The Witch's Diary

by Rebecca Brae

  Disembodied heads joined the butterflies and smoke. They muttered and nodded and bobbed about the room. Very distracting.

  King’s friend passed out, either from fright or spirits or both. No doubt it was a merciful oblivion. King held his liquor better and carried on until the giant moth crashed through the door (and part of the wall), landing on the table like an errant mauve whale with wings. It must have stunned itself, because it laid there, flopping in a cloud of wing dust.

  Mother launched into a sneezing fit that lasted the rest of the eventide. She must be allergic. I felt no sympathy. At least it kept her from belittling me or complaining about my excellent job performance.

  Before the moth’s arrival, King had been warily studying the floating heads and butterflies but largely ignoring them. When the monster bug crashed our party, I expected him to slay first and ask questions later, but he sat stock-still for a moment and then carried on with his story. I figured out what had happened when he waved a hand under his nose, said the colour red smelled funny, and then proceeded to dance in a rather suggestive manner with an imaginary fairy.

  Crone strikes again. She must have dosed their drinks with something extra, as she did with the maiden.

  The moth came to its senses, such as they were, and attempted to take off. Only there wasn’t enough room to fly in the hut, so it hopped up, collided with the ceiling, and then hit the table again, sending it flying instead.

  King inadvertently stopped the projectile with his head—a fortuitous interception as it was en route to the hearth and Crone’s trio of cauldrons, not to mention the terminus beakers of several glass tubule systems. What would have happened when their contents mixed and met flame happily remains a mystery.

  The table knocked King out and that’s pretty much where I am right now. He’s lying on the floor with his friend. They’re still breathing (I checked). King will have a ripe bruise and bump on his head in the morn, but I’m sure he’s had worse.

  Mother ran outside to get away from the moth dust, so she’s somewhere, not here—that’s all I really care about. The storms have miraculously cleared up, so I’m guessing she hasn’t found alternate shelter yet. A thick cloud of butterflies followed her out, so the hut is much less crowded. Crone is blubbering about the mess and straightening her piles. The moth finally settled after the hearth fire burnt down and is now glaring at me from a corner—the one with the spirits, so I guess I won’t be sampling them any time soon. The same can’t be said for the moth. It has extended a long proboscis or tongue into the barrel and is making slurping noises.

  Herman and I are the only happy ones, other than the heads. They’re still wibble-wobbling about chatting with each other.

  Overall, I count this as an odd job, done well. I’m definitely getting better at thinking on my feet and I’m damn good at throwing runes and bones. Yay, me! The fact that my skill irritates the sisters makes it that much better. I’ve warned the future king, Mother is out of my hair for now, Crone is in it but preoccupied, and the moth already looks more mellow. This eventide may yet be rescued.

  Moondias, Seed Moon 8, 209

  MY PEACE LAST night did not last long. Mother came back and insisted we ditch the guys somewhere. I guess she didn’t care to wake up next to confused and hung-over soldiers in the morn. Can’t really blame her. The only problem was where she decided to dump them.

  I, being the unlikely voice of reason, suggested we strap them to their horses and turn them loose (I’ve heard the beasts are generally smarter than their riders and instinctually head back to where they’re from), but as usual I was ignored. Actually, Crone told me to stay out of it as I’d already cocked things up. She’s way off base. I’m the only one who did anything useful with the guys.

  Mother ordered me to stay and deal with the moth. She probably meant that in the traditional, mortal sense, but how do you swat a bug that big? Even if I could find something large and heavy enough, there’d be guts all over the hut and then Crone would totally lose her nuts.

  I listened at the door as they harassed some air elementals into carrying our guests. This was after the sisters went through the soldiers’ pockets and relieved them of anything interesting, which wasn’t much, judging from their griping.

  When they set off with the elementals in tow, my gut grumbled with concern. I threw a blanket over the moth and followed as stealthily as I could. I wasn’t sure whether the moth had passed out, or died. I don’t have the foggiest how to check if a bug is breathing, but it smelled vaguely of elderberries, which isn’t normally associated with death. In any case, under the blanket it was indistinguishable from one of Crone’s lumpy piles so I figured I could “deal” with it later.

  Those guys are lucky I decided to tag along. I was so focused on tracking the sisters that I gave little thought to our direction and suddenly found myself deep in the most treacherous bog on the moor. I wouldn’t have attempted a crossing in full sun, wearing a cork belt, with a fairy godmother farting magickal glitter at me.

  A dead scots pine let out a creaking moan as it slowly sank not ten paces from me. Its gnarled branches grasped at the moon’s shrouded light overhead, imploring for help. The tree must have been majestic once, but the ever-expanding bog had drowned it long ago and now, as a final indignity, was wholly consuming it. It was a macabre warning of the trouble I was about to come face-to-bog with.

  My body reacted before my mental processes kicked in, and I stepped back, sinking waist deep into a mud pit. No one can be smart all the time.

  The soupy, peat-thickened water locked me in a deathly embrace as the last of the tree disappeared beneath the surface with a muffled glub. I did not want my life to end like that, sucked into the bowels of the earth, the last sound I made nothing more than a desperate belch of dirt and decay.

  I knew moving would make my situation more desperate, so I did my best to stay calm. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Since coming to the moors, this had been my nightmare. All I needed was an errant lightning strike to ignite the oven.

  I also knew stillness wouldn’t delay my boggy end for long. There is a hard limit to how motionless the living can be. It is frightening to realize that every breath brings you closer to death. And I’m not talking existentially. I’m talking in a hit-you-over-the-head, thanks-for-playing-but-you’re-dead kind of way.

  Each breath dragged me deeper and trying to hold it while panicking didn’t work well. It was all I could do not to hyperventilate. What there was of my outfit might as well have been a weighted stone belt. It could have been worse. For once, I was grateful for my skimpy garb.

  As I sank, my thoughts muddled. Random impressions like how the bog smelled of an earthy tea I once had in Kelospinerre kept sidetracking my escape plans, probably because I had no idea how to escape and my brain was attempting to distract me from inevitable doom.

  Herman piped up when the bog reached my armpits and touched his tail end (at least I think it was . . . I have trouble telling the difference between his sluggy nether regions and his head when his antennae are pulled in). He slithered up my face and onto my head, berating me for our dire predicament. Until then, he had been uncharacteristically silent, so I had forgotten he was with me. He must have fallen asleep while I was walking. It happens when he’s bored. Slugs sleep a lot.

  I pondered whether I could raise enough power to transform him into something useful. A long snake might have been able to pull me out, but it would need to be a really long snake as the only sturdy anchor was another dead tree and it was a ways off. A bird could fly and bring back help, but the strong winds were problematic. And the sisters were the only ones close enough to respond. There was an equal chance they’d throw me a lead brick. They were pissed when they left. Butterflies everywhere.

  The bird idea got me thinking about the moth who somehow managed to fly about in the gales. Was it conscious? Could I summon it? There was a glint of intelligence in its saucer eyes, but was it benevolent or malevolent? It could
go either way based on its behaviour.

  Summoning, summoning . . . my mind wouldn’t let go of the concept. Mother was good at it. Her control of air elementals was impressive. She could summon strong enough ones to carry a man, but could I? Not right now. I could probably call one large enough to use as an air bubble should I get fully sucked under. It would buy me some time, but not much. And who knew if there were any elementals free. I’d say Air was Mother’s specialty, but I had just witnessed her summoning life back into the feet of a stool, so Earth must also answer her call. And then there’s the rains, so Water is in the mix, too. She is a veritable elemental artist. I mean, come on. I’ve never met anyone who could convince dead and burnished wood to grow roots . . .

  And then it struck me. Could I gather enough power to tap into the roots of the heather around the mud pit? There was plenty of bog moss and myrtle too. Would Earth respond to my weakened call for aide? My turbulent history with the element was not promising, but I had to try. One braided root system wouldn’t be enough to support me, but if I could convince the elementals to knit several together under me? Maybe!

  I hurriedly outlined my plan to Herman and he more or less agreed. Mostly he yelled in his sluggish way for me to do something, anything. That was as much support as I could hope for, so I went to work.

  The bog was up to my neck. Every time I swallowed, the rotten smell and pressure of it against my throat made me want to gag. I couldn’t afford to. I had to reserve every movement and thought for gathering the energies around me. My crystals had some power left, but nowhere near enough. Calling Earth always took twice as much effort for me than the other elements.

  There is a surprising amount of power in bogs. The predominant energy is not happy, lively, fun stuff though. It’s the kind living things release as they die, and it’s laced with their fear and hopelessness. It is uncomfortable to work with (unless you are a necromancer) and especially so if the witch wielding it is terrified and trying to ignore her own looming mortality. And when you then turn around (figuratively, in my case) and use that tainted energy to coax the few living things around you to cooperate . . . you can imagine how well that goes! Bog flora might thrive on decay, but that does not mean it wants a direct channel to the source’s death throes.

  It was a slow, taxing process. The earth elementals were less than cooperative because of the death energy. Every time I moved my hands and arms, I collected more of the stringy moss that grows in the top layers of the bog. It weighed me down and I had to split my concentration between the spell and keeping my head above the surface.

  The bog reached my nostrils before I felt the first twitch under my feet. Herman devolved (if that word even applies to a slug) into a quivering lump of doom spouting swears like a bottomless bucket leaks water. He’s usually pessimistic and paranoid, but I needed encouragement, not a slimy blob sitting on my head proclaiming we were going to “rot in stinking ass mud like bloated thrice-cursed swine.”

  By the time the roots knitted together strongly enough to push me up an inch, I was sneezing out chunks of decomposing vegetation and animal remains. Some roots gave way under my weight and I had to concentrate on reinforcing them. The carpet slowly thickened under me, and my mouth was suddenly clear of the bog. I spat out the putrid liquid and gulped air like a starving bigmouth globhee at an all-you-can-eat inn. My Great Goddess, there is nothing as precious as air when you have none.

  With support from below, I worked my way to the edge, half swimming, half walking. I grabbed tufts of grass and hauled myself out of the sucking death trap. There I lay, finally on solid ground, staring up at the circling storm clouds, letting the rain rinse the foul bog from my skin.

  Herman apologized for his unhelpful behaviour. His slug form is not fond of deep water (or watery mud pits). Something about breathing out of his ass. I don’t know. I pointed out that I am equally opposed to drowning, but he was busy munching on an earthworm. Near death experiences make him hungry.

  The sound of footsteps whooshing through the wet grass coaxed me into motion. Crawling behind a patch of heather, I waited and saw the sisters returning. They passed within a few paces, but Mother was conversing with a bat that had attached itself to her hair and Crone was absorbed in counting something. It might have been her steps. Not sure.

  After they disappeared, I searched out a long stick. It was probably a branch from the recently departed tree. Morbid, but it worked nicely as a ground tester.

  I considered turning back, but I couldn’t do it. It felt too much like defeat and I was in no mood to be thwarted. I had tangled with the death bog and survived. I suspected the drunk soldiers might not fare so well. And what with one being potential royalty . . . well, I figured I had better make an effort. Royals have long memories. That can either be a good thing, or a very, very bad thing. I intended to ensure it was at least neutral with regard to me.

  What those barmy sisters were thinking dumping them in that bog at night, I’ll never know. It’s likely to be a death sentence even if you have all your wits about you and the proper training and equipment.

  Finding the guys turned out to be easier than expected. All I had to do was stop periodically and listen for their snoring. They could have out-snored a barn stuffed with overfed swine. They may have been worse than Althea, and that’s saying a lot.

  I was completely dry, in a magickal sense only, and had no equipment. The bog had even claimed my boots, so I was barefoot. Thankfully, the stick I’d picked up had a crook partway down that worked as a half-decent hook. I snagged their belts and pulled them out, one at a time.

  They were too heavy to carry or drag out of the bog and, as sure as Hermes’s pert tush, I did not want to spend the night out there with them. After a bender like this, they’d be looking for someone to blame. Or their wives would. I wanted to stay well away from that drama.

  I brainstormed with Herman and he suggested I leave them a note. In theory, it was a good idea, but in practice, I had neither parchment nor writing implements (other than my blood, which is far too dangerous to leave in the hands of those who may not be friendly).

  In the end, I left arrows made of twigs and rocks to mark a safe path. I wrote out the word “bog” beside King with pebbles. Hopefully, it was enough to get them out alive. They are soldiers, so dangerous situations are probably old hat. And, ultimately, they did get themselves into this mess. I really shouldn’t feel responsible.

  It took forever to make my way out of the bog and mark the path. I kept having to backtrack and search out new animal trails. There have been many untimely deaths in mud pits. Whenever a track came to an abrupt end, Herman muttered, “Another One Bites the Dust,” in a sing-songy way. Sometimes I think he’s a bit touched. There’s no dust in a bog, only mud. Lots and lots of mud.

  The very thought of the stuff makes me shiver even though I’m now dry and bundled up in a wool blanket in the smoking (literally) hot hut. I’m shocked I made it back. I may have hypothermia. I can’t stop shivering, although at this point it could also be heat stroke. Can you have both at once?

  Crone wandered around sorting through her piles and checking her beakers, and then went back to stir her cauldrons. I heard her muttering about horse tongue stew, so I slipped outside to release the soldiers’ steeds. I may not be fond of the hulking beasts—one of them tried to stomp me when I came too close—but I have no interest in eating them. Messing with the energies in the bog, feeling the moment so many creatures lost their lives, was more than enough death for one night.

  The moth is no longer in its corner. The sisters didn’t say anything, so it must have left before they returned. Lucky for it or I’m sure Crone would be contemplating moth gut muffins.

  The door to the hut is laying about fifty paces from where it should be. I suspect that’s how our friendly neighbourhood moth let itself out. The breach has not diminished the hut’s internal temperature, so fixing it is a low priority.

  I only know where the door is because I t
ripped over it on my way to see if Bob had been sucked into the earth’s dank gullet (it’s possible my tangle with the bog has made me more paranoid).

  My stony companion was fine. Still hanging out by the burrow. The little injured hare was snuggled up in a dry spot under Bob’s potbelly. Its more sensible siblings were fast asleep in their hole.

  I mustered enough energy to check the baby’s wound and change the bandage. It’s healing well, but I don’t know how far a three-legged hare will get in life. Out here . . . probably just far enough to fall in a bog.

  Sheesh. I’m depressed. No, I’m just exhausted and still under the influence of bog energy. I should stop writing and go to sleep, but it’s hard when I’m so angry. How could the sisters be so blasted irresponsible? Four lives were almost lost because of them. Well, two for sure. I need to take responsibility for mine and Herman’s close call. I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings.

  What a mess . . . and I’m not just talking about what’s left of my so-called clothes, though I will be picking bits of bog from my ears and hair and every other nook and cranny for a moon. Those guys could have died. It’s unlikely anyone would have even found their bodies. That’s how places get haunted by nasty, face-eating spirits. Malevolent ghosts are the last thing that bog needs. It’s fatal enough.

  The sisters didn’t ask why I was covered in mud when I got back. They probably think it’s from burying the moth. Bah.

  They aren’t talking to me—like that’s a punishment. The only thing Mother said when I returned was that she’d make sure I regretted coming out here. I told her that broom had already flown. She briefly choked on one of the resulting butterflies, which made me feel slightly better.