messed around in. Ceren, whatever her faults, had sense.
It took all of her strength, but Ceren managed to hold up the skin as she breathed softly on that special spot on the back of its neck that Gran had showed her. The skin split open, crown to crack, and Ceren stepped into it like she’d step into a dancing gown—if she’d had such a thing or a maid or friend to lace up the back when she was done.
Next came the uncomfortable part. Ceren always tried not to think about it too much, but she didn’t believe she would ever get used to it, even if she lived to be as old as Gran did before she died. First Ceren was aware of being in what felt like a leather cloak way too large for her. That feeling lasted for only a moment before the cloak felt as it it was shrinking in on her, but she knew it must have been herself getting . . . well, stretchy, since the Oaf was a big man, and soon so was she. Her small breasts flattened as if someone was pushing them, her torso thickened, her legs got longer and then there was this clumsy, uncomfortable thing between them. She felt her new mouth and eyes slip into place. When it was all over, she felt a mile high, and for the first dizzying seconds she was afraid that she might fall. Now she could clearly see the covering of muslin over the topmost skin on its shelf. She looked away, closed her eyes.
The uncomfortable part wasn’t quite over; there was one final bit when Ceren was no longer completely Ceren. There was someone else present in her head, someone else’s thoughts and memories to contend with. Fortunately the Oaf hadn’t been particularly keen on thought, and so there wasn’t as much to deal with.
The Soldier hadn’t been quite so easy. Ceren tried not to remember.
“Time to go to work,” she said aloud in a voice much lower than her own, and the part of her that wasn’t Ceren at all but now served her understood.
She was never sure how much of what followed was her direction or the Oaf’s understanding. Ceren knew the job that needed doing—a dead tree had fallen across the spring-fed brook that brought water to her animals and had diverted most of it into a nearby gully. That tree would have to be cleared, but while Ceren rightly thought of the axe and the saw, it was the Oaf who added the iron bar from her meager store of tools and set off toward the spring, whistling a tune that Ceren did not know, nor would it have mattered much if she did know, as she had never had the knack of whistling. Ceren was content to listen as she—or rather they—set out on the path to the head of the spring.
Ceren’s small cottage nestled into the base of a high ridge in the foothills of the Pinetop Mountains. The artesian spring gave clear cold water year round, or at least it did before the tree dammed up the brook. Now the brook was down to a trickle, and the goat especially had been eyeing her reprovingly for the last two mornings as she milked it.
The Oaf had been right about the iron bar. It was a large old tree, more dried-out than rotten. Even with her new strength, it took Ceren a good bit of the morning with the axe and saw and then a bit more of that same morning with the iron bar and a large rock for a fulcrum to shift the tree trunk out of the brook. She moved a few stones to reinforce the banks and then it was finally done. The brook flowed freely again.
The Oaf cupped his calloused hands and drank from the small pool that formed beneath the spring. Ceren knew he wanted to sit down on a section of the removed log and rest, but Ceren noticed a plume of smoke from the other side of the ridge and gave in to curiosity. The ridge was steep, but spindly oak saplings and a few older trees grew along most of the slope, and she made her borrowed body climb up to the top using the trees for handholds.
My own skin is better suited for this climb, she thought, but the Oaf, though not nearly so nimble as Ceren’s own lithe frame, finally managed to scramble to the top.
Someone was clearing a field along the north-south road in the next valley. Ceren recognized the signs: a section of woodland with its trees cut, waste fires for the wood that couldn’t be reused, a pair of oxen to help pull the stumps. She counted three men working and one woman. The farmhouse was already well under way. Ceren sighed. She wasn’t happy about other people being so close; her family’s distrust of any and all others was bred deep. Yet most of the land along the road this far from the village of Endby was unclaimed, the farm did not infringe on her own holdings, and at least they were on the other side of the ridge, so she wouldn’t even have to see them if she didn’t want to.
Ceren had just started to turn away to make the climb back down before she noticed one lone figure making its way down the road. It was difficult at the distance, but Ceren was fairly sure that he was one of the men from the new homestead.
Doubtless headed toward the village on some errand or other.
Ceren watched for a while just to be sure and soon realized the wisdom of caution. The ridge sloped downward farther east just before it met the road. To her considerable surprise, when the man passed the treeline he did not continue on the road but rather stepped off onto the path leading to her own cottage. She swore softly, though through the Oaf’s lips it came out rather more loud than
she intended. Ceren hurried her borrowed form back down the ridge to the path from the spring, but despite her hurry, the stranger was no more than ten paces from her when she emerged into the clearing.
“Hullo there,” said the stranger.
Ceren got her first good look at the man. He was wearing his work clothes, old but well-mended. He was young, with fair hair escaping from the cloth he’d tied around his head against the sun, and skin tanned from a life spent mainly outside. She judged him not more than a year or so older than she herself. Well-formed, or at least to the extent that Ceren could tell about such things. There weren’t that many young men in the village to compare to, most were away on the surrounding farms, and those who were present always looked at her askance when she went into town, if they looked at her at all. It used to upset her, but Ceren’s grandmother had been completely untroubled by this.
“Of course they look away. You’re a witch, girl, the daughter of a witch and the granddaughter of a witch, the same as me. They’re afraid of you, and if you know what’s what, you’ll make sure they stay that way.”
The memory passed in a flash, and for a moment Ceren didn’t know what to do. The stranger just looked at her then repeated, “Hullo? Can you hear me?”
Ceren spoke through her borrowed mouth and tried to keep her tone under control. The Oaf had a tendency to bellow like a bull if not held in check. “Hello. I’m sorry I was . . . thinking about something. What do you want?”
“I’m looking for the Wise Woman of Endby. I was told she lived here. Is this your home, then?”