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