I awoke that afternoon to the clatter of pots and the rumble of voices from the kitchen. The memory of last night yet felt muzzy, but the proof was there on my knees – smears of earth I had not troubled to wash 'fore collapsing into my pallet. There was no gainsaying what I had witnessed in the moonlit grove.
I dressed at haste and made to the kitchen, where I discovered my grandparents enjoying their repast. They glanced up at me in frustration.
My grandmother gave a derisive snort as her eyes raked over my disheveled persons. "You've deigned to join us, then, Pernivish" she snapped.
I opened my mouth to explain, but no words came out. How could I even begin to describe what had happened, the scarred woman who had appeared like a shadow, beckoning me into the trees?
My grandfather gave me a searching look, his face creasing. "Where were you last eve, child?" he asked, vexed.
"I swallowed, uncertain how to account for myself. The truth - that I had stolen from my bed to merry into the woods and parley with a stranger - would only provoke them.
"I beg your pardon, grandfather. I did not mean to distress you both," I said meekly.
"You silly mule, always wandering instead of tending to your duties," my grandmother scolded, jabbing a crooked finger at the pots in the basin. "Those need scrubbing 'fore supper."
I nodded and moved to gather the utensils, my head aching. They cared not where I had been, only that my absence had inconvenienced them.
As I took to scouring the pots, my mind turned back to the previous night. The words of the scarred woman whispered. She spoke of potential, of shared toils. The throbbing in my head grew, a second pulse almost. I shook myself from my trance. For now, I must see to my duties, lest I earn more of my grandparents' temper. The pots wanted for scrubbing and I bent to my task.
Head pounding, I drew the coarse brush over the metal, the sound grating. I winced but did not cease. When the pots gleamed, I bore them back to the shelf by the hearth. My shoulders bulged then. I stood a moment, staring into the cold fireplace.
"Girl, have you gone deaf?" My grandmother's voice sliced through my pause. "The bread wants kneading if we're to sup."
I hastened to the board where the dough lay, wan and lumpy. Seizing it, I set to working it, striving to coax it into some manner of acceptability. The rhythm of it was somewhat soothing. Most days, I would imagine it the face of my betrothed pummeled into new shapes. But such whimsy could not stay my mind long.
As I kneaded, my eye often wandered to the casement, to the wood without. The interstices between the boles seemed to call. I pined to abscond, to find the stranger and pry more of her alien lessons. Yet I could not so lightly shirk my charge again. When the dough was ready, I portioned out three loaves and placed them in the oven. The warm, yeasty aroma filled the cottage. Brushing the flour from my apron, I thought to what the day might look like were mother alive.
"You'll be wed soon, girl," grandfather said, appearing in the doorway. My heart foundered at his words. I thought to flee, but my feet seemed mired in place. "Don't be such a sluggard."
I stared at my grandfather, unable to find my voice. Marriage - the word clanged like a death knell.
Grandfather chided as if he spoke of some joyous occasion and not the end of all my hopes. I wanted to rail at him, to scream that I would not be passed like chattel from one man's hand to another's. But I had no true recourse.
"The miller is a decent man. He will provide for you," grandfather continued. His words were ashes to me. What did I care for the miller's charity when I would be naught but hostage in his home?
"Pray, grandpapa: suffer my help here, with you and my lady grandmother," I managed, my voice a thin, tremulous thing.
His face hardened at that. "Long overdue that you be wed. No more of this idleness. Ready board for him, he shall be joining us."
He'd take no refusal. I nodded dumbly, the fight going out of me. Grandfather grunted in satisfaction and left me standing there, a doomed woman. No words of comfort, no sympathy or regret for what he asked of me. Simply expectation.
In my despair, my mind calmed at her fierce eyes, her beckoning hand. A path into the shadowed wilds where none could follow, I thought.
I went at setting the table, turning my back on the lump in my throat. The wooden bowls murmured as I placed them, my grandparents sitting by the hearth and speaking in low voices. I caught snatches of their conversation as I worked.
"A fair match, I'll warrant. The miller's in need of a young bride." My grandmother's gravelly voice croaked.
My grandfather snorted. "The girl's hardly a catch. Too lost by half, and witless to boot."
I bristled but held my tongue, keeping my head down as I laid out the plates.
"No matter, Orfel. She's a cute thing enough to catch the miller's eye, and she'll learn her duties quick. There're no other prospects for the girl, not with her head," my grandmother said.
My grandfather sniffed. "One less mouth to feed, and the miller's grain will help."
I froze, pitcher in hand. They would wed me for a sack of grain? Times were lean, but to have my cheeks burn with that humiliation? My hands shook as I set the platter of bread down.
"Aye, we've need of winter stores. The miller is a dire negotiator, but this match will see us through the cold months."
"The girl knows her duty to this family. She'll make no trouble over the match," my grandfather said firmly. His flinty eyes met mine, daring me to object.
I served my grandparents in silence, helping myself to a meager portion. Their talk turned elsewhere, but I scarce heard it. My mind whirled darkly as I choked down what little grub I could.
The sound of hooves drew my gaze to the window. A cart was trundling up the path, drawn by a team of horses and driven by a squat man with a beard that seemed to swallow his face. My grandparents hastened to greet him as he clambered down from the driver's bench and shouldered his way in through the door.
"Ah, good miller," my grandfather hailed him with forced cheer.
The miller's piggy eyes found me lurking in the corner, and I felt his gaze crawl over me. "I've come to call on the girl," he grunted.
My grandmother beamed. "Of a certainty! The betrothal is all but settled."
She ushered the miller to the table and bade me fetch ale. I served it, avoiding his gaze. His eyes continued to strip me bare.
"Come here, girl," he commanded. I froze, panic clawing at my chest.
My grandsire fixed me with a look. “Do as you are bid, child.”
I advanced slowly, nails biting into my palms. The miller snatched my wrist, jerking me close.
“Hm, she is a pretty thing, isn’t she?” he leered. “Good, wide hips – she’ll bear hale sons.”
His hand moved to pinch my backside. I recoiled.
My grandparents tittered indulgently. "You'll have to forgive her skittishness, good miller. She's unused to a man's affection," my grandmother said.
The miller stared; lips wet with ale. "Not to worry. I'll learn her a wife's duties quick."
His meaty paw shot out to grope my breast. I shot myself away violently from his sluggish grasp.
"Please, sir!" I cried. My grandparents frowned but held their peace.
The miller laughed, staggering to his feet, wobbling on his legs. "Enough merriment for today. I take my leave."
My grandsire and grandame bade him a cheerful farewell. As soon as the door closed behind him, my grandame rounded on me.
"Ungrateful! Is this how you repay our kindness, by disrespecting your betrothed?"
I gaped at her. "But grandmother, he... his hands..."
My grandfather's face came rigid. "In all things, you shall obey your lord husband. The miller does us a great service in this union already."
"Please, I cannot…" I stammered, tears welling in my eyes.
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My grandmother's tone hardened. "You know your duty, girl. There will be no more of this foolishness."
They turned their backs on me. I cleared the table woodenly. I stood long by the dying fire, tears scalding my eyes. But tears would not help.
I wandered through the remainder of the day in a daze, tending to my duties by rote. That night, as I lay abed, sleep did find me – and so too did she. Moonlight poured through the window, the woods beyond calling. In my dreams, I would retire away into the forest, threading my way through the darkened trunks. The trees seemed to huddle close about me as I ventured deeper, their boughs reaching. I would tremble, yet never turn back.
In time, I came upon the grove of the previous night. The moon kissed the pool’s surface, smooth as polished glass. I slowed as I passed through the still trees, scanning for any sign of the scarred woman. At first, I saw none. I hesitated. Then the pool shivered, though no breeze stirred. I recalled our last meeting, her hazel eyes boring into me as though she could see straight through. But my curiosity overcame my caution.
I watched with bated breath as a shape began to birth from the water's sheen. Droplets cascaded down as the form rose. Gradually the details resolved themselves - the snarled locks, the tattered mantle, the lattice of scars upon her pallid looks. She stood before me, her face severe, her scars silvered by the chill light of moon. She seemed melancholy. I opened my mouth, uncertain what queries I wished to pose, when she raised a solitary finger to her lips. The message was plain – she had come to speak, not to hear.
"You've come," she intoned. Her voice seemed to echo up in cavernous way.
I nodded, mute.
"Do you like the arts, little one?" she asked.
I hesitated only a moment before whispering, "Yes."
A fierce smile curved her ruined lips as she extended a hand. I stepped forward to clasp it. Her grip was at once searing and icy, pain and vigor mingling strangely.
"Then we begin in earnest," she pronounced.
She drew me further into the copse, to a ring of standing stones. This was elder sorcery. Perilous. Taboo. My grandmother's warnings chimed in my mind, but this was my moment to seize at something above the fetters of convention.
The stones were hoary, lichen-mantled, and rent by time, yet beating with life. Their faces were graven, sigils carved in so baroque as to be inscrutable, their meaning long-since forgotten. Energy prickled across my skin and the hair on my nape stood on end.
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The woman led me to the circle's core. The monoliths brooded, their mass immense. She bid me kneel. When I did, she unsheathed a blade – cruelly curved – and raised it high. Light skated down its obsidian length like quicksilver. I froze, my breath snagged. What was she about to do? I felt it as the fulcrum on which my life would hinge.
As she held the wicked blade aloft, strange wisps curled from the stones' lichen-crusted faces, questing outward like the fingers of some creature stirring from sleep. The woman began to chant, her voice both sultry and stern, the alien syllables worming their way into my mind. I shivered.
The bleed etched alien runes in the air as she worked her cantrip, leaving lambent echoes drifting in the murk. The scent of ozone and copper stung my nostrils while motes of light danced before my widening eyes. What fate did she intend for me, kneeling helpless beneath that wicked, waiting blade?
I wavered, torn between awe and dread. But I did not flee. Something primal in my soul hungered for this. To fully live, I must first brush shoulders with death. My breast hammered, alive to a peril I could not name. The blade shone, a promise and a menace. I closed my eyes, tilting my chin to bare my throat. The edge kissed my skin, cold and unyielding. The woman’s voice became a guttural growl. The stones around us seemed to throb in time with her words.
The woman's strange incantation echoed in my skull as I knelt before her, the cold edge of the obsidian knife still pressed to my throat.
"By blood be bound, by will be wed - unseal thyself to ways untread."
Though her meaning eluded me, I understood that this was no idle ritual. A second tongue hid in her words, ancient and inexorable.
I opened my eyes, blinking against smoky torchlight. The woman loomed above me, her own eyes drilling into mine with singular focus. Her face was lined with arcane tokens, dreadful and beautiful. She held my gaze with predatory interest. The knife glinted darkly.
For a long, taut moment we regarded one another, woman and supplicant, witch and initiate. I wavered, torn between awe and dread. But I did not flee. Something primal in my soul hungered for this. To fully live, I must first brush shoulders with death. My breast hammered, alive to a peril I could not name. The blade shone. I closed my eyes again, tilting my chin to bare my throat. The edge kissed my skin, cold and unyielding. The woman's voice became a guttural growl. The stones around us seemed to throb in time with her words.
Then, slowly, she lowered the blade.
"Well met, fledgling," she said. "You've spirit enough for the craft."
I exhaled unsteadily, half-laughing in a blend of relief and elation. My palms were slick with sweat. If this were trial, I deemed myself acquitted.
The woman extended a hand and helped me to my feet. My legs trembled beneath me. By coming here, by kneeling at this witch's feet, I had set events in motion that I could no longer control.
"We've a thing to do before the dawn steals back over the vale."
She led me from the stone ring into the wood. The trees crowded close, stooping over us. I heard the stream 'fore I saw it - a glistening streak threading the trees.
The woman knelt by the bank, bidding me do the same. She scooped up a handful of water, murmuring words that made the liquid glow a pretty blue. I watched, rapt, as she began to shape the glowing water between her palms. It flowed and twisted gracefully, forming into various shapes before my eyes - first a bird with outstretched wings that seemed ready to take flight, then a leaping fish that arced through the air, and even my own face peering curiously back at me.
I steeled myself, knowing the water would be bitterly cold, and plunged my hands into the frigid stream. I cupped the rushing water in my palms, trying to mimic the cadence and tone of the woman's spellcraft. But the water remained stubborn in my hands, refusing to be shaped by such clumsy efforts. I glanced over at the woman, who seemed to wield the glowing liquid effortlessly. Her control and skill were clearly beyond my fumbling attempts. But I remained determined to learn, shivering as I scooped up more of the icy water to try again.
The woman made a small sound of disapproval.
I flexed my brow, fixing a baleful eye upon the inky pool cupped in my hands, as though I could cow it into compliance by will alone. I made another essay, heeding the gurgle of the brook, the susurrus of the leaves. The syllables came haltingly at first, then with some fluency as I found the rhythm of the spell. I felt something give; the water turned warm against my skin, responding to the command of my voice. As I iterated the incantation, it began to shine from within, as though I had captured a star. The gleam grew denser with each repetition until my hands overflowed with aqueous light. By my will alone, I had wrought magic upon the water. My second spell. Crude perhaps, but a beginning. I stared in wonder that I could summon such loveliness from the elements.
I raised my eyes to the woman, my grin profound. She gave me a once-over and a nod.
"Goodly wrought; a first stride, but the seed of a wælcyrge."
I unsealed the water, suffering it to spill back into the stream. Wælcyrge – the word bit deep. Warlock, witch. Words of ill.
Virgin light sifted through the canopy overhead. Our time was scant. Yet we would reconvene on the morrow when the woods were again dark. Her instruction had but just commenced.
I rose. The woman regarded me solemnly, her face cast in shades of umber by that light.
"You've done well, fledgling, but take care," she cautioned. "The world has little love for us."
I nodded. The rustics would surely shrink from me had they kenned my purloined time in the wood, the occult erudition I had enjoyed. Not but guile could avail me forth. Though the villagers knew me only as a simple goatherd, I now saw myself as so much more. I would move amongst them, yet separate, guarding the secrets of my uncanny craft, weaving subtle enchantments to bend the world to my will.
The woman turned, melting into the undergrowth. I watched the shadows devour her 'fore turning my own steps homeward. Weariness dragged at my body as I slipped between the mossy boles. Overhead, the night's blue was fading towards red. I quickened my pace, anxious to regain my bed 'fore the cottage stirred to life. By some mercy, I arrived just as the sky began to pinken. Moving across the threshold, I bolted the door and pranced on little cat feet to my room. My eyes were grainy. I yearned for my straw bed.
Yet as I made to recline, my eye lit upon the looking glass set in the corner. Some urge bade me to it. I gazed on my reflection – the snarled locks, the hollows 'neath my eyes – and considered if some outward token of my change might be manifest. But the glass had no answers.
I turned and collapsed to my pallet. My lids shuttered heavily. As I drifted towards sleep, I instead awoke. The chill kiss of the obsidian blade. The woman's strong grip as she bid me rise. The glow of spellcraft limning my hands. She had visited me in dream, I recalled then.
Morning brought with it a bone-weariness that slowed my steps. I tended the goats and prepared a thin porridge, my movements rote. My grandparents, bless their fool hearts, noticed little amiss beyond my haggard looks.
"You're pale as curds, girl. Are you ailing?" my grandmother asked, her brow pleating.
"Just tired is all," I replied. She made a disapproving cluck but said no more.
I did manage to choke down a few spoonfuls under her look before pushing the bowl away. My appetite had fled; I desired nothing more than my chamber. Grandmother pursed her lips but waved me off.
I fell onto my straw mattress, exhausted in flesh and spirit alike. The events of the previous night had sapped me more than I could have anticipated. I shut my eyes, longing for sleep, but it would not come. My mind churned with all that had come to pass.
I had ventured into the shadowed wilds against all better judgement. I had knelt before a strange, scarred crone and offered my throat to her blade. I had worked the first true magic of my life, all under the dark gaze of the standing stones. And I had felt, for the first time, a sense of freedom and purpose that my circumscribed life had never allowed. I considered too my upcoming nuptials. The miller waited to claim me, indifferent to my desires. I thought of my mother, also given up to a loveless union. She did not permit herself to wither in such a thing, choosing war over homestead.
I rose and moved to the casement, prying the shutters ajar. Mist coiled between the boles of the encroaching forest.
Escape. The notion flowered unbidden. I might flee into the woods. Seek the woman out, entreat her to convey me to her secreted grove. Bind myself to her magics. My heart quailed. To loose my moorings would be to cast myself adrift in the unknown. Life with my grandsire and grandame was a cell, yes, but one I understood.
I faltered, my fingers finding fleeting purchase on the shutters. I could envision my grandmother’s fury at discovering my bed empty, my grandfather’s ire. They would surely come after me, rouse the villagers to the chase. A girl alone in the woods would not evade such pursuit for long. With a pang, I admitted the truth - I was not ready to make such a desperate gambit.
I shut the shutters firmly, blocking out the sight of the trees. When next I met the woman at her midnight hollow, I would plead for her wisdom. I would learn all that I could of her magic. I would gird myself for the day when I might finally break free.
For now, I must bide. I straightened my skirts once more and pinched color into my cheeks, donning the mask of the demure farmer's granddaughter. My true self - the one who had knelt unflinching beneath the witch's blade - is not yet come. But I would feed that fledgling power until it was goodly enough to bear me up on outstretched wings.
Ere long, I heard my grandmother moving about in the adjacent chamber. I composed myself as her footfalls approached from behind.
"Stir thyself, girl, lest the bread scorch," she barked. I pivoted and inclined my head 'fore proceeding to the hearth. The fire had ebbed to coals in the small hours. I roused it to a merry blaze and left the dough to prove. I smiled.