The Witch's Diary

by Rebecca Brae

  Missera doesn’t seem put out by him. She’s currently slithering around his crooks and crags. It’s mesmerizing to watch—especially when Herman hitches a ride.

  The two familiars are getting along a little too well. I found several snake-sized holes in strategic places around the apartment. It seems I wasn’t the only one busy this sun. Herman has eaten passages between the living room and bedroom, and between at least two kitchen cupboards.

  I don’t know what they’re up to, but I don’t trust them. I left Herman at home this morn because I figured he’d get into less trouble. Wrong. If he doesn’t smarten up, he’ll have to come to work with me. I’ll have a chat with him this eventide about behaving himself and see that he gives Magda a proper apology for damaging her apartment. Yet another thing to fix and more coin out of my perpetually empty pouch.

  Freydias, Storm Moon 26, 209

  MY SECOND SUN at Moonbrews went well, with one minor hitch: I accidently switched two orders. They were for identical twins, so I can’t feel too bad. One wanted a Mucho Golden Fate and the other ordered a Fat Heart Stopper. If you ask me, I did them a favour. It’s not good to be too focused on money or love. You need to mix it up now and then.

  They didn’t see it that way. Andreas had to smooth things over. Gave them each a complimentary drink card. He is a master at handling disgruntled clients. He wasn’t happy about my mix-up but said he understood how difficult it was adjusting to such a fast-paced work environment. He’s way more understanding than Althea ever was.

  I’m shocked at how popular Moonbrews is. Not to throw shade at my new workplace, but come on. I’m not sure whether their potions are specifically designed to expire every sun or if the ingredients are just so weak that they don’t last, but it means customers have to come back often to get their fix. Why don’t they invest in something longer term? The initial outlay might be higher, but it ultimately costs less. I really don’t get people sometimes.

  On top of the temporary nature of Moonbrews’ potions, there’s no innovation, no deviation, no spirit in them. Brew Masters can’t tweak them or anything. You’d think our customers would get bored, but I saw many of the same faces this sun as I did last sun.

  I suppose it’s a case of convenience over quality. Oh well. At least I’ll never be out of work here.

  I’m feeling almost normal on the snot front, but my feet are still killing me. We aren’t allowed to sit while working the counter. Andreas says it looks like we’re more alert and attentive if we’re upright. Whatever. I saw him levitating. Most of the other Brew Masters do it too, so I think the rule is a little unfair where I’m concerned. I’ll wait until I’m fully trained and then approach him about it again. All employees should have equal opportunities to rest their feet, whether they have access to magickal means of doing so or not.

  At least I won’t have to put up with foot pain for too much longer this eventide. Magda and I are going out to celebrate my new job and I plan to partake in enough fermented ghoul eyes to pickle that judgmental union healer who suggested I had a ghoul eye problem.

  Oh yeah! Time to put on my party robes and dancing boots!

  WELL. THAT WAS interesting. At least this time I can say it’s not my fault a tavern burnt down, or more accurately, exploded. I never even made it to the point of over-indulging in ghoul eyes.

  Our eventide started out normal enough. Magda and I decided to visit The Moon’s Lament, our favourite haunting ground in college. Not much had changed. It was the same dark, hops-soaked retreat where we wiled away poor grades and whittled rude comments about instructors into the wooden tabletops and pillars. My Dame Dicentra limerick was still visible at our old booth. Someone even added several amusing verses.

  We both carefully avoided rehashing anything connected to my disastrous Justin phase. We should talk about it again at some point, even if it’s just me making sure she knows how instrumental her support and friendship were in getting me through those dark times. But that is a conversation for a brighter sun. I’m just starting to claw my way out of this current funk. No need to add another layer to my depression.

  The tips I received over the last two suns paid for the first round of ghoul eye cocktails for me and Magda—and Herman and Missera, as they insisted on coming. Our familiars quickly lost interest in our conversation and worked their way around the room picking pockets. They spent their ill-gotten gains on some kind of loud mechanical wizard box with blinking lights. I’m sure they were cheating. Every time Missera deposited a coin, Herman skittered into the works and did something that involved a series of bongs and pings. At least it kept them out of our way.

  Poor Magda is trying hard to overcome her snake phobia. Living with Missera, who is very snaky and active, has destroyed any sense of calm she had at home. She hasn’t even tried to bring her familiar into castings as her fear makes it impossible to hold elementals in balance. I broached the idea of transmutation by letting on that I’ve considered trying it with Herman, when and if my magick returns. She flat-out refused. She doesn’t buy into the theory that it cleverly skirts union policy. Magda always was more of a rule follower. I’ll keep working on her. It’s not good for her to be this stressed out all the time.

  Since my voice had finally recovered, I updated her on the most recent events in my un-charmed life, including the nagging question that consumes my mind: If a witch is magick (our closest held tenet), can there be such a thing as a witch with no magick? Am I still a witch? And if not, what am I?

  Her answer was a warm hug and a whisper in my ear, “You are my precious best friend whose humour and love makes the road ahead seem bearable.” Those caring words almost made me feel whole. Almost.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was an outsider to everything that had once been so familiar. Even there, in our pub, surrounded by witches cackling at the same old bad jokes and debating the same tired points of professional contention, I was other. Unnatural. Someone’s best friend, which counted for a lot in my heart, but still, my mind screamed that I was lacking. A dusty jar at the back of a pantry where you put unidentifiable things that might be useful at some point, but you should probably just throw out.

  Given the staggering number of ill-fated occurrences in my life, Magda was concerned I had run afoul of a curse. She did a quick spell and found nothing active, but promised to do a few random checks to see if someone had cast a hex with an intermittent or situational effect.

  If anyone can find out if there’s foul play, it’s Magda. She was good in school and now she has close to a season cycle of killer work experience. Nothing will get past her.

  We spent some time reminiscing about college and I told her about scrying Peuturella. We had her for our first term potions and elixirs class. Magda ran into our flight instructor a few moons ago and said it was weird talking to him as just a regular person and not a teacher.

  I commiserated. I’m sure I sounded like a flustered student when Peuturella answered my scry. I muddled through the conversation by skipping pleasantries, which might have led to disclosing the embarrassing horror of my magick-less state, and flying straight to the business at hand. Thankfully, Peuturella was interested enough that her focus remained on the icing laxative and gingerbread glue recipes. She said she’d put out feelers with her business contacts. Things did get awkward when I asked if I could be dismissed, but I pretended there was interference with our connection and ended the scry. Maybe she didn’t notice.

  Magda was curious about the recipes, but I couldn’t tell her much. I have yet to successfully reproduce the gingerbread glue. Everything I’ve baked is nowhere near as sticky and, to be honest, the smell of gingerbread still makes me gag. The idea of testing the icing laxative is equally appealing, so I’m not all that keen on continuing either experiment.

  NOTE: Harvest grease from Herman so I can at least send Peuturella a sample for the icing laxative.

  Anyway, there we were, two witches out on the town, reminiscing . . . and in walks a gag
gle of uppity young wizards from Primus Magia Seminary and the eventide hits the crapper. Just the name of their school is pretentious enough to set my teeth on edge.

  I knew those PMS screwballs were trouble the moment I saw their perfectly pressed robes and oversized staffs. One of them had a horribly gaudy, bejewelled wand and matching scroll case tucked into a blindingly red sash. Wizards! Eyesores, all of them.

  Magda and I ignored them, as did most other patrons. We even moved to a dark corner (thankfully, near a window), but nothing dampened their belligerent presence. They were looking for a fight, or they wouldn’t have set up at the bar and sung the very offensive drinking ballad, “99 Witches Fishing in Ditches.”

  The Moon’s Lament is a witch tavern. By the Hunter’s green bollocks, everyone knows that. It’s right beside Grimoire College. There’s been an implicit understanding between our communities since their inception: Witches don’t go to wizard taverns and wizards don’t go to witch taverns. It’s less painful that way.

  So, imagine my surprise when these imbecile wizards split into two groups, one of which slowly and deliberately sidled up to every witch in the tavern, insulting them in every way they could think of. Most of their insults were either lame or made no sense, but their malicious intent was clear.

  Things went downhill quickly. Witches started tossing spell components around like snowballs (they must have been First-Terms). And then there really were snowballs, because the wizard with the silly scroll case whipped out a parchment and chanted an equation which created a vortex that turned into a storm.

  Meanwhile, the other group of dandies headed straight for the only druid in the tavern and proceeded to harangue her about a non-existent spot of dirt on her white robes. Then they questioned whether her robe was a natural fabric.

  Now, everyone in their right minds knows to give druids a wide berth. They’re prickly at the best of times. The more you interact with one, the more chance you have of landing on their bad side. And which side is bad changes from sun to sun. To be honest, I’m not sure they even know which is which. They probably have to consult the winds or pee in the ocean or something.

  I’ve never seen a druid go into a full rage before and I hope I never do again. Her answer to their harassment was to call forth a monstrous tree. It sprouted in the middle of the tavern, tearing the floor and roof to shreds. Magda and I narrowly escaped its snaking roots.

  Magda, who is a sentimental soul, was upset that our old tavern was trashed and called in a pack of air elementals to end the fray. It didn’t go well.

  The water elementals in the storm and the random components flying around mixed with her air elementals in just the right way to channel a powerful lightning strike. It forked right out of the clouds, through the tree, and into the flagstones. Of course, they were soaking wet, so we all received quite a shock. And the tree exploded into a hail of flaming spears.

  I’m not sure there’s ever been a tavern as thoroughly demolished as The Moon’s Lament. Makes my half-phoenix incident seem like child’s play. From the look of things during our escape, a good portion of the neighbourhood and at least one wing of Grimoire College will need rebuilding.

  We were lucky to get out when we did. More accurately, we were lucky to get blown out. A rogue air elemental picked us and a few others up before unceremoniously dumping us in a pile a block away. On the plus side, we were still in possession of our limbs and organs, which is more than can be said for some other patrons. I bet the hedge witches and physickers were busy.

  Once we sorted our wits and righted our robes, Magda and I stumbled down the street for home. One of the wizards who escaped with us hollered that he wasn’t surprised to see witches turn tail. I yelled back that he had the oratory skill of a yeasty scum pod. Aaand the brawl started again.

  Somehow, I ended up wedged under two oversized guys engaged in a wrestling match. That usually wouldn’t be a problem after an eventide out, but it was this time. I couldn’t move or breathe. My vision greyed as I struggled and a familiar tingle crept from the wet ground into my fingertips. Then, an errant staff caught me in the head and the world went fuzzy.

  The next thing I remember is Bob (I didn’t even know he had come with us) landing on one of the guys and Magda pulling me out. She’s stronger than she looks.

  Her timing couldn’t have been better. A wizard’s ominous-sounding equation ended in a startled scream when Missera popped out of Magda’s sleeve and spat a stream of venom into his flapping mouth. It must have tasted bad because there was a lot of spluttering and gagging.

  For a moment I thought I was seeing double when I looked at Missera, but then I realized Herman was riding on her head. He was brandishing a bright purple miniature cocktail sword. The rascals were thoroughly enjoying themselves.

  Their appearance in Magda’s sleeve was a surprise to her as well. Between her shriek and the wizard’s, everyone cleared off posthaste. They must have thought another monster tree was incoming.

  This eventide is the first time in a long time that I feel lucky. We made it through with nothing worse than singed hair and ruined robes. And none of it was my fault. I’d forgotten how much fun Aestradorra could be.

  Due to his heroics, Magda generously invited Bob to stay at her place, as long as he doesn’t stare at her too much. My stony shadow was already back at the apartment by the time we made it there. Sadly, Missera and Herman must have hitched a ride with him because they were home as well. I was hoping it would take them a while to get back so we could enjoy a spot of quiet time. I think Magda is losing her voice from screaming so much.

  I saw something glinting in the crook of Bob’s arm and discovered that he pulled off a daring theft. That wizard is going to be very unhappy when she realizes her bejewelled wand is no longer in her sash. Magda and I briefly considered selling it to replace our going-out robes, but Bob won’t let it go. I don’t mind. If he gets pleasure from the shiny stick, I say let him keep it.

  Pandias, Storm Moon 27, 209

  SO SORE. MUST get up for shift at Moonbrews. I hate myself.

  NOTE: NEVER get into a tavern brawl when you have to go to work the next sun, Hester. It’s a BAD idea. What were you thinking?!

  Wendias, Crow Moon 3, 209

  OH, HAPPY SUN! My magick is returning. I can’t begin to express how relieved I am.

  I wasn’t certain, but I thought I felt a spark of power during the tavern brawl. It was just the briefest, faintest flicker, but it gave me hope.

  Since then, I’ve been practicing minor glamours, trying to add a little mole to my nose or crow’s feet around my eyes, and I finally succeeded this morn! I was so shocked to see the brown spot by my nostril that I tried to bat it off. I thought it was a fly.

  When you have a natural talent or gift, it’s easy to take for granted. It is always with you, waiting to be useful. And there are many opportunities for magick to be useful. I used it every sun, all sun for small things, medium things, big things. My ability to harness the five elements and weave their energies into beautiful and frightening diversions touched every facet of my life.

  Then, it was suddenly gone. Fractus. Mortuus. Finem. The rug was pulled out from under me . . . only it wasn’t just a rug, it was a flying carpet and I was dancing in the clouds with no broom in sight. Good luck sticking that landing, Hester!

  I’ve been getting by. Magick isn’t everything. I know that now. I still exist without it. I can still work in my chosen field, albeit with difficulty. I still have friends and family. But magick breathed colour and mystery into every moment. A mere scrap of it could craft masterpieces. As a wielder, I was limited only by my imagination and skill.

  I miss it so much. I can say that now because there is hope.

  I was in denial. Facing a future in which magick had permanently abandoned me was agonizing, so I did my best to live on the surface, in the present, within a sliver of time, not daring to swim into the ocean of my heart for fear that grief would end me.

  So
metimes it’s better not to know, or question, or plan. Sometimes you have to pretend that now is all there is. That patch of dirt where your next step falls . . . nothing exists outside of it. And the next. And the next. Focusing your will like that gets you through each sun in a crisis, but it only works for so long. Dwelling solely in the challenge of the moment becomes hollow. The absence of your past and future swirl in your mind like great black holes. Steering your thoughts away from them becomes ever more difficult. Eventually, everyone gives in.

  I made it through this time. Never has a single mole meant so much or been so beautiful.

  I don’t know if I’ll fully recover. Some, or most, of the damage could be permanent. But even if only a fraction of my talent returns, I will treasure it.

  Tydias, Crow Moon 9, 209

  I HAD A strange dream last night and I’m not sure what it means. I dreamt I was staying at a country inn. There was a tavern dog—one of those long, sausage-y things with stubby legs. Kind of a helpless-looking mook, but good-natured.

  I was polishing off a pint and thinking about retiring when two strangers burst in and ran upstairs screaming about a monster.

  Of course, they left the door wide open and a massive black wolf sauntered through. I mean, this thing was huge. It could have carried me in its mouth like a pup.

  The little dog was nearest to the beast, and it froze, its peg legs shaking so much I could hear its claws clicking against the flagstones. I ducked in and snatched up the pup as the innkeeper leapt over the bar swinging an axe. I hastily retreated as the wolf turned its solar gaze on me.

  It was calm, unfazed by the axe wielding innkeeper and the screaming patrons. Something about its manner, some glint of intelligence in its eyes, made me question whether it was the monster, or simply another creature seeking asylum from it.