I'd woken to dawn's first blush minutes ago. I spent those moments considering the pale light stealing through the spaces in our thatched roof. 

I would repair it soon, I told myself. 

It had stirred me in my pallet. I stretched, recognizing the tenderness of my muscles from yester labor. Knowing the morn would brook no idleness, I rose with a small sigh - it did not matter how seductive the complement of rest seemed. 

Donning my kirtle, the rough homespun scratching against my skin, I made my way to the hearth - the flagstones cool on my bare soles. I coaxed the embers to fresh life, their warmth a welcome balm against the bite of our cottage. As the flames lapped at the kindling, I hung the kettle, its iron bulk soon to bubble with the pottage that would break our fast.

Scarcely had I ladled out a steaming portion when my grandmother shuffled into the kitchen, each of her steps a labor, her back bent with the weight of her years.

"Pernivish, girl," she began, her voice a wisp, "You've attended to our meal - see now to the goats. See that they are watered and browsed, collect whatsoever milk they bother to give."

As every daybreak, I dreamed to shake off the yoke of duty, to steal an hour for myself. A morn by the brook, bare feet dangling in the sun-marbled water, had been my secret fancy all these months - but such whims I was decent at quashing. I set off to see the creatures in my charge. Aubade beat down upon me as I labored, its hot rays a cruel taskmaster. Sweat trickled down my face, stinging my eyes and dampening the brown tresses of hair that had escaped my kerchief. The nanny goat, a contrary beast, seemed to take some pleasure in thwarting my efforts, stamping her hooves and flicking her tail as if to mock me. The milk, when it deigned to come, was but a trickle - a scant reward for my enterprise. As I knelt there in the dust, my fingers cramped and my patience frayed, I felt a sudden wash of despair, a resentment at the narrowness of my existence. Was this to be my lot, a life circumscribed by drudgery, with nary a moment to call mine?

There in the shade of our ancient oak stood my grandsire, his face a thing of wrinkles further creased by a slant smile, speaking with the man who would soon be my husband.

I had seen fifteen summers when my grandsire bartered me to this hoary farmer on promises of land and livestock. The man's eyes, small and mean, raked over me as they neared, doubtless picturing what would soon be his by law if not by desire.

"Ah, here is the little flower," grandfather said, taking my arm in his bony grip. "Is she not a pretty thing? 'Twill not be long ere she's ripe for plucking."

My betrothed licked his lips, his eyes roaming me. "Aye, 'twould be an honor to pluck this pale rose. I confess to pondering it more oft than is proper."

His words curdled my stomach.

Grandfather chortled. "Soon enough, my boy, you shall know the pleasures of her maidenhead-"

"The goats need minding," I blurted, wrenching myself from grandfather's grip. Without waiting for a retort – or the sting of his palm – I hastened back the way I'd come, eager to be quit of them. My breath came in panicked heaves as I fled, grandfather's raucous laughter dogging me all the way to the paddock gate.

I returned to the cottage, my steps leaden, the pail of milk clutched in my hand. My grandmother glanced up from the spindle as I entered.

"You've seen to the goats, then. Good. Now take up your weaving, child, the day wanes."

I bit my tongue. The day's work was never done for us - there would always be another task, and then another. Settling myself at the loom in the corner, my fingers wrought the shuttle, the heddles’ staccato punctuating the silence of the cottage. I wove on, lost in the tedium of it.

A rap at the door, sharp, made me start. My grandmother's eyes were already upon it, needles paused in her knitting. Visitors were rare here, our cottage well removed from the village and its eyes. I glanced at her anxiously, but she shook her head.

"See who calls at this hour, girl."

Heart drumming, I stood and traveled the packed earth of the cottage towards the portal. The rap came again, more insistent. Drawing in air, I cracked the door a hair’s breadth. A figure loomed in the breach, swathed in a billowing mantle and deep cowl.

"Well met, child," the stranger offered in a low voice. "I've traveled far and am in need of succor."

I tarried, uncertain how to reply. The figure divined my hesitation and drew her hood back a fraction, unveiling a woman's eyes alight with the dying embers of day.

"Pray, permit me," she pleaded, her voice gentling. "I am no danger. Only respite and a fire."

"Grant her passage, but be watchful." She appraised the woman. "We have scant to offer, but you are welcome at our board."

The woman crossed the threshold with a murmur of thanks, her movements lithe despite her fatigue. Stepping into the firelight, she lowered her hood, and I bit back surprise. Her face was a lattice of scars, pale against weathered skin, her dark hair shorn close to her scalp. She wore men's clothes - tough, practical breeches and a plain tunic, both road-stained. A longsword was belted at her hip, and the plain hilt looked to have seen plenty of use. But for all that her appearance was fierce, she moved with an easy grace, her eyes quick and intelligent, taking in every detail of this little place.

"Sit," my grandmother bade, jerking her head toward the table. "There's pottage and bread. It's a thin gruel, but you're welcome to it."

The lady dipped her head slightly. "It is most kind."

As we supped by the fire, a silence fell. My curiosity rang with apprehension. Who was this wayfarer who had come to us unbidden?

The stranger ate gentle and quiet, the firelight playing across her eroded features. When she had finished, she set aside her bowl and turned her gaze fully upon my grandmother.

"I have trespassed upon your hospitality, good lady, and would fain proffer what I may."

My grandmother's eyes narrowed, but she gave a nod. "Then do so."

The stranger reached within her mantle, her movements slow and deliberate. I tensed, half-wondering if she meant us ill after all. Instead of a blade, she withdrew a small leather pouch, cinched closed with a drawstring. Loosing the knot, she took a pinch of fine powder from within and scattered it upon the hearthstone.

On touch, vibrant tongues of fire leapt forth, cavorting in a panoply of gemlike colors. I jumped, my eyes wide, as my grandmother surged to her feet.

"Witchcraft!" she spat. "You would bring such evil into my home?"

The stranger held up a placating hand. "Peace. I would bless your home with gifts."

My grandmother slammed a foot. "The honey of your words will find nothing here, cræftwicce. Begone!"

The stranger sighed. With a pass of her hand the witchfire died, leaving only the ordinary flames to crackle in the grate.

"Very well. I can see that your heart is hardened beyond my reach. The loss is yours."

She rose, drawing her mantle close. As she moved toward the door, her eyes met mine, and in there I glimpsed some sorrow. Then she was gone, eaten by the gathering dusk.

My grandmother barred the door behind her with trembling hands. Still reeling, I sank back down onto my stool. My thoughts churned like waves - who was she? What had we just witnessed? I confess that, for the first time, I weened a measure of the world - the difference of our circumstance throbbed in my chest: foreign, frightening, and thrilling. 

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My grandmother rounded on me, her face drawn. "Speak naught of this night, you hear me, child? Let it be shadow, like all that is unholy."

I lowered my eyes, my tongue too numb for speech. But in that silence, I knew I could not simply forget. Something had summoned in me, faint as the early unfurled ferns in spring.

I slept little on the best of nights - my thoughts always such great, buzzing pests. But that night, sleep truly came as a trial. I lay restless beneath my threadbare coverlet, my mind galloping, replaying the queer evening that had passed. The witch's visit had cracked ajar a door in my mind, allowing looks of a world beyond my ken.

As I finally drifted, visions swamped me.

I saw the witch seated amidst a ring of her ilk, their forms cast in stark relief ‘gainst the balefire’s glow. Strange chants tumbled from their lips as they wove their hands in patterns wild, drawing threads unseen to any eye but theirs. The air undulated, raising the hairs of my back. 

I saw her hunched above crumbling scrolls and massive, cracked tomes, divining the scrawls inscribed therein. Her brow was furled as she traced a knotted passage with a long, pale finger.

I saw her gathering herbs beneath the moon, plucking strange fungi from the boles of trees, reaping components few could name. She ground them in a mortar, mixing and crushing with practiced hands.

I saw her drawing intricate patterns on the earth with a wand of white wood, symbols of the universe to focus her will. The lines glowed pink as she channeled her magic through them, the soil boiling.

I saw her summon creatures of spirit and shadow, binding them to her service with sigils blazing in eldritch light. They whispered and shrieked, writhing in her control, pets to her commands.

I saw her lips form words of terrible beauty, syllables that wavered on the edge of understanding. The silt of the world warped around her, reshaping itself according to her desire. All things bent obediently before her.

Afore dawn's light could steal through the chinks in our cottage, I banished the visions. I lay staring up at the thatched roof above me once again. She could not have gone far, I reasoned. If I were clever, I might track her trail through the wilderness, find where she had gone to ground. My blood quickened. Then, perhaps, I could learn more of her and her ilk. Could I glean even a fraction of what she knew, that would be enough.

I rose, moving quietly to avoid rousing my grandmother. Today my chores could wait. 

Securing the door with a gentle click, I ventured forth into the meadow’s parting mist. My eyes lingered upon the earth, seeking the stranger’s spoor. The dew dampened my simple woolen skirt as I threaded my way betwixt the low walls, my pulse on fire. Yet, I made no haste - with my ears pricked, I was loath to effect a sound that would mute any odd noise that might guide me. 

The woman had appeared as from nothing, begging only short shelter from the squall. Her words were polite enough, yet something about her made my thoughts vicious. My grandmother had felt it, too, for she hurried me off to bed the moment our guest took her leave. Those marks that marred her looks, they were the handiwork of violence. What could such a creature want in our valley?

In my thinking, I nearly stumbled over a snapped stem of heather. Stooping low, I discerned the faintest impression of a boot in the mire. It pointed towards the trees, hidden by their roots. I glanced to the cottage - securing that I'd not been seen - then I hastened after the trail into the woods. The night's bugsongs dwindled as I passed beneath the grumbling canopy. It wasn't long before the trail was lost in snarled roots and fallen pine needles, but I pressed on regardless, cracking through the dense underbrush until the trees began to thin.

Falling through the final wall of brambles, I stumbled into a rocky clearing. Some little moonlight filtered down to limn a tight, moss-lined pool. I caught my breath: kneeling at the water's edge, the scarred woman, her dark cloak splayed on the stones behind her. She cradled a wooden bowl in her hands, mumbling a rhyme over its ingredients. Lowering it to the pool’s surface, she let the water mingle within. Steam rose where the two waters met, filling the glen with an earthy, mineral smell. I must have made some small sound then, for the woman’s tune ceased. She rose to her feet and dashed the contents of the bowl into the pool. As she turned, her keen eyes raked me among the trees. I froze as a startled doe, her look pinning me.

For a long moment we simply stared at one another, the queer ritual forgotten. Then the woman smiled, just slightly. Beckoning with one hand, she said, "Come, then. It seems you have found me."

My ribs pulled in as I stepped into the moonlit glen. The woman’s eyes, dark and knowing, arrested me. I wanted to flee back through the woods, but my feet trampled forward of their own accord 'til I stood before her at the pool’s edge.

She studied me, head cocked to one side. “Don’t be frightened, child. I won’t harm you.” Her voice was low and rough, like a hand hewn from oak.

I found my tongue at last, missing as it was from yesternight. “What you did before, with the water - I marked a scent.”

The woman nodded. “You have a gift for feeling what others might not.”

My eyes dropped to the ripples still spreading across the pool’s surface. “Was it magic?” I breathed in, searching for the scent. If it was there, I was too dull to find it again.

The woman chuckled, her scar pulling at her cheek. “Some call it such. I think of it as art. Spinning intention into something more.”

I glanced up. “Could you teach me?”

The woman turned and lowered herself to sit at the pool’s edge, patting the moss beside her in invitation. I sat, our knees nearly touching. Heat rose from my skin. Among the many roiling thoughts, foremost was:what secrets might she share?

“Each thing bears in it a meaning more than what it shows,” she began, trailing her fingers through the dark water. “The craft lies in having an eye for what two things might mean instead when you marry them.”

Marriage did not sound so bad how she spoke of it. She lifted a palm, water dripping between her fingers. As she whispered, the droplets rose, spinning faster and faster until they formed a wet disc above her hand. It was a delight, and she could tell I found it so.

With a flick of her wrist, the disc burst, scattering droplets that caught the moon. I grinned, wide-eyed.

Gradually, she flattened her hands over the ebon pool. The surface rippled, then came placid. A single bubble ascended and popped. "Now you, little one. But first, we must prime the waters to mind you."

From a pouch at her hip, she produced some sundry items. I must estimate some of those contents, yet best as I could tell they were as such: dried herbs and flowers, a vial of oil - or perhaps something more than oil, in hindsight - and a few crystals thirsty for light. Crushing these things between her hands, she cast them over the pool's surface. 

When she was done, she motioned for me to join her. "Place your hands above the water as I have. Feel the words waiting below. The ingredients have primed the waters - now guide its meaning with your own."

I mirrored her stance, extending my palms over the inky shallow. The night air - gliding beneath my laces, against my cheeks - was a crisp comfort. Unsure what to do, I tried chanting as she had done. The words sounded clumsy on my tongue, yet I persisted.

Naught came. Whether my mimicry was true or no, I cannot say - she kept her smile, though I suspected it might be no more than her gentle nature. The truth of it happened to me much later.

“Here.” She took my hand and laid it upon the water. “What do you feel?”

I focused, feeling a faint hum beneath my fingertips.

“Listen deeper.” She squeezed my hand. “Its meaning slumbers: wake it.”

I shut my eyes, keen in sensation. The hum burned, lapping up my arm in spirals. My breast burned hotter still.

“Gently now, love - tease its purpose to life.”

I drew in a deep breath and fixed my attention on the subtle quivers beneath my fingertips. The water's hum found a voice for itself, potential stirring like kindling waiting to catch.

"That's it," the woman whispered. "Now, give it purpose."

I conjured the rising waters to assume my designs. Though it fought as I bid it comply, I was witch of the waters that night. A tendril rose from the pool, hesitated, then cohered - a serpent ribbon cavorting to my soundless music.

The lady beheld my work, her eyes alight. "You are a swift study, little one."

The brook pirouetted ‘fore it rejoined the pool. I grinned, triumphant, but the work left me strange. I swayed; not for the lady's hand upon my shoulder, I might have stumbled.

"Steady now," she assured. "Such learning takes its toll when you start."

I nodded, suddenly weary. A dozen - more, hundreds - of questions thrashed my mind, yet I could barely keep my eyes open. Sensing this, the woman helped me to my feet.

"Come. Dawn approaches. Should we not return you?"

Such premise of my family noting my absence filled me with a true dread. The woman, making it a habit now, appeared to read my mind. "I shall convey you back through shadow," she said. "None shall mark your going."

Too tired to argue, I let her guide me into the treeline. The forest seemed to bend and twist around us as we walked. Darkness folded on us like a cloak; not in such a way as it should, but in such a way I believed to be her make. I stumbled, disoriented, but her grip was firm.

The shadows withdrew, and instead the walls of my family's courtyard stood revealed. We had traversed the entire valley without notice. The woman escorted me to my chamber door, the first fingers of morning tracing the world's edge.

She looked me over a long moment, her eyes unreadable. "You should rest," she said at last. "But when you dream tonight, listen for my voice. If you so choose, we have work."

I started to reply, but weariness overcame me. The last thing I saw was the woman's silhouette fading into the shadows. Then I was falling, landing softly on my mattress as the first morning birdsong trilled outside. My eyes fluttered shut, questions still crowning my addled mind. Sleep insisted upon me instead. The answers would come in their own time.