by Cate Tiernan
Ma nodded. “The Burnhyde spell doesn’t scare me, but their hatred of the Wodebaynes frightens me deep down in my bones.”
Her worry spurred my anger. “Yet again we’re back to the same hatred of the Wodebaynes. What did we do to bring on such animosity? Can you tell me that?” “Easy, Rose.”
“They act as if we were marauders and murderers! It’s unfair!” “Aye, it is,” Ma said quietly. “But I have always said that the other clans will come to know us through our acts of goodness. The Goddess will reveal the true nature of the Wodebaynes in time.”
“That doesn’t help Ian MacGreavy, does it?” I asked. “We will place a spell of protection around the mill,” Ma said. “We’ll do it tomorrow, on the full moon, the perfect time to cast a spell of protection. You’ll need to collect sharp objects—old spearheads, broken darning needles—whatever you can find. They are to be stored in a jar, which we’ll take to the mill.”
As Ma went over the details of the spell of protection, I felt myself drifting off into an ocean of sorrow. My pitifully small world was growing smaller. With conflict among the clans heating up, we would be forced to become even more closed and guarded than we already were. Members of
our coven would stick close to our hopelessly small country village, a tight knot of cottages that
was already like a noose around my neck. Beyond my sweet but unadventurous friend Kyra, I was without a friend or possible mate within my own clan. No one outside the Wodebayne clan could be trusted, and any notions I’d ever had of exploration were squashed by the sure and steady evil lurking in new places.
Seventeen years of age, and already my life seemed to be over. By now we had passed out of the village, which consisted mostly of the church, the mill, the inn, and a tangle of cottages that were built far too close to keep your business private. We came upon a flat, grassy field that was used by one of our own Wodebayne clansmen for herding his sheep, and indeed, two men were there at the edge of the field, talking to a sheep as if it had the sense in its head to understand and heed them. The scene made me smile. The two men looked like bumblers, but Ma sucked in her breath, as if she’d just come upon a tragedy.
“What is it, Ma?” I asked.
She stopped walking, her hands crossed over her chest as she stared at the men, still not speaking.
“Aye, they could be punished,” I observed. “Out on a Sunday, when work is to be set aside to praise the Christian Lord.”
“If only theywould meet with punishment,” Ma said. “For thievery.” “What?” I ran ahead, then turned back to her to ask, “Who are they, Ma?”
“Vykrothe men,” she said, reaching for my arm and holding it tightly. Now that she said it, I could feel it. A blood witch can always sense other blood witches, and their presence was now palpable as a bracing cold wind. “Wait . . .” I said. “And now the Vykrothe men are stealing our Wodebayne sheep?” A sheep that would provide wool for spinning blankets and cloaks. A sheep whose slaughter would provide mutton to an entire family through many seasons. I tried to pull away from her. “We must stop them!” She pulled me off the side of the road, behind the cover of a haystack. “Hush, child. Speak not your mind on this—the danger is too grave. We know not how strong their magick is, and they look much stronger than us physically.”
“But—”
“I’ll try to stop them.” She lifted one hand, drawing a long circle around her body and then around mine. I couldn’t hear the words she murmured, but I realized she was putting a cloaking spell upon us so that the Vykrothe men would not know we were blood witches. Then Ma clasped her fingers through mine, locking me into place by her side as we stepped out of the shadow of the haystack and pressed ahead. I felt her fear, though I wasn’t sure if she was frightened of the men or of my own desire to blast them. I pressed my lips together, determined to defer to my strong, noble mother on this. “Good day to you, sirs,” my mother called out to them. They lifted their heads, mired in suspicion. “Good day,” the taller man answered. His hooded eyes seemed sleepy, and he wore his flaxen hair pressed to his skull like a helmet. “Did the sheep break loose?” Ma asked lightly. “They so often do, and I recognize that one as belonging to Thomas Draloose, who lives in the cottage just beyond the spring. I’ll tell him of your act of kindness, returning his lost sheep to its pasture on this fine Sunday.” Act of kindness?I pressed Ma’s arm, irked by the way she was coddling these tubs of lard.
But Ma went on. “It’s noble of you, gentle sirs, taking the time, and—”
“This sheep is not returning to pasture, but departing,” the tall Vykrothe said. “ ’Tis an evil beast,
a harbinger of dark spirits. I know for true that this sheepherder you speak of is not a Christian man but a practitioner of witchcraft.”
“You must be mistaken, sir!” Ma cried out. “’Tis not a mistake at all,” the shorter man insisted. He was a bull of a man, with so much flesh on his large bones, he could easily ram through a castle door. “This man is evil, a ghastly witch.” He fixed his eyes on us menacingly. “Do you know him well?” “Aye, I do,” Ma answered boldly, “and I must proclaim his innocence of such ungodly pursuits.” The taller Vykrothe yanked on the rope. “Proclaim what you will. We must remove this sheep before it turns into a demon.”
Ma shook her head and gave a fake laugh. “A mere sheep, sir? It is but an animal. One of the Lord’s creatures, is it not?”
I gave Ma’s hand a squeeze. The man could hardly argue with Christian philosophy. The tall Vykrothe leaned closer, and his unpleasant smell of sweat, dung, and sour cheese rankled the air. “This sheep is possessed. I have seen it bleat at the moon, its eyes red with Satan’s fires.”
“Aye,” Ma countered, “and what reason have you to be lurking in a stranger’s fields at night?” The tall man leaned back, but the bull answered, “And I’ve heard rumor that the herder is planning to spill its blood in a dreadful spell of harm and destruction.” He turned to his friend, dropped his voice to a whisper, and added, “Just like those Wodebaynes.” I felt my fists clenching at the muttered slander. He had thought we would not hear or understand his strike against our clan and likely didn’t care that we did since he thought us to be Christian women. But I had heard, and my blood boiled at the insult. These men weren’t even common sheep thieves—they were bigots, striking out against one of our own. “This, sir, I must dispute,” my mother said. She sounded so sincere, so earnest. How could these men refuse to believe her? “Do you imply that all Wodebaynes are evil?” When Ma spoke the word, the bullish man took two steps back. “What Christian woman knows so much of evil?” the man accused.
“How dare you speak to her that way!” I shouted. My fingers twitched with the urge to shootdealan-dé at him and burn him with its flinty blue sparks. But Ma was already pulling me down the road, her other arm having slid protectively around my waist. “Make haste,” she whispered in my ear, “lest they raise their ire toward us. The Vykrothes are known to love war, and raise arms they will.” “But the sheep . . .” I gasped. “They’re stealing it . . . and even talking of witchcraft could get Thomas Draloose and his family hanged.”
“Hush, child.” Ma hurried me along, pressing her head down against mine. “We must choose our battles. I did my best to defend Thomas and save the sheep, but we cannot always win against such cruelty.”
“It’s unfair,” I said, feeling tears sting my eyes. “Why do they hate the Wodebaynes so?” “I cannot say, child,” Ma whispered. “I cannot say.” Gathering and Sanctifying Spring Herbs
That afternoon I collected my gathering basket, retrieved my bolline from its hiding place in the
seat of one of our wooden chairs, and set off to collect the newest herbs of spring. I knew many
small trails through the woods, tiny lanes and hidden paths that led to my favorite gathering places.
A few years ago, when I was around the age of ten, Ma had agreed to let me gather the first herbs on my own. Since then it had been a ritual I pe
rformed gladly, grateful for the peace of mind it offered and for the thread of power that laced itself up from the plants through my fingertips. Aye, the feeling of power was sweet when it came my way, though it didn’t happen to me often enough in the coven circle.
Sometimes I worried that I had fallen in the shadow of my mother, that somehow Ma was interceding and collecting my blessings until she thought I was ready to deal directly with the Goddess. An odd belief, I know, but I had my reasons. For one, Ma had never given me a significant role at sabbats. And she constantly questioned me when I returned from the woods, having performed a spell or consecration in a solitary circle. She said it was her duty to educate me in the ways of the Goddess, but I sensed that she didn’t trust me. And why was that? When I was on my own, I felt a strong connection to the Goddess, and I had always quested to grow in my craft. Why, then, did my own mother question my devotion? “She’s just your ma, doing what mothers do,” Kyra always told me. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Ma didn’t realize how difficult it was to be the daughter of a high priestess. Birds chirped in the woods as I swung my basket gently. I’d spent many a winter’s eve sewing pouches of sapphire blue, ruby red, and saffron cloth in preparation for this day. A different pouch for each herb, enough to replenish our supplies. Of course, back at the cottage the herbs would need to be dried in the rafters and eventually ground, but this was my favorite part of the ritual—gathering under the crown of trees and the canopy of blue sky. I followed the path until I came to my solitary circle, a small natural clearing with a large gray stone that I’d cleansed for use as an altar. Beside a tall oak was my broom, modestly constructed of twigs and a long stick I’d rubbed smooth with the help of a rough stone. I placed my gathering basket on the altar, then began to sweep the circle, swinging my broom as I walked slowly. The spell I chanted was my own, one that I’d created years ago. Ma had once called it primitive and childish, which wounded me deeply, yet I clung to the spell. It had come from my heart, and I always felt that the Goddess heard it and answered favorably. “Sweep, sweep this circle for me, By powers of wind, so mote it be.”
My circle complete, I placed the broom at the gateway and closed my eyes. A gentle current of air stirred around me—the breath of the Goddess. I lingered long enough to breathe it in, my breast swelling with the wind. Then I lifted my hands and face to the sun. “Light, light this circle for me, By powers of fire, so mote it be.”
Warmth shot through my body, from the crown of my head down through my heart. The Goddess was with me today, her power so strong. Reeling with a vivid feeling of life, I lifted the tiny flask of consecrated water from my basket and sprinkled it around my circle. “Water, cleanse this circle for me, By the powers of water, so mote it be.”
As I stood in the center of the circle, I imagined water flowing around me. My skirts swirled at
the center of the tidepool, and the tang of fresh spring water cleansed my throat.
Oh, Goddess, you are with me today. I feel your presence. I treasure it.
I sank to my knees, scraping both hands at the ground beside me. Lifting my hands, I let the soil whisper to the ground as I chanted:
“Dirt, bless this circle for me, By the powers of earth, so mote it be.”
The sun seemed to shine brighter, a lemony halo of light favoring my circle. I thanked the Goddess for lending me Her power, then went to the altar to cleanse and consecrate my basket, my pouches, my knife. I realized I felt lighter, buoyed by Her power. Whatever had been bogging me down earlier had dissipated, turned to dust and carried off in the wind at the Goddess’s touch.
Now to set about collecting herbs.
I left the circle and ventured off to a thicket I’d known to produce a variety of plants. My first harvest was a bay plant, a hearty green stem with fat, dark leaves. Gathering my skirts and tucking them between my legs, I crouched beside the plant and pressed the blade of my bolline into the soil.
“Thank you, Goddess, for this beautiful herb,” I said, drawing a circle around the plant to protect its energy. Then, cutting off the heartiest sprigs, I thanked the plant for its usefulness as a poultice for ailments of the chest. Ma also used bay leaves in spells of protection, though I’d yet to try this. When I was finished, the plant bounced back jovially, and I felt confident it would thrive and go on to produce many more harvests. I moved on to other plants—anise for treatment of colic, thyme to rid internal disorders, clover to conjure money, love, and luck. Each time I did a cutting, I repeated the ritual, drawing a circle with my bolline, thanking the Goddess, soothing the plant. My basket was filling. I leaned close to a fennel plant, my bolline held in midair as I wondered whether the plant would be best harvested later.
The forest was silent.
The birds had stopped chirping.
And I sensed that I was not alone.
I froze in place. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I realized I was holding the bolline—the very same object that had incriminated poor Fionnula. I could be tried as a witch for this gathering ritual, tried and jailed and sentenced to death. Quickly I shoved the bolline into the basket, burying it under the fresh-cut herbs. Fear-stricken, I clenched the basket and tried to calm myself. Perhaps the intruder had not noticed me yet. With luck, he or she was too far away to spy the runes carved into the handle of my bolline. I wondered if I should cast a blocking spell over myself . . . or a spell of protection. But there was no time.
Say that you’re gathering herbs,I thought. The task of gathering herbs is totally innocent. Unless the intruder finds your tool of witchcraft. I turned to confront the enemy.
And the enemy smiled at me. ’Twas a tall, solid boy, not much older than myself, and for a moment I wondered if the Goddess had sent him on a jagged bolt of lightning. Even from across the clearing his blue eyes flashed with that intensity, like the night sky lit during a storm. Clasping the basket to my breast, I closed my eyes, then opened them, sure he would vanish just as readily as he had appeared. He did not. Instead, he came toward me, reaching up to grab an
overhanging branch, then swinging closer. He landed a short space away from me, his ginger
brown hair falling over one eye.
“Did I startle you?” he asked.
“No . . . aye, that is . . .” I fumbled for words, sensing that he was not a threat, at least not in the way I had feared. For my immediate sense was that he held power . . . not the power to persecute, but the grand, sweeping power possessed only by a blood witch. A blood witch, but from what clan? Certainly not a Wodebayne, as Síle’s coven included every living Wodebayne within miles.
“What’s that, then?” he teased. “Do you think it wise for a lass like yourself to wander these woods alone?”
“I wander these woods often, gathering herbs,” I said, trying to draw out our encounter with conversation. “Though I’ve not seen you leaping from trees.” “I trust you’ve not seen many lads leaping from trees,” he said, hooking a thumb over his leather belt.
“You’re my first, I must admit.”
“Well, that’s certainly an honor. I’d imagine men would go to battle to be your first.” That he would imply something so intimate nearly stole my breath away. He spoke the words of a man, but the humor in his eyes was boyish and full of youth. The drawstrings of his white shirt were open at the throat, revealing a fair amount of skin turned tawny from the sun. More skin than most men laid bare, except in circles. I wondered what he would look like in a circle, his robe slipping away from those broad, tanned shoulders. I have met my match, I thought, letting the basket drop to one arm. Aye, he was handsome from head to toe, and his conversation had a certain cleverness that amused. But those qualities merely added to my enchantment. I was drawn to him—inexorably, irrevocably drawn to the power that swirled around him like a visiting wind. At that moment, I didn’t know where he had come from or where he was headed, but with grave certainty I knew that I wanted to be the one to accompany him in his travels. I longed to move close to him and slide t
he tunic off his shoulders, touch the wall of his chest. And how would it feel to be touched by such a god . . . the sweet press of his lips upon mine, the shimmer of his hands over my body? I slid one hand into the pocket of my skirt and clenched the rose stone. If ever a spell were necessary, this was the time. But what were the words? He turned and reached up to swing from the tree limb again, giving me a chance to conjure a quick spell.
I set my mind on the power I had felt swirling in my circle.Oh, Goddess. I felt the stone’s power swelling in my palm, like a quickly blossoming flower.Thank You for bringing him to me. Let him ever be drawn to me, as a man to a woman, ever in love. Ever after.
The warmth of the stone rippled up my arm and passed on through my body. I let out a gasp of shock and joy, though I think he was too caught up in showing off his climbing skills to notice. Then he turned toward me and stared.