by Rebecca Brae
I’ve never minded moths as they eat some of the more pesky bugs, but I’ve never seen such a monstrous specimen before. Moths are imposing when they’re people-sized. And not particularly attractive. There are some things you don’t need to see in that much detail.
This one was hairier than a bear in a tornado. I couldn’t be certain in the low light, but I swear the fur was mauve. It had long, bristly, wiggling antennae and produced a cloud of musty smelling dust from its wings. And its eyes . . . huge, black, bulbous things sticking out from the sides of its head, reflecting a hundred visions of my terrified face back at me. They offered no hint as to the nature or intent of their host. It was a thing of nightmares.
The moth continued to dive-bomb us (Herman was attached to my collarbone, as usual) even after my torch went out. The cursed thing followed us all the way home. Occasionally, a forceful gust of wind blew it off course, downing it or slamming it into a rock or into us, but it just kept getting back up. Throughout our harried journey, something niggled at the back of my mind. Something about the moth was familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on exactly what.
The sisters assumed I had brought it back on purpose and they were furious. When I tried to explain that it followed me, they accused me of slacking off with friends while I was supposed to be on the job. How they equated me running full tilt at the hut and screaming at them to open the door with a friendly get-together, I’ll never know. Sometimes I think they are deliberately obtuse.
They stomped around muttering under their breath all eventide. What they said must have been bad because butterflies quickly overran the hut. Their fluttering appearance did nothing to improve the sisters’ moods, but it sure helped mine. The more they insulted me, the more butterflies showed up, the angrier they became, which led to more insulting, and so on. It was fantastic. They were so confused. They couldn’t figure out if the butterflies were tied to an illness, the giant moth’s appearance, or something else. I’m sure they’ll find a way to counter the spell, but I intend to enjoy it while it lasts.
The moth flapped about outside, but lost interest after a while. Good thing too. I don’t know whether the winds were battering it against the side of the hut or whether it was ramming the structure in an effort to break in, but Crone’s glass instruments were rattling in a most alarming fashion. It also dislodged clods of peat from the walls and domed ceiling. There’s a good chance our peat patching was not up to par.
I ventured outside later to check on Bob and there was no sign of the moth. Hopefully it’s gone for good.
Bob was not where I left him. Before giving into my anxiety that the bog had swallowed him and digging around in the muck like a crazed berserker, I widened my search. I found him squatting over a rabbit hole dug into the side of a small berm.
The opening and first section of tunnel were neatly shored up with sticks and rocks. A carpet of torn up heather adorned the inside and there was a new stone retaining wall in front to prevent the stream that develops during storms from eroding the hill. A professional reno job for sure. Bob must like those little furballs.
One of them is certainly fond of him. I found a baby hare snuggled up in the nook between his back and wings. I believe it’s the same one from before. It has one floppy ear. The poor thing must have had a run-in with something. There’s a bald patch on its backside and one of its rear legs was bloody. On closer examination, I determined that it had lost its left foot.
Funny thing, when I reached for the hare, I felt Bob move. It was slight, as if he tensed up, but I’ve never heard of anyone witnessing a gargoyle move. I mean, you know they do because they show up places and fall through roofs and collapse bookcases and stuff, but this was different. I was right there.
The hare’s wound was clean, so I applied some of the salve I had leftover from my gorse scratches. I tore off a strip of material from my skirts (it didn’t significantly affect the un-coverage), and fashioned a bandage boot. I’ll check next sun to make sure it hasn’t kicked it off.
Overall, my patient was accommodating and only let out a slight squeak when I first touched the wound. I wasn’t paying close attention, but I also heard a twig snap. I suspect it was Bob shifting again.
I don’t know what to make of a gargoyle with a pet bunny. I guess most people wouldn’t know what to make of a witch with a ghost slug either. To each their own.
There was another brief break in the storms as I made my way back to the hut. In the shrouded moonlight, I caught sight of a fox pacing the summit of a hill. His gait was hitched, as if he were limping. I suspect I’m not the only creature this sun who witnessed a gargoyle moving.
Good on you, Bob. Sometimes the little ones need a helping hand, or a stone fist.
Pandias, Seed Moon 6, 209
I AM TIRED of being wet. I am tired of being insulted and belittled. I am tired of being moth assaulted every time I step outside with a lantern or torch. I am tired of slipping and falling in the unidentifiable puddles that leak from Crone’s mass of tubules. FML
Mood Forecast: STORMY with a chance of severe cursing!
Soldias, Seed Moon 7, 209
I PLAYED MODEL for a while this morn. That was as normal as this sun got.
Crone had some crazy idea worthy only of a wizard. Instead of sleeping last night, she wrote out the longest algorithm I’ve ever seen. She marked up every available surface in the hut, including my body. I object to being used as a scratchpad, especially such a messy one. Even she couldn’t tell what she’d written in places. I was blamed for that, of course. She accused me of moving and smudging those sections. Insert eye-roll here.
I had to lay still while she copied everything into a tome—a task that took half the sun. When I asked why she didn’t scribe it in there to begin with, she sneered and said, “An artist must be unrestrained by common tools and dimensions while engaged in such a creative process,” as if parchment was somehow beneath her. Wizards!
Whatever she used to write on me isn’t coming off either. It must be some kind of indelible ink. She saw me scrubbing myself in the stream after and just laughed.
She got Mother too. Crone’s scrawl is looped around her white robe in an elaborate diagram that resembles conjoined octopi. Miniature cyclones of insults and butterflies flew through the hut with impunity. Most of them weren’t directed at me, so that was a welcome and unexpected turn of events.
I have no idea what any of the scribbles mean. Probably just wizardly nonsense—a formula to make water from water or something equally groundbreaking.
After Crone was done with me, the sisters sent me out onto the moors. Both of them were muttering about an end to strife, but neither the butterflies nor I see an end to it any time soon. Unless the sisters are considering personality transplants.
Before setting out, I popped by to see Bob and his new furry charge. The makeshift boot bandage was intact and the bleeding had mostly stopped so I left it alone. The young hare and its siblings cavorted about their friendly neighbourhood gargoyle and napped on a neat pile of freshly collected grass clippings. Bob’s position was unchanged, but his stony expression conveyed contentment. I wished I shared that feeling.
I fought down a surge of uneasiness while trudging across the moors to my lean-to. I didn’t know if the monster moth was still around and did my best to follow a concealed route. But, true to form, the Fates wove other unforeseen mysteries into my path.
Two guys appeared over the crest of a slope at the very moment I ventured through a shallow valley. There were no handy boulders for me to duck behind. No fox or badger holes to dive into. I would have even climbed into a prickly gorse bush, but no such haven existed.
After their round of enthusiastic catcalls and earthy suggestions, I hollered at them to shove off and carried on my way. They somehow took that as an invitation to follow and tried to engage me in a conversation about how nicely my hips swayed. Oratory geniuses, they were not.
Their mounts were high-strung beasts, warhorses f
or sure. Their sword hilts clanged rhythmically against the saddle buckles as they trailed me. With only limited magick at my disposal, no weapons other than my fists, and a ghost slug as backup, I was justifiably concerned for my safety. One never knows what strangers are capable of, especially when they believe nobody is watching.
I gathered power as I walked and muttered a spell to summon a fire elemental under my breath. One wandering sprite answered my call and I kept it in reserve. It was just large enough to create a flash. Flames were the only thing I knew of that consistently spooked horses, though I had no guarantee theirs were not battle hardened against it. Regardless, the activity and plan lent me courage.
The riders were persistent in their lewd suggestions despite my obvious disinterest, so I figured their poor behaviour should be rewarded, if only to spare the next lone woman they came across: A “be careful what you wish for” deal.
I had no intention of drumming up business when I set out, but the soldiers’ enthusiasm escalated when I mentioned I had two sisters who would enjoy their company. One of them pulled out a flask and offered it to me, but I knew better than to accept unidentified drinks from strangers. The same cannot be said for them. It is amazing to me that most people survive as long as they do.
The poor sods followed me all the way back to the hut, laughing and boasting and telling rude jokes. All that stopped when they caught sight of my darling sisters. I had a hard time not cackling, but my humour was tempered with relief—an emotion I never thought the sisters would elicit.
After a seemingly endless litany of hails, Mother and Crone swooped in and coaxed the now reluctant men off their steeds with promises of a hearty stew and warm hearth. They never stood a chance. The sisters can be very persuasive.
They set the guys up at the table and Crone shoved bowls of a substance resembling lumpy soup in front of them. To their credit, they started out dubious and became more so after something in the liquid moved. I don’t think either of them touched it.
Their hesitation was not lost on Crone. She filled two tankards from a barrel hidden behind a pile of peat logs in the corner and presented them to the guys as “the purest of distilled spirits you’ll ever have the honour of tasting.”
It’s possible she wasn’t lying. I’ve seen her sipping the odd dram of it, but I’ve never dared try any myself. It is the colour of piss and I’m not convinced she’s beyond using that as an ingredient.
Whatever it was, the short hairy guy smelled it and must have judged it drinkable because he downed the lot and demanded more. Crone willingly complied . . . a little too willingly. She’s not the accommodating type.
Mother made a big production of saying how skilled I was at reading the future, relating some bogus story about a child I saved from the clutches of death by predicting the sun they would be swept away in a rain-swollen river. She grabbed the head of the taller man and proclaimed that he was a kingmaker. Then, in typical overdramatic style complete with a crack of thunder outside, she dubbed the other a future king. I could swear she muttered “of fools” after, but I may have misheard.
The guys wanted to know more and insisted I order the Fates to lay bare the path of their lives. At this point, I began feeling sorry for them. It was obvious, despite their rough exterior, that these men were as naive about the ways of the wyrd as that first hapless maiden had been. But I had a job to do. I cannot feel responsible for every fool who crosses my path.
I put my (admittedly spiteful but still satisfying) plan to follow my job description to the letter into action and broke out my runes. Hello, Operation Sister Torment . . . you help me slog through each sun out here. Long live OST!
I started with our hopeful royal as he seemed the most eager. It was at least an interesting reading this time: Os, face up and reversed; Manu, face down and exactly between upright and reversed; Wynn, face down and upright.
I told him to carefully ponder his next moves because misjudgement and disaster loomed (especially with the sisters near, but I left that bit out). The runes saw a crossroads. One path led to opportunity, self-betterment, comfort, and material success. The other held unfulfilled potential, greed, and bitterness. Which path he would walk was unwritten. There was also an underlying warning that sometimes, it is best to seek change within oneself, rather than trying to force reform upon the world at large.
The runes revealed in him what could be either a lust for power or a simple need to wrest some measure of control from the unpredictable Fates. I did not go into that. His companion was listening with rapt attention and I didn’t want to prejudice his counsel one way or the other. They were obviously friends, and I am loathe to interfere with such a relationship, knowing its importance in my own life.
He wanted to know more, in the unwise way of those not acquainted with the hazards of plucking on the Fates threads. Most people think of their future as a linear progression, but witches know it is a fluid maze of possible choices and outcomes. The Fates just add the threads we choose to our life’s weave. They are traveling with us, not guiding us: A common misconception.
They can see slightly farther ahead, given their lofty seat, but when that knowledge is shared prematurely, it mostly serves to complicate matters. Seeing an outcome before understanding how you arrive there leads to wrong assumptions and hasty decisions. This is why I rarely peer into my own future. Been there, done that, got myself kicked out of junior witch camp. It’s why I’m cautious with presage advice, both giving it and receiving it.
I may take issue with the Fates on occasion, as cursing them is popular vernacular, but I know that the final umbrage, the real responsibility for what happens in my life, always lies with me. Others have yet to learn this lesson.
I tried to make these concepts clear to our kingly guest, but he was deep into his fourth tankard of spirits and the sisters were not helping. They kept shooting me foul looks and hissing at me to join them for a private council. I ignored them and kept my focus where it belonged, on our guests / clients / victims.
Throughout my reading, Mother whipped up a progressively stronger storm. Cracks of thunder shook the hut, sometimes drowning out my voice for long enough that I was able to brew a cauldron of tea. Wind howled across the moors like a starved wolf intent on breaking in. Swarms of brilliantly coloured butterflies clogged the smoke hazed air. Their incongruous appearance in the ominous setting confused everyone, except me.
Our door finally succumbed to the onslaught and banged open, shearing the bolt clear off the frame. We had to wedge it closed with a stool and a few strategically placed peat logs.
Crone ignored everything in favour of stirring her cauldrons (she had three going). She added mysterious ingredients from her piles and the occasional beaker of fluid from her tubules, all while chanting in the coma-inducing monotone she always uses. Honestly, I don’t know how she stays awake. I suppose the shocking pongs and beaker explosions help.
As requested, I threw the bones for our wayward royal and delved deeper. They revealed a woman close to him who was not a good influence. She wasn’t inherently malicious, just susceptible to outside influences and perhaps impatient. In fact, most of the people around him harboured ulterior motives and desires. Though, to be fair, that could be said of everyone in existence. The bones indicated a strong risk of him becoming a pawn in someone else’s game, that the mask he wore would be all that was left if he ignored his true self and went solely with the counsel of others. That caught his attention.
He began talking so quickly that I was only able to understand parts of what he said. It didn’t help that he was so intoxicated his words were a mushy slur. His companion had fared no better and was fully engaged in an awkward battle to keep his bottom planted on his stool and the stool planted on the floor. It was not going well. Mother was behind the trouble, as usual. I saw little roots spring from the wooden stool legs every so often and scoot it to the side.
I gleaned a few scraps of information from King’s drunken ramblings. He mis
sed his mother—she had recently died. Hoping to get past his grief, he married impulsively, for what he thought was love, but now recognized as a crush. Nothing I hadn’t heard before. We’ve all been young and desperate to escape something. I suppose some would still consider me young, but I sure don’t feel it.
He went on for quite some time about how he’d been pressured all his life to meet people’s expectations, to fight, to be macho, but nobody once asked him what he wanted. This appears to be a common tragedy for both the highest and lowest born (though the two groups would never admit to sharing anything).
He was taught how to wage wars, cut his teeth managing armies, mastered battle strategy, became the effective killer his father wanted. But he secretly hated it. It wasn’t how he wanted to live, wasn’t the legacy he wanted to pass to his eventual children. He was an artist at heart with a passion for painting still life. Said he felt a calling to preserve beautiful snippets of time. Perfect moments. He waxed poetic about it. A lot. At least I think he did. Either that, or he segued into ballad lyrics. Most of it was incomprehensible.
My head was spinning from trying to decipher his speech amidst the random interruptions from the storm and sisters. Mother and Crone kept butting into our conversation (one-sided as it was), but he refused to talk to them. I think he deluded himself into believing I was interested in him. I admit to being interested in his story, but that’s where it began and ended. My life is complicated enough without a royal in the throes of an identity crisis.
The sisters were steaming (and not just because Crone constantly stoked the fire, effectively turning the hut into an oven). Crone completely lost her cool when the guy started crying while relating how his father forbade him from painting because it wasn’t a manly pastime. That was when she unleashed her floating heads brew. She’s unaccountably attached to it and shows no sign of fixing the fact that she can’t conjure whole spirits.