by F. E. Arliss
“I accept me for what and who I am,” ran on repeat through her mind and in her dreams for the next ten hours. “I am an Amazon.”
Chapter Eleven
The Antlers
The next day Emery woke early but didn’t throw back the covers. Instead, she laid in her warm bed and slowly ran her hands all over each part of her body - starting at the top of her silvery-blonde hair with its crown of selkie bones, she blessed and sent acceptance and love to each bit of her six foot frame. Even as she did it she found new things to be grateful for. Strong fingernails, smooth skin, no underarm hair, silky hairless legs, slim ankles and cute feet. Really, she was adorable - if a six foot tall woman could be called adorable...she was.
Really, Emery supposed she should say words like statuesque or elegant, but frankly, she didn’t want to. She would just think of herself as a sexy Amazonian goddess of natural beauty and relish the fact that she didn’t have to do a damn thing except be herself and to be this ravishing. Ok, so Eilidh had to braid her hair...that was it. Damn she was good. A natural sex goddess of luscious delicousness. She giggled a bit. Sex goddess! Ha! Well she’d had nice sex with the twins, but seriously, did that even count? Of course it did. They’d made sure to make her feel loved and secure. It counted!
Now, that felt better!
She leapt from the bed and slipped into her clothing for the sailing trip, remembering to load the tiny throwing knives her self-defense master had given her into the tiny pockets sewn into the long pleats around the waist of her kilt. There were twenty of them, so it took a few minutes.
Into the neoprene boots went another larger throwing knife in the left boot and a small blow dart pipe and tiny darts into the right one. That was probably the only decent thing she’d brought back from the awful trip to the Amazon. Well, she was an Amazon now and had a very nice turtle-shell rattle made for her by a grateful snake-bite victim she’d saved to show for it.
Don Juan scampered up her leg and then up into the small space with its clear viewing window. Deira bounded after him. She’d feel safer and be able to see better in the bubble. The two of them were fighting over who got the best view out of the nickel-sized window when Emery threw a ragged wool sweater over her head and silenced the argument with a long wail of “Arghhh!” from both rodent and spider.
“You guys only have to go in there if we hit water!” Emery reminded them. Grudgingly, Deira climbed up to curl in behind her ear in the braids and Don Juan simply snickered and bedded himself down in the small pocket, leaving the tiny hatch open for air.
Emery knew it was a bit weird, but she also included the strap-on rapier that she had begun to truly master in her fencing lessons. It was fairly light, extremely strong, and hung neatly from a belt around her waist under her sweater. As the case was long and narrow, it tended to blend into the swirling pleats of her kilt.
She was good with a gun, but that seemed like overkill for a friendly meeting with other covens. Lifting the duffle bag she’d loaded onto her shoulder, she bounded down the stairs to say goodbye to the crones.
On the morning of the departure, the twins once again appeared on the Abbey’s doorstep and dragged Emery down the hill to their mother’s worn stump-like chair. Well, it was a stump. Probably the only one on the island as most of the trees were gone and what they did have were coddled specimens that their owners guarded from the winds and salt spray. The stump was probably centuries old and looked it.
The crones straggled along behind, unable to keep up with the twin’s impatient tugging and galloping walk as they dragged Emery down the path towards the village.
A crowd had assembled and was gathered expectantly in front of Eilidh’s hut. The blacksmith hovered at the edge of the group, a weirdly eerie grin of satisfaction and excitement slipping in and out of sight in the huge growth of his beard.
When Emery was shoved unceremoniously onto the stump once more, she sighed. “Now what!” she asked grumpily. “We need to get going, so hurry up,” she snapped at the twins, who stood behind their mother giggling silently like good-looking dimwits.
Eilidh stepped forward, smiled excitedly at the crones as they gathered close and then held a hand out towards the burly blacksmith. The crowd split like Moses parting the Red Sea. Holding out one enormous paw, the blacksmith deposited something glittery into Eilidh’s nimble hands. Turning back to Emery she held open her palms so that the girl could see what the blacksmith had made.
Everyone in the village knew that queenie had been upset that her beloved antler hat no longer fit on her head with her many braids, shells and selkie bones. In Eilidh’s rough palms was a beautifully wrought set of miniature antlers. A flat, slightly-curved base held three prongs in the shape of a flattened thorn from the rosa spinosissima, the emblem of the coven. Atop this skull-hugging base sat a set of upright, sharply-pointed Scottish roe deer antlers glittering silver in the sunlight.
Eilidh held them out to her and let Emery hold them, examine them and caress them. They were exquisite and her eye’s filled with tears. Looking up she thanked the burly blacksmith, by standing, running to his huge frame and hugging him tightly. He blushed a scarlet red and awkwardly patted her back. “The silver is from an old necklace the selkies found in an ocean liner’s wreck that was torpedoed in 1918 in the Inner Hebrides not far from here. Undercarriage is steel, then it’s coated in the sterling silver from the wreck. Them antlers are tough underneath,” he added roughly. “If ya have to, just pull ‘em out from yer head and use ‘em as a weapon.” Then gruffly running a hand over his huge bearth, he added, “If’n ya want ‘em black, just leave ‘em be. Other’n that, you’ll have to polish ‘em at night to keep ‘em sparkly.” The large man blushed as he said the word “sparkly” and the crowd guffawed with delight at his discomfiture.
Emery stepped back and gaped at him. “Really?” The blacksmith nodded, his nose a brilliant burgundy when the crowd all oohed out a long “wow’ sound.
Eilidh showed Emery how she was going to place two of the flattened, thorn-shaped tabs into the braids running parallel to each other atop her head. The third thorn slid under the selkie bones.
The design was ingenious. Not only did it feel firmly in place, but when she shook her head and spun around, they really didn’t move. With Eilidh guiding her hand, they practiced putting them on her head and removing them. The smith showed her how the flattened thorns that curved gently around her skull, could also be used as a handle across her palm - allowing the silver-coated, slender steel antlers to protrude like a very vicious weapon.
With them back in place, Emery sat down on the stump and proceeded to cry tears of happiness. She had no idea why, but she’d missed her antlers so much. The villagers crowded close and peered at the headpiece with ahhhs. Finally, Dorothea, seeing that Emery was done with her fit of emotion, shewed everyone away by saying curtly, “Off to the meeting you three!” and waved a wrinkled hand towards the shorts wearing twins and Emery’s now tranquil face. “You twins better have your kilts with you. Those ratty shorts and worn out sweaters aren’t something I want other clans to see you in. Change before you get there!” the wrinkled crone commanded.
The twins muttered, “Yes, ma’am,” bowed just slightly to the haggard old woman, then grinned at their mother and scampered off towards the port with the beat up backpack she handed them.
Emery hugged the blacksmith and Eilidh, then the crones, and then skipped happily off after the twins, occasionally touching her regal antlers in wonder.
Emery air walked down to the jetty to find the twins waiting impatiently for her. They were always ready to get onto the water. Slinging her bag onto her berth, she tripped up the steps from the galley and helped cast off. With Mur at the helm, the Hunter slowly slid away from the stones of the Abbey’s ancient jetty and out into the increasingly rough roll of the seas around the isle.
“Well,” Emery said quietly to Ray, “I hope this goes well.”
“We too,” he muttered, indeed meaning
‘we’, not ‘me’, as some would think. The twins thought in tandem. Therefore, it really was ‘we’.
Without using the motor to sail, the winds kept the twins busy tacking the Hunter out to sea against a strong easterly wind. It took the whole two days they’d figured for the Hunter to finally find shelter in the bay close to the Castell Aberlleiniog. That timing gave Emery a day to scout the area with the twins and enjoy a little time in the slightly milder climate that Wales was offering them.
Strangely, now without the constant howling winds of Eigg, Emery felt freer. She realized that sometimes one doesn’t understand how much they’re pushing against the wind until it’s absent. Wind was a constant batterer on the small isle. Without it, she realized there was a reason all of the islanders were fit, wiry, strong and had immense stamina. Wind was their constant companion - it knocked against them, twisted the stunted trees and bushes, battered the stone huts, and introduced the incessant work of repairs to absolutely everything on the island.
It was just more food for thought for her these days. Lately, Emery had been struggling with what it was that defined her. She no longer felt American. Nor was she a typical young woman. This insight into the things that shaped her were confusing. None of the things that had shaped her had been from her own free will except her decision to become wiccan and develop with the crones. So, Emery supposed, the only thing she could really own was the powers of Wicca. She was a witch. That had been her choice. The rest was how that practice had produced her. It was an enlightening realization.
Chapter Twelve
Conclave of Covens
The day of the convergence dawned clear and foggy. So far none of them had seen any other boats enter the bay. Nor had there been any movement the evening before around the castle ruins. Emery had set alarm wards around the Hunter and along the beach before they’d turned in for the night. Sending a message out to the seals and sea turtles in the area, she’d also covered the sea behind them for safety’s sake.
The meet was set for ten o’clock that morning. She was putting Mur in place early in order to obtain the best position on the ruins for observation. His braided hair, black turtleneck knitted with the intricate white band of thorns around each upper arm, and Ranald plaid kilt marked him clearly as a representative of Coven Thorneridge. Emery was going to go early and scout the area for the other parties before visibly introducing herself to the others that arrived. Mur wouldn’t bother to answer anyone that spoke to him, so that wasn’t a problem.
The raised triangular platform of the old ruined castle had been chosen as it had been a place of sanctuary for many different covens and also for other types of mystical clans. It belonged to no one, but was simply through the ages a place of neutral safety.
Mur had stationed himself upon the circular wall of a ruined turret. It was by far the highest point of the castle and had the particular advantage of having a three-hundred and sixty degree view of the surrounding approaches. Emery had simply laid down in the grass of the circular turret ruin after a scouting run had discovered nothing but peaceful meadows. She lay now calming her mind with meditation.
The first of the six covens to arrive, besides the statue-like form of Mur, whom everyone noted but stayed well away from, was the coven of Muhu. They were a coven from an Estonian island known for their control of the element of air. Their particular gift was control of the wind and they powered their entire island off the power of wind, as did Eigg and the Thorneridge coven, though Thorneridge also used solar and water to power various turbines. It was always good to have back-up systems in place.
The Muhu had floated in on the air from inland and landed lightly along one stone wall. They were dressed in long, pale-gray robes that resembled Japanese kimonos. The robes had floated like gossamer wings in the eddying air. Both women simply nodded to Mur and sat lightly upon the stone wall waiting quietly.
Next a pair of gleaming women with halos of golden curls adorning their lanky forms appeared walking leisurely along the path to the castle. The yellow jeans and sky blue technical, windbreaker hooded jackets showed brightly in the late morning as the fog burned slowly away over the ruins. These two women had to be the representatives of the Plateausol coven, a group of witches from the ancient, raised, fortified medieval city of Carcassonne in southern France. Many legends said they were the descendants of Joan of Arc. It was told that they had the gift of far sight. This meant that some of them could see the future and some were able to see things for preternaturally long distances. Which meant they most likely already knew Emery was here, lying in the grass.
Mur grunted a sound of discontent, which had Emery sitting up in alarm. “What?” she asked in a low tone.
“Surfing witches,” he answered, practically growling in his concern for his twin on the Hunter.
“Cool!” Emery exclaimed, leaping up to try and see. Mur simply took both of her hands and airlifted her onto his shoulders. Balancing neatly, Emery could indeed see Ray on the Hunter following the progress of a trio of forms on the tops of curled-over waves as they folded into the sea towards the shore. Each time a wave died, a new one would appear and the forms would simply step onto the next. “They’ve gotta be the Elbe coven from northern Germany,” she muttered. “Power of water.”
Mur was silent as the trio passed the Hunter. Ray had calmly watched them pass, admiring their surfing form as they went. His black sweater and red, green, and black plaid kilt clearly denoted him as part of the Thorneridge coven.
Emery remained on Mur’s shoulders for a bit, watching the Elbe advance, then hike to the ruins. Once they’d arrived and positioned themselves on one of the three triangular-shaped stones that made up the corners of the platform, Emery simply floated on air down onto one of the blocks of the turrets overlooking the rest of the court-like ruin and waited. The already present covens had noted Mur’s airlift of Emery with interest and had smiled slightly as she’d floated down to the large block of stone she now perched on.
Two white-haired crones soon appeared on horseback, galloping lightly across the rolling meadows towards the wooden bridge that crossed a small stream. They were the Grizedale coven, undoubtedly. It was said their coven was based at the Lowther Castle in what used to be Westmoreland. They had many different gifts of magic, but were particularly well known for their affinity with animals. Emery could see that the horses seemed to be galloping on air.
“I want a horse that can do that,” she stated matter-of-factly to Mur.
Mur harrumphed in disagreement. “Whale, maybe,” he grunted scornfully. Emery grinned down at him.
The duo had now tethered their mounts to a tree in the shade and climbed the raggedly-winding steps to the raised courtyard. They approached the last triangular stone and simply nodded to the other groups and waited.
Emery knew there was one last group to arrive. According to Dorothea, they were the ones that had asked for the meeting. The coven was called White Desert, and hailed from Egypt. Creepily, they had the gift of power over death and darkness. They weren’t necessarily evil. But they were certainly not all fun and games.
None of the crones had ever met any of them and had been unable to reassure Emery that the power of death and darkness wasn’t going to be aimed at her. Being a bit paranoid, having had several attempts on her young life already, Emery had woven a variety of wards around the Hunter, both twins, and herself. No sense risking anything.
When the White Desert representatives did appear, they were oddly benign. As pale as the two older crones from the Grizedale coven, they were dressed sedately in dark grey-beige, hooded robes. Emery sort of got it, actually. If they were in the dark, they could pull the hoods up to hide their glowing white skin and disappear into the shadows. Nor did they exude evil or anything like that.
They’d simply sat down on the wall and nodded at everyone, their bald foreheads glowing palely in the morning’s watery light.
Emery, sensing Mur’s impatience to get back to his twin, cast him a
quelling look, then stood. “Shall we get on with it then,” she asked calmly, allowing her voice to carry on the breeze. “I’m Emery, the representative from Thorneridge coven, Scotland,” she said, then grinned as the breeze swirled her and Mur’s kilt in a show of highland colors. “This is Mur, one of the lords of the sea from our coven.” This additional introduction brought about a series of sidelong glances. Emery didn’t care. That’s who Mur was. End of story.
A long silence followed as the groups gazed at the two of them. Little did Mur or Emery understand how striking they were. Emery’s silver antlers glittered in the morning light, accenting her silvery braids, white selkie bone crown, silver shipwreck coins, and the glowing blue of her eyes. Mur looked similar, though his sea green eyes and the brilliantly shining pearls and abalone shells woven into his hair caused both of them to have an aura of dancing light that twinkled about them. They exuded magic and power.
The two women of the White Desert clan climbed to their feet, nodded to each group and then, turning to Emery said, “The White Desert of Abydos is happy to greet the attendants.”