The Witch's Diary

by Rebecca Brae

  These blasted moors are treacherous. Had I known about the extreme winds, I would have arranged ground transport and spared the decade of my life I’m sure I lost to fear. That’s one detail the union really should have made clear.

  The accommodations are rustic. Not that I mind a peat hut, but I’d prefer not to share such a wee space with two other bunkmates. Yes . . . two! The Gingerbread Hut was bad enough with just Althea (and Sophie, but at least that little scamp didn’t take up much room) and it was a much larger structure. This is a one-room hut, with three straw bales for beds, and endless piles of random components / tools / tomes / unidentifiable stuff. On top of all that, the whole place is rigged with a complicated structure of tubules, funnels, and beakers. They line the walls and ceiling, with small fire elementals camped under certain flasks to keep them boiling. It all looks very delicate and dangerous. We are screwed.

  One room, three people, all sun, every sun. And my bunkmates are . . . interesting, if I’m being generous. This pond isn’t big enough for our personalities, let alone all the other crap they have jammed in here.

  When I first arrived, I couldn’t see through the thick smoke which clogged the hut. Two disembodied voices greeted me from somewhere. I don’t mind the smell of peat smoke. I actually quite enjoy it. It’s homey. But breathing is a priority. With no windows and a small door (I practically have to fold myself in half and I’m not that tall), ventilation is going to be a major issue. How they haven’t suffocated is a mystery.

  That being said, I can’t be too mad about the smoke. It’s the only reason I found the place to begin with. Without that winding trail rising from the bog, I would have flown right over this grassy mound and never given it a second thought. I doubt the smoke was intended as a guide. There’s a layer of greasy black residue on everything in the hut, so their hearth fire must be burning constantly. Not surprising given the chill environment.

  Another fun fact: Both bunkmates are my supervisors. I did hear Ouleah right. So, now I have two supervisors and we all live together in a one-room hut. What could go wrong?

  I’m trying to reserve judgment, but it’s difficult. Maybe once I get to know them, things won’t be so awkward. So far, they appear to be arrogant and odd (and not in a good way). Their explanation of my position did not endear them to me. I’m to be their maiden, the third wyrd sister (though from the looks of things, they could more accurately be called weird).

  I confirmed that as Maiden I don’t need magick, though they were very snide about it, as if they didn’t expect me to have any talent to begin with. All I have to do is perform some ominous divinations—interpret portents and omens, scare up some gruesome warnings, that sort of thing. They don’t have to be true, just disruptive. I can do that. I seem to be disruptive even when I’m trying my hardest not to be.

  There is a rumble of disquiet in my bowels and the offal are rarely wrong. I’ll prepare for the worst and keep my wits sharp. Despite the apparent ease of my tasks, something tells me that my position here is as tenuous as the glass piping which lines the hut.

  I didn’t get a warm, fuzzy feeling of welcome from my supervisors, but I’m going to do my best as their “maiden” regardless. I’ve never been drawn to the maiden aspect of our goddess. I’m more connected to the energies of the crone, which makes it doubly strange that I don’t feel any kind of bond to the crone sister.

  Crooked, wise, old Sages are usually my go-to peeps, but the only time she pulled her nose out of her cauldron all eventide was when she went to check on her boiling flasks. And the mother sister has an odd way of talking without focusing on you, so you end up wondering if she is speaking to the wall behind you, the vase of wilted heather to the left, or the rug under your feet. It’s disconcerting.

  They also insist on being called by their position titles and have done the same to me. I am no longer Hester Digitalis Wishbone, Initiate Witch. I’m simply Maiden.

  Maiden is not a happy camper.

  My apprehension hit a new high when Mother broke out my outfit (read: Uniform). The full impact didn’t land until I tried it on. It can best be described as scraps of fabric attached to a tightly laced bustier, all of which seem designed to display copious amounts of flesh.

  My flesh does not need assistance. I have, shall we say, generous proportions and I’m not comfortable showing them off. Even in school, I’d throw on a quick glamour and change my appearance to that of a suitably bony old crone. Plump witches just aren’t as imposing as ones who are all droopy skin and warts. It’s always been an issue. And now I’m being told, nay ordered, to put it all out there. Yeah. I’ve got a problem with that.

  I asked if I could alter the outfit and Mother said no. It’s designed to help me “pull” travellers and bring them in for the sisters to work their magicks on. So essentially, I’m bait. A lure cast onto the moors to snag wayward victims. And they said I can’t use my broom to fly around either. I’m grounded. Fantastic.

  My hope that this placement would be a good fit is well and truly doused. I mean, it is in the wilds and doesn’t require magicks, but that is where the good ends (read: Falls off a cliff without a broom).

  The incessant winds also make it a bad fit for poor Herman. I’ll have to weigh him down or he’ll blow away as soon as he sticks a feather outside. Luckily, I managed to grab him before the winds got too bad on the way in, but he was not at all happy about being shoved into my broom bag. His legs and neck cramped up, and he’s pretty much all leg and neck, so I can imagine how uncomfortable that was.

  He still hasn’t gotten used to heights. He has a bad habit of flying low with his eyes closed, which works for short distances in Aestradorra, but not so much in windy conditions on the open moors.

  I will have to keep a close eye on Crone. She perked up when Herman popped out of my bag and I later caught her flipping through a recipe tome. When she went to bed, I checked, and she had stuck a dagger in as placeholder for a section on how to cook exotic birds.

  Herman is understandably nervous. He asked me to transmute him into something inedible right away, but I can’t. Keeping us airborne this morn used up what little magicks are at my disposal and Magda isn’t here to help with the power shortage. Given another sun or two, I’ll be able to try again, but in the meantime, we’ll just have to remain vigilant.

  Freydias, Crow Moon 26, 209

  DEAREST MAGDA,

  I hope you are doing well and that Missera isn’t missing Herman too much. I’m sure he misses her, but he refuses to admit it. He asked me again to apologize for the attack. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive himself. He does have a conscience . . . who knew?! Well, that pretty much concludes the good news portion of this letter.

  Last night, I finally got around to asking the sisters what their specialties were. I figured Crone had to be an Herbalist, but I could not for the life of me think of what Mother was. Now I know, and wish I didn’t. Though, it does explain my initial misgivings.

  Crone is a wizard and Mother is a druid. Can you believe it? Who thought a witch, druid, and wizard working and living together in cramped conditions was a good idea? Even coexisting in the same neighbourhood is fraught with peril. Goddess preserve me, this endeavour has the feel of a sun-bloated scum pod ready to blow.

  Mother is obsessed with controlling the weather. She spends all her time brewing up storms and making fancy shapes with the clouds. I caught her using them as puppets to perform a skit (she made up voices and everything). She also seems particularly fond of a type of rain midway between water and ice. It not only drenches you, but with the winds, it instantly freezes your clothes into a hard shell (and I don’t have that much fabric, so my skin takes the brunt of the cold).

  She carries on conversations with everything. At any given time, she may be addressing a pebble, a dancing flame, a blade of grass, or several of them at once. The other sun she blurted out “well, get yourself washed then” and, assuming she was talking to me because I was right beside her, I took a bath
in the peaty brown stream beside the hut. Turns out, she was actually talking to a gorse bush. She said it was complaining that its blooms weren’t as bright as usual.

  Gorse blossoms are the only thing that’s even remotely bright out here. Eternal drabness shrouds the moors thanks to the storms. It’s as if the Mystickal Mother of All was a painter who ran out of colour. The sky is a constant shade of grey, ranging from dove grey to soot grey. When eventide comes, the looming greyness is a darker grey, verging on black. But for a few accidental breaks in the clouds, I haven’t seen the stars since I arrived. I imagine the great swaths of purple heather and golden gorse would be a beautiful patchwork on the hills if Helios’s steeds could break through the gloom.

  Thunderstorms are frequent and lightning strikes have set several peat-laden sections of the bogs ablaze. It’s a deep, slow burning fire which produces thick bluish smoke that even the howling winds cannot disperse. I intend to stay away from those areas. They’re eerie, which is usually a draw for me, but not in this case. I’m afraid the fires have undermined the already negligible solidity of the ground and I’ll be swallowed whole, slowly roasting in a pit like a stuffed harvest pig.

  It wouldn’t be much of a change from the hut. The sisters keep it sweltering. The only relief to be had is outside, and then you’re drenched through and half frozen by the time you make it back inside.

  I used to love thunderstorms. There is a raw power in them, as if the primal energy of the universe is gathering around you. But, after two straight suns of storms, they’re getting old. I counted and there have been twelve since this morn. One winds down and the next one booms to life. They are no longer exhilarating, just wet and cold and noisy.

  At least my magick aids are quick to charge with all the energy flying about. And a good crashing storm puts Mother in a half-decent mood. If she creates these when she’s happy, what does she conjure up when she’s pissed? Here’s hoping I don’t find out.

  Neither of the sisters seem the type to respond well to constructive criticism, so I’m hesitant to point out that more people might venture onto the moors if it wasn’t thundering all the time. As it is, there’s been nobody about.

  Crone is just as interesting as Mother, though potentially less dangerous. Well, less dangerous to me. Herman is another story. I’ve hidden her exotic bird recipe tome, but that will only slow her down.

  She spends her suns experimenting with disgusting concoctions and forcing us to try them. So far nothing has been poisonous in the small doses she’s meted out, but I suspect several would be in larger quantities. I’ve already had to move the straw bale I sleep on because one of the beakers connected to her mass of tubes was overflowing and dripping onto it. I have no idea what it was, but it gave off fumes that made me feel like my head was floating in the rafters.

  I would try avoiding her, especially when the vapours coming from her cauldrons and beakers curl my nose hairs, but there’s nowhere to go. I wonder if there is some kind of transmutation I could perform on my tongue and nose to dull my taste and smell. If you’ve ever heard of anything like that, please let me know. It might help.

  Crone is very particular about her things. I found out that Mother has the clothes on her back and that is pretty much it. Everything else in the hut belongs to Crone. She has piles everywhere and insists they are organized, though I don’t think anyone sane could decipher her system. She tried to explain it, but she veered into complex mathematics and theoretical physics, including something called a Pauli Exclusion Principle, which involved a rather peculiar and ultimately destructive spin-y interpretive dance. Several of her beakers need replacement and the substance from one dissolved the corner off Mother’s straw bunk. I was completely lost. She is definitely a wizard.

  I fled into a storm and sheltered under that mouthy gorse bush to get away from the lecture. My skimpy clothes offered zero protection against the thorns, so it was an exceedingly uncomfortable hiding spot. I won’t do that again. At least not until my magick has improved and I can command the brambles to let me pass without their boon of blood. Had I cast the spell in my current state, it would have taken several suns to recharge my crystals (I’m sure you remember the trouble I have with Earth spells . . . sadly, working with that element hasn’t become any easier).

  Curiosity got the better of me this morn and I decided to test Crone’s organization scheme. When she stepped out to collect water from the stream, I switched a petrified mushroom from one pile with a lump of torpid tusker dung from another. She cast a suspicious eye around the hut (literally . . . there’s a wizard scroll for that) as soon as she entered and said, “What foulness is afoot, under cover of squalls, change is come to covet my soot, hurly-burly within these walls.”

  It may have made sense to her, but I’m beginning to doubt it. She’s just as loony as Mother. I’m stuck in the middle of nowhere with a weather-obsessed druid and a neat-freak wizard. It doesn’t get any scarier than that. My goal is to survive, but if you don’t hear from me again soon, please send someone to collect my body.

  Both Mother and Crone have low opinions of witches. Not surprising, but still irritating. They think we’re all charlatans pedalling phony cures and hexes to the ignorant masses. Unfortunately, my magick drought confirms their prejudice. During a particularly odorous conversation at supper, Crone equated witches to Outerplane entertainment magicians. Can you believe the gall?

  I managed to stifle a rude retort this time, but it was close. There’s only so much a witch can take. The employment counsellor was wrong when she said this position required diplomacy. What I really need is a complete lack of all senses, and sense in general.

  I’ve documented the incidents with Mother and Crone and engaged one of the many air elementals partying outside to deliver a letter of complaint to our union. I also sent a copy to my employment counsellor and have requested reassignment. If she can’t find me something else within a moon, I’ll be stuck here for a whole season cycle. Shudder. I honestly don’t know if it’s possible to last that long with my sanity (and life) intact. I can put up with a certain amount of harassment, but between the epically sparse uniform, treacherous weather, constant insults, and questionable brews, it all feels very much like a deliberate pattern of assault. One that’s escalating.

  Hold onto your broom . . . there’s a commotion on the other side of the hut and I can’t see through the smoke.

  MY MENTION OF assault was timely. Crone was trying to shove Herman into her cauldron. Thankfully, he can be a noisy bugger when encouraged.

  After the rescue, His Supreme Pinkness threatened to leave if I didn’t immediately cast a transmutation spell. He left me no choice. He wouldn’t last long in the storms as is.

  Herman didn’t know what he wanted to be, so we brainstormed a list of inedible creatures. Our components classes mostly dealt with poisonous, explosive, corrosive, or healthful substances. I don’t remember much, or anything really, about inedible ingredients. I never paid much attention to the palatability of my potions. We sure could have used your expertise, Magda! Nobody knows more about esoteric components than you.

  We had to be careful in our form selection. If I changed Herman into something poisonous, he wouldn’t be any safer. Crone would invariably find a toxic brew she’d always wanted to experiment with. We needed to find a foul tasting, yet harmless creature that she wouldn’t consider useful in any way.

  That’s when I had a brainwave. Ghost slugs are the ugliest, most unpalatable, non-useful creature I’ve ever encountered. They have no real predators or purpose. They just kind of undulate about. Even vultures spit them out when they find them on corpses. That says a lot.

  Herman agreed, though I can’t say he’s pleased with the result. He claims I made him look like a ghost turd and he’s uncomfortable with people seeing his insides. I’m not exactly excited about it either, but it’s the best solution I could come up with.

  I pointed out that it should be safe for him to get fresh air on his own
now. That perked him up. At least I think it did. His antennas waggled slightly. As a flamingo, I had to tie a rope around him whenever we ventured outside. He found the whole kite setup offensive and complained bitterly that the rope chafed. There’s no need for any of that now. He sticks quite firmly to everything.

  I’m not sure how I feel about having a ghost slug as a familiar. I think a cockroach may have been more prestigious, but at least he’ll be safe. We can sort out a better form once we vacate this deplorable post.

  Anyway, I hope you guys are having a better time than we are. I guess at least I’ll have a few interesting stories to share when next we meet.

  I miss you sooooo much.

  Your best friend forever,

  Hester Digitalis Wishbone

  P.S. I will be drafting my last will and testament and sending it to you ASAP.

  Pandias, Crow Moon 27, 209

  THE MOMENT I think things can’t get more interesting, they do.

  Bob showed up last eventide. It was a bit of a shock for everyone since he crashed through the roof during supper and took out a section of distilling tubules. He must have perched on a weak section of the dome. I can’t say the drop-in peating ruined supper. Crone had cooked up some kind of stew (the ingredients were unidentifiable as usual). Let’s just say it was enough to make me nostalgic for boiled brats and gingerbread.