Witches Brew
S
he
glared
at
the
ochre-hued
page
of
the
family
tome,
the
recipe
it
was
opened
to,
and
shook
her
head.
A
long
river
of
hair
fell
from
her
shoulder
across
her
breasts
and
the
glowing
amulet
perched
there.
She
flicked
her
hair
back
absently
and
mumbled an old plea handed down over the centuries.
“Patter
of
bats,
fingernail
moon,
emerald
fern
ground
fine, light the fire, do not stray, so this witch can see the way.”
The
heavy-plank
door
groaned
as
it
swung
inward.
Her
sister
walked
into
the
ancient
barn
following
a
conjured
fire
lighting
her
way.
Dewines
pinched
the
center
of
the
flames
and the spell faded.
“Gwiddon.
Do
not
tell
me
you’re
still
fretting.
Spells
are
spells, recipes, recipes. Some things simply can’t be improved upon.”
Gwiddon
gazed
at
her
sister
and
all
that
came
to
mind
was
how
jealous
she
was
that
Dewines
inherited
the
orange-red
hair
of
the
witches
who
preceded
them.
If
she
didn’t
love
her
sister
so
much
it
would
be
easy
to
hate
her.
Silken
complexion,
eyes
beryl-green,
narrow
chin,
and
cheekbones
that
could
dull
an
axe,
sweet
smile
and
arched back that made her look as though she floated when she walked.
Dewines
sighed.
“If
you
worry
any
more
about
your
trial
on
the
morrow
you’ll
not
sleep.
It
will
give
you
little
pleasure
to
compete
for
the
family’s
honor
with
eyes
held
hostage by bags of exhaustion.”
“Easy
for
you
to
say.
Your
trial
is
long
past.”
Gwiddon
grinned.
“All
you
had
to
do
to earn your initiation was turn a besotted man into a pilgrim with pride.”
“It
wasn’t
that
easy.
I
was
provided
a
most
horrid
man.
And
he
followed
me
endlessly for months. I obviously blended too strong a spell.
“Besides,
the
gaggle
you
compete
with
haven’t
half
your
skill.
You
distress
over
nothing.
You
have
the
recipe
that
has
put
other
llwyths
to
shame
for
generations.
Have
you collected all the fresh herbs you need, or not?”
Gwiddon nodded.
“Then
why
do
you
overtax
your
amulet
so?
Let
it
rest.
The
sprite
spirits
may
take
offense at the burden.”
A stitch tightened in Gwiddon’s chest.
“Oh my, what have I done? Given you one more thing to worry your mind.”
The
girl
closed
her
eyes
and
the
orange
glow
of
the
amulet
faded
to
a
rich
burnt-
red
before
extinguishing.
Gwiddon
opened
her
eyes
and
checked
the
mystic
force
of
her
charm, which had once belonged to her crone-aunt.
“You will do well, child,” Dewines said.
“Child,
is
it?”
Gwiddon
laughed.
“Were
we
not
walking
barefoot
through
the
sandy
creek
last
fall
together,
the
farm
boys
calling
down
from
the
trees
to
us
both,
asking
for
kisses. You did not go through your initiation
that
long ago, sister.”
Dewines
laughed
with
her.
“Fair
you
are.
And
you
will
be
considered
a
full
witch
in
your
own
right
on
the
morrow.
The
family
will
retain
its
pride.
We
will
stand
tall
beside
you and frighten away the demons as we dance into the night.”
But
Gwiddon
still
fretted.
“Ancient
does
not
mean
unbeatable.
I
hear
my
rivals
have been—”
“Simply shows how desperate they are,” Dewines said.
“Desperation
can
be
a
dangerous
thing.”
Gwiddon
allowed
her
sister
to
wrap
her
within a comforting embrace.
“My
sweet,
dear
Gwiddon.
Those
fledging-wiccans
will
simply
be
exhausted
from
their futile plight. New rarely means better.”
Gwiddon
stepped
back
from
the
proven
witch.
Dewines
pulled
Gwiddon’s
coal-
black
hair
forward
and
fretted
with
a
couple
tangles
until
it
lay
behaved
over
her
shoulders.
“The
torchlight
reflects
the
most
beautiful
reds
and
golds
in
your
hair,”
Dewines
said.
“I
envy
it.
Hasn’t
the
bawdiness
of
my
own.
Come,
get
some
sleep.
It
wouldn’t
be
proper for a future full-wiccan to rise with red eyes.”
They walked to the door arm-in-arm. Dewines raised a hand and waved it casually.
“Fire of Tan, fade and recede, light of Brite precede and fill the night.”
The
torch
Gwiddon
had
been
reading
by
slowly
extinguished
behind
them
as
a
new
flame flickered to life, hovering before them, leading them to the house.
Their
mother
slumbered
in
the
family’s
ancient
rocking
chair,
which
would
be
handed
down
to
one
of
the
sisters,
one
day.
It
wasn’t
a
given
it
would
be
the
eldest,
for
if
Gwiddon
accomplished
her
task
the
next
day
and
found
the
half-human,
half-wiccan
who
lived
unknown
to
them
all
these
years
in
the
village,
she
might
have
a
step
up
on
her sister.
A
volume
of
spells
sat
in
Cydwedd’s
lap,
closed.
The
woman’s
hands
lay
across
it,
fingers
gently
woven.
She
stirred
and
opened
her
eyes
when
Dewines
kissed
her
on
the
forehead.
“You should go to bed, Mother.”
“Ah, so have you convinced Gwiddon to stop second-guessing herself?”
“I wouldn’t meddle,” Dewines mewed.
“What
kind
of
witch
are
you?”
Cydwedd
cackled.
“Keeping
your
nose
in
your
own
business is a poor example to lead, for a proper witch.”
“I
remember,”
Dewines
said,
“what
it
was
like
when
visiting
llwyth
tried
to
influence
my
actions
on
my
own
judgment
day.
You
were
wise
to
discourage
their
visit
this sennight. We should be glad they accepted your excuse.”
“You
are
too
aloof
to
be
a
witch,”
Cynwedd
teased.
“Perhaps
the
crow
delivered
the
wrong babe at your birth.”
“Delivered
the
right
babe
it
did,”
Gwiddon
chimed.
“I’ve
been
given
a
proper
sister
to compete against for the right to challenge Gastwedd for council succession one day.”
Her
mother
narrowed
her
eyes.
“Pass
your
initiation
before
thinking
of
the
council.
Your mind should not be divided the eve before your test.”
“She
is
only
saying
out
loud,”
Dwines
said,
“what
we
are
all
thinking.
The
leadership
of
the
council
must
be
brought
back
into
the
llwyth.
The
wrong
clan
has
claimed the reins and we have all paid the price in the growing persecution.”
“You
are
both
too
young
to
be
anticipating
such
responsibility.
Off
to
bed
with
you
both. Gwiddon has a long journey that will start too early.”
Gwiddon
lifted
the
heavy
volume
off
her
mother’s
lap
and
returned
it
to
its
nook
next
to
the
hearth.
The
two
kissed
their
mother
and
went
to
their
pallets
with
no
more
discussion as they changed into their night robes.
Gwiddon
lay
quietly
ensnared
in
her
thoughts
unable
to
sleep
for
hours.
The
heavy
staff that pounded on the door before sunrise wracked her mind like a physical pain.
She
and
her
sister
rushed
to
dress.
Dewines
was
the
first
to
the
door,
raising
the
heavy
timber
and
allowing
the
two
warlocks
in.
Gwiddon
stirred
the
hearth
and
fed
it
kindling to heat water for tea, and take the early morning chill out of the great room.
“A
fine
day
it
will
be,”
the
younger
sorcerer
declared
heartily.
“We
have
ensured
no
rain spoils this day of examination.”
Gwiddon
peered
at
the
man.
She
had
seen
him
following
about
in
her
father’s
footsteps
like
a
pet
in
the
past,
but
couldn’t
remember
ever
being
introduced
to
him.
He
and
the
sour
looking
Mordred
would
act
as
her
monitors
for
the
day,
to
ensure
she
used
no
improper
conjuring
to
identify
the
half-wiccan
rumored
to
live
among
the
humans.
Cydwedd
joined
her
two
daughters
and
the
three
moved
about
the
table
putting
together
a
simple
meal
for
the
five
to
break
fast.
The
kettle
whistling,
Gwiddon
set
tea
steeping.
The
impatient
younger
warlock
poured
himself
a
spot
quickly.
He
didn’t
drink though, only warmed his hands around the mug.
Gwiddon
studied
the
man.
Hardly
looked
old
enough
to
have
passed
his
own
initiation.
He
spoke
of
ensuring
there
was
no
rain
as
though
it
was
his
grand
gesture.
Who
actually
cited
the
spell
if
at
all?
His
cape
was
thin
and
his
boots
truly
insufficient
for the road. He wasn’t one to properly represent their kind.
Gwiddon
blushed
at
her
mean
thoughts.
She
was
no
older
than
him,
powers
no
more
substantial.
She
was
only
lucky
to
be
the
daughter
of
a
successful
witch
and
warlock, who could provide what the lad lacked.
The
three
of
them
struck
off
for
the
far
village
with
no
hint
of
sun
yet
aiding
their
trek. A thick fog hung about them and weaved between the trees.
It
hadn’t
cleared
three
hours
later
as
they
came
to
the
ridge
that
overlooked
the
valley
and
the
bustling
human
community
that
resided
below.
A
breeze
traversed
the
hills clearing the muggy air that lingered.
“Have you been there before?” her younger escort asked.
“On
occasion,”
Gwiddon
answered,
to
imply
multiple
times.
But
she
had
only
one
opportunity
to
visit
before,
with
her
father
when
he
had
llwyth
duties,
but
that
allowed
them to stay over the night. Was very exciting.
“Come,”
Mordred
grunted,
stamping
his
staff.
“We
have
no
time
to
dawdle.
The
other initiates may already be there.”
It
was
always
an
eerie
sensation
first
walking
into
the
fray
of
humans.
They
were
loud
and
moved
with
unnecessary
haste.
Impatient,
intimidating
beings.
Gwiddon
would
never
understand
their
ways.
The
rock-paved
lane,
filled
with
carts
and
horses,
echoed loudly in ears used to the quiet forest.
Mordred
and
the
younger
warlock
escorted
her
to
the
bakery
the
council
ran,
to
bring
in
the
human
coin
that
helped
them
blend
in
when
they
traveled.
There
were
a
couple
patrons
in
the
shop
purchasing
items
when
they
entered.
The
three
waited
patiently for them to leave.
“Your
initiate,”
Mordred
said
simply
to
the
witch
behind
the
counter.
He
immediately
rose
his
staff,
mumbled
a
charm,
and
the
two
warlocks
faded
until
they
were
invisible.
They
would
sit
about
unseen,
watching
that
Gwiddon
did
not
inappropriately interact with the humans that day.
The
witch
smiled
broadly.
“Welcome.
Do
you
need
anything?
Anything
I
can
help
you with?”
Gwiddon
met
the
woman’s
warm
smile.
“A
pot
and
utensils,
and
I’m
set,”
she
answered nervously.
Thirty
minutes
later,
sweat
threatened
to
drip
from
Gwiddon’s
nose
as
she
stirred
the
small
cauldron.
She
recited
the
incantations,
dropping
each
pinch
of
herb
into
the
simmer.
By
mid-day
she
fretted
over
how
long
the
other
initiates
had
in
the
village,
free
to
spread their sorcery, with her’s simmering lazily, yet unwilling to do her bidding.
The
heat
of
the
wood-stoked
stove
and
oven
had
her
bareheaded
and
down
to
her
shift.
Anxiety
piqued
that
there
wasn’t
enough
breeze
to
carry
the
fragrance
of
her
charm
through
the
village,
but
as
she
poured
the
viscous
brew
with
its
fruit
into
the
lined
trencher
for
the
oven,
even
humans
walking
down
the
cobblestone
raised
their
nose into the air.
She smiled.
Ten
minutes
and
her
snare
was
toasted.
Out
of
the
oven
and
on
the
front
sill
to
cool,
the
herbs
wafted
from
the
bakery.
Gwiddon
sensed
the
two
guardian
warlocks
beside her, besotted by the spell.
“Off my shoulder or I’ll be clobbering ya both,” she hissed.
Gwiddon
returned
to
the
rear
of
the
bakery
to
ensure
the
door
swung
wide,
to
maximize
the
draft
through
the
shop.
She
strode
back
to
the
front
and
stood
in
the
doorway, peering up and down the street.
Young
men
going
about
their
chores
slowed
and
smiled
at
her.
How
sinful
she
must
look,
hair
fallen
lose,
no
vest
to
cloak
her
breasts,
but
if
there
was
a
day
to
blend
in with the humans, that was it.
A
particularly
cheeky
lad
found
an
excuse
to
walk
by
a
second
time
and
ogled
her
with
a
crooked
grin.
“Could
such
a
beautiful
thing
have
baked
up
whatever
smells
so
enticing?” he asked.
If
half-wiccan,
he
would
have
demonstrated
a
sense
of
drunkenness
not
mischief.
Gwiddon
said
nothing
to
him
so
as
not
to
encourage
him
to
dally,
but
she
couldn’t
stop
the smile that creased her lips.
She
wasn’t
as
accustomed
with
flirtation
as
her
sister
probably
was.
It
wasn’t
a
completely
unknown
feeling,
to
have
a
man
look
at
her
with
a
lusty
eye,
but
rare
enough from living deep in the forest to make it feel—intoxicating.
She almost giggled at the thought.
Humans
straggled
by
as
the
sun
crossed
its
apex
and
leaned
west.
Gwiddon’s
anxiety
rose.
Perhaps
the
object
of
her
spell
didn’t
reside
within
the
village
after
all,
or
worked too far afield. Or one of the other initiates had already snared him.
She
was
convinced
another
year
would
pass
before
she
had
another
chance
to
prove
her
skill
and
be
accepted
fully
in
the
fold
before
she
spied
the
tall,
blond-headed
woodcutter
trudging
up
the
middle
of
the
lane,
oblivious
of
the
carts
that
had
to
come
to a stop to avoid him.
He staggered directly to the sill and inhaled deeply of the sweet aroma of her bait.
“Come in and sit, and I will cut you a slice,” Gwiddon told him.
The
handsome
young
man,
perhaps
three
years
her
senior,
bulging
with
muscles
and
manliness,
struck
her
conscience
like
a
blow
to
the
gut.
His
life
had
just
irrevocably changed, and he knew it not.
She
removed
the
pie
from
the
sill
and
ladled
a
serving
onto
a
platter.
He
jammed
a
spoon
into
it
without
sitting
down.
She
had
to
will
her
two
guardians
away
with
an
angry
wave,
but
the
woodcutter
appeared
not
to
notice.
His
eyes
remained
focused
on
the
platter.
Seated,
he
dug
into
her
incantation
fully
and
within
three
bites
was
lost
to
the human world.
Mordred
and
the
younger
warlock
turned
visible,
the
spell
worn
away
as
they
lost
their
concentration.
They
greedily
watched
the
half-wiccan
gobbling
down
what
they
too craved.
The
beautiful,
lost-man
only
glanced
at
them,
too
drunken
to
care
from
whence
they
came.
Gwiddon
ladled
a
second
helping
onto
his
platter,
and
stood
back,
studying
the poor man.
If only he knew.
The
witch
who
ran
the
bakery
appeared
at
Gwiddon’s
shoulder
and
draped
her
with an understanding arm.
“It
is
necessary,”
she
said
softly.
“We
can’t
very
well
have
untrained
adepts
walking
about the human world uncensored.”
Before
Gwiddon
could
answer,
another
towheaded
lad
stumbled
across
the
threshold, eyes unfocused, mouth agape.
“Oh my,” the four wiccans muttered in concert.
Mordred
groaned.
“We
have
a
warlock
slinking
about
with
an
itch
and
no
discretion. This is not good.”
Gwiddon ladled a serving for the new arrival, his door to a very different, new life.
© R. Mac Wheeler 2017