Witch's Windsong (Coon Hollow Coven Tales Book 5)
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Witch’s Windsong
A Coon Hollow Coven Tale
by
Marsha A. Moore
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Witch’s Windsong
A Coon Hollow Coven Tale
By Marsha A. Moore
All rights reserved
Copyright © 2018, Marsha A. Moore
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, places, organizations, and incidents portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover design © 2018 by Marsha A. Moore
When Keir’s coyote, his devoted witch’s familiar, is kidnapped, Keir’s unhealed grief over the recent deaths of loved ones he could have saved is rubbed raw. Hit with the reality that his beloved coyote is facing heinous torture and possible death, Keir must find a way to rescue his familiar and defeat the self-blame confounding his focus as a shamanic healer. He searches the crime scene—a stream through one of the coven’s magical ravines—but is unable to find any solid clues. An enchanted willow reads his frustration and passes his despair to the wind coursing southward along the waterway.
Far from his Indiana hill country home, Unole, the talented daughter of a Native American wise man and Keir’s former teacher, reads that wind and hears his plea. Realizing the wronged man is Keir, her teenage crush, she’s eager to help—until thwarted by a past deal of black magic she now regrets.
Using what had before seemed only a harmless promise Unole made, along with a secret buried deep in Keir’s past, the kidnapper weaves a dangerous web of deception. Keir and Unole stand to lose everything—his coyote and career, the love they just discovered, and even her life.
A stand-alone book in the Coon Hollow Coven Tales series, Witch’s Windsong is a mystical adventure where hearts and spirits clash.
Buy Witch’s Windsong and listen to the magic!
Table of Contents
Inside Cover
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
A Note From the Author
Other Books by Marsha A. Moore
Chapter One: The North Wind
Bare tree trunks in the ravine cast crooked shadows over the frosted grass, like spirits slipping through the mists of the Otherworld. Taking caution, Keir touched a hand to the grounding forces of his hematite and river pebble amulets around his neck. When a sharp wind struck him at the crest, he zipped his parka’s collar closed.
He nodded to his coyote familiar Waapake, and they descended through an ice-brittle thicket. Though Keir had hiked these woods his entire life, the stand of willow trees along Owl’s Tail Creek was a destination he frequented during late winter, searching for signs of spring. In addition, he came that night to gather willow branches for new wands to use at February’s upcoming Imbolc sabbat.
Halfway down the slope, while disentangling his pant leg from hawthorn saplings, a gust whistled past, slapping the silver feather earring against his neck and chilling his ears. Hawthorns were known for marking entrances to the Otherworld. A few of the wind’s shrill notes bent and twisted around trunks, sweetening into a haunting female soprano. He glanced around for a trickster faery or a songbird that’d arrived in the hills of southern Indiana by chance too soon. Finding none, he pulled his knit cap lower.
Ahead on the narrow trail, Waapake, waited, yipping a prompt, his charcoal tail straight and stiff as a frozen twig, his eyes a blaze of yellow.
Heeding the warning, Keir proceeded with caution, alert for signs of dangerous magic. Every few feet lower, the wind blew harder, unexpected in the protected, shallow valley. “The creek’s sure a wind tunnel today,” he said as he caught up to the coyote. “Think that’s an early spring blowing in?”
Waapake’s coarse silver guard hairs raised along his spine.
“I agree. It’s unlikely to arrive on a northern wind.” Keir scanned the area, still unable to gain a view of the ravine’s heart through the wild thrashing of brush and branches in that direction. He pressed forward. The restless wind whipped in fitful gusts, as if tormented by an opposing force. He’d encountered such torturous gales deep in ravines before. During those few times, he’d needed to corner a storm’s fury into a talisman that could be used to drive illness or unwanted spirits away from his coven clients.
By age twenty-five, Keir had served five years as one of the coven’s two seers. In that time, he expanded his practice from simply foretelling futures to harnessing the natural and supernatural worlds in order to heal physical and spiritual ailments. Acting as a shaman, he attempted to follow in the footsteps of his mentor, Chuquilatague, from the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians. Grateful for receiving such invaluable instruction, Keir strived to honor his teacher by aiding his fellow coven members.
But this night, with air at the ravine’s crest dead calm and absent of any sign of an approaching storm, Keir hadn’t expected to find a localized disturbance. With gloved fingers, he fumbled in his coat pocket, hoping he’d left Tall Sam’s snuffbox there when he collected it during yesterday’s visit. He located the palm-size rectangular tin, a keepsake from Sam’s departed grandfather. Though the corners exposed base metal beneath worn silver-plate, the lid still gleamed with the initials C.G.B. The empowered spirit of Clement George Byre, which lived on past the man’s death, normally resided within the small box but had recently become displaced. Strangely, the spirit of a badger had taken up residence and cast him out.
This unexpected fierce wind might enable Keir to drive the animal far along the creek bed; hopefully out of the coven, where it wouldn’t bother Sam’s family or neighbors. If Keir could harness a southbound gale blowing through the waterway corridors, the critter’s spirit might sweep from Indiana and be deposited into the mighty Ohio River.
Keir removed his gloves and pried the lid open. A gust whirled around him, sending the lid several paces uphill. As he retrieved it, his fingers numbed to a dull blue. In the reflection off the metal, his blue eyes stood out against red, windburned cheeks.
Waapake snarled at the whipping wind as it smacked his ears. Unable to subdue the force, he leapt one way then another, contorting in a comical dance that took him howling into another barbed thicket.
Convinced and pleased the job for Tall Sam was completed, K
eir replaced the snuffbox into his pocket. Before he wriggled back into his gloves, strains of that same female voice skirled through upper boughs. Her panicked notes splintered ice from the bark.
His curiosity heightened, wondering why spirits would be active on such a cold winter night. Keir called to Waapake and pressed forward.
Though the creek had been iced solid for nearly two months, the pool kissed by the willows stood open … but not necessarily free. Its surface remained captive, churning under control of the unrelenting winds.
Moonlight on a willow always held mysticism for Keir. Under direction of tonight’s last quarter crescent all living things were encouraged to release energy that caused them harm or no longer served them. However, as winter neared an end, this purging could not be ignored—he as well as all creatures must follow its command.
Unlike the torment endured by the creek, the willows’ graceful branches danced gayly and indiscriminately with either partner, wind or water. The trees’ frosty party skirts, dotted with swells of potential leaf buds, shimmered in the subtle light.
When the rhythm of the dance changed, the skirts swished and swirled. Colliding branches chimed with magic—the voices of faeries, breathing their songs into ears of those willing to listen; soft but distinct above the rustling forest and keening wind, they invited Keir closer.
As he stepped onto the bank, once again the song beckoned him, this time from beneath the oldest and largest willow. Compelled to comply, he could only resist long enough to call to Waapake. Upon receiving no response, Keir succumbed, his fears suspended.
He ducked underneath the swaying branches and entered another world.
The cacophony of noise and jarring energy ceased; stillness and diffused moonlight caressed his soul. Faeries, alight on the bower’s curtains, tinkled with song and shone with thousands of pinpoints of white light.
Keir bowed his head to those nearest. “With your blessing, please grant me a single branch to use as a wand.” No response dissuaded him. Pocketknife in hand, he cautiously began cutting a thick branch that would serve him well to conduct moon magic on the sabbat. As he sliced through the wood, he heard the woman’s angelic voice.
She gasped, then choked into a fragmented verse. Her urgency rang clear, not obscured as before by the wind:
Beware what lurks near this shoal.
Loss, festered and fresh, intends to claim your kind soul.
From the weight of her message, Keir lost his balance. Searching for the invisible female, he fell against the tree’s trunk and called out, “Who are you?” Worried by her meaning while mystified by her unusual magic, Keir grappled with the bark to regain his balance. Was this a psychic perception triggered by the Otherworld beings? He clutched the cut branch and examined it as best he could, despite the dim light. Nothing seemed unusual. Willows could connect to the subconscious mind; he’d received premonitions in their presence before—only flickers of insubstantial images, lacking the clarity of the woman’s impassioned words.
He pocketed an end of the collected branch, parted the tree’s curtain, and stepped out. The wind persisted. If only the willow could calm the surrounding area, he could use the stream’s pool of reflected moonlight to scry for understanding.
A frigid gust spider-walked down his spine; the storm had intensified. He shuddered with a feeling of dread, then scrambled to his feet and left the tree’s protection. Standing tall against harsh gales, he called for Waapake.
No answer.
Keir shivered. He and his coyote familiar often shared so much magic between them, acting with one mind. Akin to an old married couple, verbal or gestured communications were often unnecessary or reduced to subtle glances.
Waapake’s silence, combined with the woman’s worrisome foretelling, made Keir coil his muscles tight, anticipating the slightest threat.
He leapt a few paces higher on the rocky bank, filled his lungs, and cried out, “Waapake!” But the north wind stole his air, rendering his voice a squeak even to his own ears. Keir faced south and sucked in another lungful before calling to his familiar. His voice did project but bounced back from ice-covered trunks. He waited, hoping his call carried through the trees.
No reply from any direction—save for a chill blast that battered his face and froze the breath inside his nostrils, as if intending to steal the life from his body. Ferocious coldness snaked through his windpipe into his chest, pounding with a sharp ache. What unspeakable force was this?
Panic riveted through his veins and set his legs into motion. Although years of hiking had trained his muscles, he powered across the ravine wall faster than ever before. With whatever breath the vicious wind allowed, he called to every direction, “Waapake! Where are you?”
Gasping, he paused to scan the incline and sucked in another deep breath, which was stolen before he could exhale.
Adrenaline powered him to descend and jump the creek to search the other side. Ignoring the pain of his dry, stinging eyes, he scoured the forest for signs of movement or a glimpse of the charcoal and tan fur of his dear companion.
When his eyelashes crusted nearly shut with ice and a freezing ache clutched at his heart, Keir leapt back across the creek. He trudged toward the crest, still sputtering Waapake’s name.
At the crest, he gulped the calmer air and wheezed, “Damn you! Who are you? Show yourself. You warn me, then torment me. What do you want?” Hands on his knees, he panted and scanned for any movement in the hollow.
Though treetops still rustled below, only a slight breeze wafted to meet him. It caressed his cheek with a sensuous tickle but exposed nothing.
Desperate and confounded by his inability to reap information from nature, he bellowed across the ravine for Waapake. Into the night he called until the name rasped raw against his throat.
Chapter Two: Wind Woman
Like her, the windflowers’ stems, fragile yet resilient, rose proud after a harsh winter and escaped from frozen cracks. Like her, they had died to the Great Spirit, remaining silent and suspended until time to reawaken. Like her, they would know another springtime.
Unole stooped and ran a gentle finger over one of the emerging shoots. In the moonlight, the green stem was of the palest hue, almost anemic. White blossoms edged out, blushed pink under the caress of protective bud sheaths. Some called them rue anemone; she preferred to think of the tenacious blossoms as windflowers, kindred spirits since her name Unole meant wind in Cherokee.
With a groan, as if joining their push through the hard earth, she forced her own frail muscles to stand. Allowing her legs to recover from the strain, she surveyed the area. Where the stream parted, the forest invited the moon and stars, and the windflowers would soon flourish with the coming springtime.
She’d walked this same reservation trail many times in recent days. But only today did she notice the green stems of the flowers stretching skyward—they must be an omen.
It was Unole’s first day walking alone, unaccompanied by her elogi, her mother’s youngest sister, serving as Unole’s nurse during her recovery. Other times, her elogi behaved more like an older sister and surrogate mother. She intended to be helpful, but sometimes she smothered Unole.
Excited by her new freedom and eager to understand what the omen portended, she ambled off the trail toward the windflower bank. Her elogi would not approve, fearful of how the uneven terrain might prove difficult for Unole’s limited strength.
During the winter, she had seen the light of death, a beacon prompting her to journey to the other side. Though the icy hand of death clawed at her window, luring her to release her own final puffs of air, she’d lain for weeks hot as ten summer suns. The healers had wrung their hands over her and called her father, the tribe’s shaman, to guide her spirit through its final journey.
Chuquilatague’s craggy but kind face blurred through her fever-dreams and hung upon edges of her nightmares. As her father, he was relentless, chasing them to the four winds. She’d traveled far upon those dreams, in
to both light and darkness, without knowing the time or day. During December, death courted her with his exotic delirium, almost claiming her as his eternal bride at the new year.
Yet, she’d been spared, allowed to live again. Her father, though overjoyed, couldn’t explain how she’d escaped the Death spirit—something she couldn’t bring herself to divulge. Despite the weakness still wracking her limbs, she was grateful to be alive, anticipating the approaching spring more than any other in her twenty years.
Along the stream, no windflower buds had been able to open; she identified with their struggle and said a silent prayer of thanks for the gift of life. She sang a soft melody of encouragement, to the tiny flowers and to herself. As she walked, the rocky ground challenged her strength and balance. She kept hold of slender saplings or low-hanging limbs of mature trees.
When her hand grasped the weeping branches of a willow, she crept underneath its skirt. There, the graceful branches shimmered, like stars trapped in droplets of dew. On the streamside of the great tree’s trunk, she found what she sought: the first windflower in blossom. She made her way across exposed roots, until she stood closer to the frigid water than what her elogi would’ve allowed. The yellow center kissed the five white petals with the slightest pink—too delicate to be the brave first blossom of spring.
As she delighted in her discovery, rings echoed across the water’s surface, perhaps a small fish or amphibian gulping its first breath after wriggling free from a muddy winter burrow. When the water quieted, Unole viewed her own image. Her waist-length hair lacked its usual blue-black shine. Though the pallor had left her face, her eyes were sunken, cheekbones too angular. Stains and rips covered the jacket she wore, the one closest to the door at home and belonging to her older brother. She’d not had energy to make herself pretty—or even think it was possible.