Jorz

Witches Brew
~

She 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.”

Behind her, 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 are 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 generations of 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 will 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 afterward. 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 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 ill spirits as we dance into the night about the covenstead.”

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 fledgling 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.

“Hard to believe we swore our oaths to the Rede together a mere four seasons ago.”

“May we harm none, blessed be,” the two sisters said together.

“The torch’s blaze reflects the most beautiful reds and golds in your hair,” Dewines continued. “I envy it. Hasn’t the bawdiness of my own, lucky you. Come, get some sleep. It would not be proper for a future full-wiccan to rise with red eyes.”

They walked to the door arms entwined. 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 expired behind them as a new flame kindled 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 assured the eldest would inherit it, for if Gwiddon accomplished her task the next day and found the half-mortal, half-wiccan who dwelled unknown to them all these years in the village, she might have a step up on her sister.

A volume of spells rested upon 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, Mama.”

“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 affairs is a poor example to lead, for a proper witch.”

“I recall,” Dewines said, “what it was like when visiting llwyth tried to sway my actions on my own judgment day. You were wise to discourage their visit this sennight. We should be glad they accepted your pretext.”

“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 trial.”

“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. 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 across from 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, abruptly bringing her to the earth plane.

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 prove,” 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 could not 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 mortals.

Cydwedd joined her two daughters and the three moved about the table putting together a simple repast for the five of them. The kettle whistling, Gwiddon set tea steeping. The impatient younger warlock grabbed one up quickly. He didn’t drink though, only warmed his hands around the mug.

Gwiddon studied the man. Scarcely looked old enough to have completed his own rite of passage. 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, as were the knees of his breeches, and his boots truly insufficient for the road. He was not 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 fortunate to be the daughter of a prosperous 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.

Nor had it cleared three hours later as they came to the ridge that overlooked the vale and the bustling mortal 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. Had been very exciting, though taxing with all the mortal bustle.

“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 mortals. They were loud and moved with unnecessary haste. Impatient, intimidating beings. Gwiddon would never understand their ways. The cobblestone lane, filled with wains 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 mortal coin that aided them to blend in when they traveled. There were a pair of patrons in the shop purchasing goods when they entered. The three waited patiently for their departure.

“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, ensuring that Gwiddon did not inappropriately interact with the mortals that day.

The witch behind the counter 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.

She prayed for grounding and got to work. 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 until.

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 mortals walking down the cobblestone raised their noses 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, themselves mildly besotted by the spell.

“Off my shoulder or I shall bludgeon ya both with a grand spoon,” 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 village’s main lane.

Young men going about their chores slowed and smiled at her. How sinful she must appear, tresses lose, no bodice to cloak her breasts, but if ever a day to blend in with the mortals, this 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 semblance of drunkenness not mischief. Gwiddon said nothing to him so as not to encourage him to dally, but she could not restrain the smile that furrowed her lips.

She was not as accustomed with flirtation as her sister perchance. But it was not a completely unfamiliar 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—a bit seductive.

She almost giggled at the thought.

Mortals 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 casement and inhaled deeply of the sweet aroma of her lure.

“Enter and be seated, and I will cut you a portion,” 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 now, he dug into her incantation fully and within three bites was lost to the mortal 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 not very well have untrained adepts walking about the mortal world without restraint.”

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 plagued with an importune itch devoid of all discretion. Portends ill.”

Gwiddon ladled a portion for the newcomer, his portal to a vastly different existence.

© R. Mac Wheeler 2017