by Cate Tiernan
The jolt lifted me off my feet. Suddenly my stomach was sour, my knees turning to mush
beneath me. The ground seemed to rush up, sucking my body onto it. The next thing I knew, my cheek was pressed to the earth, my knees curled beneath me like those of a child suckling its mother. My eyes were closed, but the whirring noise had stopped. The only sound was Diarmuid’s voice calling my name. “Rose? Are you all right?”
His hands were upon me, rubbing my shoulders, stroking my cheek. “Aye.” I sighed and sat up in his arms. “What happened? I’ve never been struck like that before.” “I don’t know.” Diarmuid pulled me closer into the cradle of his chest. “Are you sure you’re not hurt?”
“Just . . . feeling in a haze.” I brushed a lock of dark hair out of my eyes. I was stunned at the Goddess’s sudden attack. Had I displeased Her? “I’m so confused. Why did that happen to me?” “I’ve seen something like that, but only once. Our coven was gathered in a circle for Esbat rites, and the Goddess struck one of the witches down, very much like that. The coveners saw it as the hand of the Goddess reaching down, pointing to Her chosen one, her priestess. Soon after, the woman was anointed high priestess of our coven.” “High priestess . . .” I rubbed my eyes, still queasy from a churning inside me. “But I’m not in a coven looking for a leader.”
“Ah, but the Goddess has chosen you,” Diarmuid insisted. “I know that deep down inside me, Rose. You are destined for greatness. Have you not thought of inheriting your mother’s role as high priestess?”
“Aye, but not for many years. Ma is not ready to relinquish her role, and she still sees me as a babe in the ways of the Goddess. She’s always checking my Book of Spells and trying to pry into my rituals. Truly, she has no confidence in me.” “Well, on that she’s mistaken.” Diarmuid slid a hand around my waist, nearly knocking the air from me. “I’m sure you’re destined to lead your own coven—or something even greater. You are special, Rose. Not just in my eyes, but in the eyes of the Goddess.” “I have to get home,” I said, trying to rise. I coughed, and Diarmuid knelt beside me, then lifted me to my feet.
“Can you walk?” he asked. “For I can readily carry you there, such a wisp of a thing.” I tried a few steps. “I can make it. But I hate to go.” “I’ll help you to the path,” he said, lifting me into his arms. I held fast to his shoulders, allowing myself a few moments of rest and protection in his arms. I had asked for protection, and the Goddess had answered already. Diarmuid. He would be my pillar.
My soul mate.
The Witch’s Jar: A Spell of Protection
As darkness fell, the whirring pain within me began to settle, though the memory of it still frightened me. As Ma and I ate our stew thickened with the potatoes from Diarmuid, I noticed that she was still in a dour mood. I kept myself steady, not wanting to draw her ire upon me. After I had cleaned the supper dishes, Ma brought out a clay jar to prepare for the spell of protection. “I don’t believe you’ve ever done a witch’s jar before, have you?”
I shook my head. “No, but I’ve collected many sharp objects. Just as you said.” I opened the
thick pouch and shook its contents onto the table with a tinny clatter. “Fill the jar with everything you’ve found,” Ma told me. “And as I remember, there are a few herbs that need to be added. Let me see.” She took her Book of Shadows from its hiding place under the eaves of the cottage roof and set it on the table. “This is why I expect you to chronicle everything in your Book of Shadows, Rose. The mind does not always record as well as parchment and quill.”
Another criticism. I dropped nails into the jar, wondering what I would have to do to please my mother in the ways of the Goddess.
My mother leafed through her book, her teeth pressed over her lower lip, until she found the right page. “Aye, we need sage and ivy,” she said. “And a touch of bay should warn us of any further act of evil coming upon the MacGreavys.” She ran her finger down the page, nodding. “And marjoram. Do we have that in our collection, Rose?” “I think so.” I got up from the table to check the pouches hanging from the rafters. “Aye, Ma, here it is.” As I placed the pouch on the table, she caught my hand in hers. Her touch sent a spark through me. Surprise, perhaps. Although I already knew I felt guilty for hiding so much from her.
“Something’s changed, like shifting winds.” She glanced up at me, her dark eyes locking on me. “Why do I have the feeling you’re not telling me something, Rose? Are you all right?” I nodded, trying to look away from her.
Ma rose to her feet, facing me. “What happened to you today? Did something go wrong in your ritual?”
I nodded again, too frightened of the painful experience to keep it pent up inside me. “I was . . . I was thanking the Goddess when She struck me down from the sky.” I clasped my hands to my chest. “The force hit me here, knocking me to the ground. ’Twas like a lightning bolt on a sunny day and ... oh, Ma, ’twas painful.”
She folded me into her arms. “Child, child. Were you harmed?” I closed my eyes and pressed my head to her blouse, relieved to have the truth out. “At first I could barely breathe, but I’m better now. Still frightened, though. Why would the Goddess strike me down?”
“ ’Tis hard to say.” Ma stroked my hair, then moved me to a chair. “Have you done anything that might offend Her? Think hard, Rose, and be honest. What kind of spells have you been working on of late?”
I rubbed my forehead, wondering how to get through my web of lies without tripping over it. Surely my love spell for Diarmuid had not offended the Goddess so greatly? “Well, there was drawing down the moon. I did that with Kyra.” “ ’Tis not a spell, though.”
“But we did work magick,” I insisted. “We had a charm that needed to be charged.” “What sort of charm?”
As soon as she asked the question, I knew trouble was brewing for me. “It was a moonstone for Kyra,” I said simply.
“And the purpose of the charm?”
“To bring her the love of Falkner Radburn.” “Oh, by the Goddess . . .” Ma banged her fist on the table, making the witch’s jar jump a bit. “How many times have I told you not to meddle with a person’s free will? You can make a charm or a poppet to attract love, but it’s wrong to ensnare the love of a specific person. To
meddle with a person’s life, to control his destiny . . . that’s dark magick.” She banged her fist
again. “It’s wrong, Rose!”
My insides turned stone cold at her anger. Couldn’t she see I was just helping a very desperate friend?
“Why is it that all my instructions to you fly through the air and fall to the soil?” my mother asked. “You are not listening, Rose, and today is just one example of how the power of the Goddess can harm if you don’t practice witchcraft in the ways of the elders. Do you want to hurt people, Rose?”
“No, Ma,” I said quietly. That much was true. “Then why do you insist on meddling with a person’s will? ’Tis not right, Rose. When you go out to gather plants, do you strike down a plant without apology? Do you slash through stems at will, taking more than you need, harming nature?” “No.” I dug my fingers into my hair, dropping my chin against my chest. I hated being chastised this way. I thought of Diarmuid’s comment that he had seen a woman struck down the same way because she was destined to be the high priestess of the coven. Why could my ma not even entertain the thought that there was a positive reason? Could it be that she knew I had been chosen by the Goddess for greatness, and she was jealous of my connection to Her? My face burned at the thought.
“So why would you strike out at a person that way, tampering with his destiny?” There was no answer—at least, none that would suit her—so I kept quiet. “You must go back to your earlier lessons,” Ma said sternly. “Starting tomorrow, you will look over your Book of Shadows from the beginning. You will spend less time afield with your friends and more time studying from my Book of Shadows, too. And you will stop making up your own spells until I can be sure you’re fulfilling the Goddess�
��s will. Do you understand?” “I understand,” I said. I pressed my teeth into my lower lip, wondering if she would realize that I had not promised her anything.
It was all so unfair. I had tried to gain my mother’s support by telling her about the painful strike from the sky, and in turn she merely wanted to cripple me. If Síle the high priestess had her way, I’d be locked in the cottage, drying herbs and inscribing spells. How could I stop making spells when I knew the Goddess was calling me to Her? How dare my mother try to interfere with the Goddess’s destiny for me? Ma did not understand about my powers. And from her tart reaction on that front, I knew that it would be a catastrophe to tell her about Diarmuid. For now he would be a secret, and until my mother learned to see me as more than her incapable daughter, he would remain a secret.
Down the dark road, Miller MacGreavy led the way. He was followed by his wife, who walked beside my mother, their voices lowered so as not to wake anyone in the cottages we passed. I walked behind them, feeling dull and tired. The night’s Esbat rites had hardly moved me. They had only emphasized how Síle and her coven were following a weary, timeworn road while I was on the verge of opening an exciting new doorway to the Goddess. The breeze rustled the trees so ripe with bud; their clattering branches reminded me of the bell rung at Esbat.
Three times.
“An ye harm none, do what thou wilt,” Síle chanted. “An ye harm none, do what thou wilt,” we all repeated.
“Thus runs the Witch’s Rede,” Síle went on. “Remember it well. Whatever you desire; whatever
you would ask of the Goddess, be assured that it will harm no one—not even yourself. And remember that as you give, so it shall return threefold.” I trudged along, trying to clear my mother’s voice from my head. I had heard her words in the circle so many times, I could recite them by heart. “I am She who watches over thee,” said High Priestess Síle. “Mother of you all. Know that I rejoice that you do not forget me, paying me homage at the full of the moon. Know that I weave the skein of life for each and every one of you. . . .” “Enough, enough, enough!” I grumbled through gritted teeth. I had heard my mother’s words so many times, they had become meaningless for me. As we neared the mill, I wondered if Ma’s spell of protection would work. At least this was something that interested me, as I’d never worked one before. Miller MacGreavy unlatched the big door to the mill, and the four of us filed inside. During the Esbat rites, Ma and the MacGreavys had summoned the Goddess to protect them and the mill, so I imagined that this would entail more spell casting than the ritual had. Soon Ma had candles lit, and Mrs. MacGreavy set her tools on the table, which we assembled around. Normally I would have helped with preparations, but since Ma had made it clear I was being punished, I held back. Ma had already placed herbs in the witch’s jar, which now sat at the center of the table, but I knew there was something more to be added before we sealed it. Closing her eyes, Ma held up her hands, opened to the Goddess. “With this witch’s jar we will cast a spell of protection over this mill and this miller’s family,” she said. Looking down at the table, she moved the jar toward Mrs. MacGreavy. “’Twill need a drop of blood from you. Take your bolline and give your finger the slightest prick.” The miller’s wife pressed the sharp end of her bolline against her fingertip. A crimson drop began to form, and she squeezed it into the jar. Then my mother passed the jar over to the miller. “Spit in it,” she said. He did so. Then Ma began to seal the top of the jar, using hot candle wax. As she worked, she chanted: “Protect this mill, protect these folk,
Guard them from illness and harm.
Send back the darkness to those who sent it.
Cast a light of goodness around,
Let love and protection abound.”
Glancing up from the sealed jar, my mother told the MacGreavys to join hands. “You must remain here in the mill while Rose and I circle it with the jar. Three times.” She pulled on her cloak and went to the door. “We’ll be back when the spell is finished.” Silently I followed my mother. I was allowed to hold the jar as we traced a wide circle around the mill. On the side where the brook ran deep and fast, there was a crossing bridge. But as we reached the shallows on the other side of the mill, it was clear there was no way across. “No way across but in,” Ma said, gathering up her skirts. “Pull up your gown, Rose. We’ll be walking through the Goddess’s waters tonight.” She stuck out her foot, eyeing her sandal. “Too bad it’s not a cobbler we’re casting a spell for. We’ll be in need of new footwear after this.” I laughed, taken aback at Ma’s impetuous humor. This was a side of her I rarely saw. I hitched up my skirts and stepped into the brook. Cold water swirled around my legs and mud seeped into my shoes, but I tramped on beside Ma, the witch’s jar tucked into the crook of my arm.
We circled the mill three times, then ducked inside with sodden shoes and wet legs. The cold
didn’t bother me. It was sort of refreshing on a warm night, and I counted this spell as something of value, certainly worth including in my Book of Shadows. Inside the mill, the MacGreavys waited in the flickering candlelight. “The spell is done,” Ma said. “We need to bury the jar, but there’s no safe place around here. Rose and I will hide it in the woods where no one will find it.” The miller went over to my mother, clasping her hands. “Thank you, Síle.” She nodded. “And now I think I need a rag to wipe down my shoes. Seems that Rose and I had to go for a late-night dip in the brook.” She pushed off her shoe, and it flopped onto the floor like a dead fish.
“Oh, my!” Mrs. MacGreavy laughed, rushing off to find some cloths. The miller brought out chairs and wine for all of us, and he and his wife talked in the quiet, dark room while Ma and I dried our feet. I took a sip of wine—sweet and heady. Just like Diarmuid’s kisses. Of course, nearly everything made me think of Diarmuid. It was an effort to concentrate on what was before me instead of the lovely picture floating in my mind of him. And at the moment, the conversation was so gloomy, with the miller complaining of slow business, that I preferred to dream of my love.
“At least it was our slow season,” Mrs. MacGreavy was saying. “Aye, but if we don’t get that broken gear fixed soon, we’ll have no business at all,” Miller MacGreavy said. “It’s all a result of the curse upon us, probably from those vile Burnhydes.” He turned to Ma. “And I thank you for wiping it away. Our luck will change now, though I can’t say that I see better days ahead for the Seven Clans. It’s an age-old battle we’re fighting, and it’s getting worse instead of better, with curses and sheep thieves and vendors picking on innocent young girls at market.” His eyes burned with conviction as he glanced at me, and I bit my lower lip, wondering if everyone in the Highlands had heard of my escapades at the market. If the story was floating around, soon the real details—of the boy who had saved me—would wend their way to my mother. More trouble for me.
“Ian . . .” The miller’s wife tried to soothe him, but he forged on. “I say it’s high time we Wodebaynes stopped taking the prejudice against us,” he insisted. “Time to use magick to fight back.”
Closing her eyes, my mother shook her head gently. “No, Ian, that’s not the answer.” “Well, then, how are we going to stop it, Síle?” the miller asked. “You know the stories—though there are so many, I’ve lost count. A Leapvaughn tricking a Wodebayne farmer out of his land. A Ruanwande casting a spell that makes a Wodebayne girl go mad. Even your own husband, Gowan, was prey to the prejudice, Síle.” “My father?” I dropped the rag on the floor. So long had I craved to hear stories of my father, Gowan MacEwan, but every time I asked, my request was headed off by a severe look from my mother. “Tell me,” I begged, turning to the man. “ ’Tis not much of a story, Rose,” the miller said, touching his beard. “But one day, when your father was on the road traveling to a nearby village, he came across a Wyndonkylle man on a horse. The horseman rode past without incident but then returned to harass your father. He accused your father of looking upon him with evil in his eyes. Then, when he learned that your father was
a Wodebayne, he reared up his horse and trampled your father under its hooves.” I winced. “That’s a terrible tale. But Da survived it.” Ma nodded. “Aye, but he walked with a limp ever after.” As Mr. MacGreavy went on lamenting the clan differences, I thought of my father. He had died
when I was young, so I remembered little of him. I’d heard a few dark rumors—tales that he had
been interested in dark magick—though no one spoke of him to me directly. And my mother refused to fill in any of the missing details. Why was she so reluctant to speak of him? After the conversation and wine ran out, we said our good-byes and headed home. Ma and I were across the river and down the road a bit when she realized we had forgotten the witch’s jar. “Make haste and fetch it,” she told me. “I shall wait here.” Lifting my skirts, I ran back along the road. But as I approached the mill, I saw a solitary candle burning upon the threshold. I slowed my pace as my feet silently crept over the cooling earth. There was magick here—I felt the boundaries of a witch’s circle, and I was forced to stop at its perimeters. I used my magesight to study the details. Was that a pentagram drawn in the dirt by the door? But it was upside down! ’Twas not part of the spell Ma had cast. . . . As I stood in the shadows, a figure loomed in the open doorway—Miller MacGreavy. He did not sense my presence as he leaned out and poured a dark liquid over the pentagram, all the while uttering words I did not understand. I gasped, realizing that the liquid Ian MacGreavy was using was blood.