The Broken Circle: Yarns of the Knitting Witches

by Cheryl Potter

  “So let me get this straight.” The cook gestured with her wooden spoon. “The First Folk squeezed all goodness out of the suns and died in ice. And your Dark Queen, she will melt all the ice and make us die by fire.”

  “Well put,” Sierra nodded, skimming flakes of ash off the top of her porridge and dipping her spoon into the comforting mush.

  “That’s folly!” the cook exclaimed.

  “Say these Lowlanders break into this Crystal Cave, if it’s even there,” Hairy said, shoveling cereal into his mouth. “Then what happens? Pestilence and death?”

  “Maybe it’s happened already, Hairy,” Raven observed, wiping soot from his shoulders. “After all, the sky’s burning up. And we’ve been ordered to hunt down and jail all the witches.”

  “Why jail them witches?” the cook asked, arranging bowls of porridge on trays to take to the prisoners in the cave. “They may be the only ones who can save us.”

  Hairy shot Sierra a steady look. “If the world should end in fire this time, are you witch enough to save us? Or should we try to find a different one? The yarns say there are Twelve of you.”

  “Oh,” Sierra laughed. “You are willing to heed the yarns, when it suits.”

  “Which witch are you?” Raven asked, refusing the bowl of ash-dotted porridge that the kitchen wench tried to hand him.

  “It’s just a few cinders,” she said.

  “It’s dirt.”

  “Then go hungry. See if I care.” She set his bowl on the tray to be taken to the jail cells.

  “I am Sierra Blue. Keeper of the Tales of Old.” Sierra curtsied to the cook. “And I must say, that was one of my yarns you bespoke, and you told it well.”

  The cook beamed with pleasure. “Ah, I would love to be a keeper of tales,” she said wistfully.

  “You cannot even keep house,” the kitchen wench retorted, dumping sticky bowls and utensils into a bucket of hot water, but the cook was so happy she didn’t hear.

  Sierra turned her lion eyes to Hairy. “I am not the most powerful of the Twelve, but mayhap enough witch to save you.” As she was speaking, the call came again and she took an involuntary step forward.

  “What was that?” Hairy asked.

  “Dunno,” Raven shrugged. “She’s been doing it all morning.” He flashed Sierra a smile. “I’m sorry I called you a possessed witch,” he said, his eyes dancing. “But I felt you trying to leave a dozen times as we stood around the fire.”

  “There is a summons inside me,” Sierra explained, shivering in her blanket. “Even now, I find no way to bend it to my will.” She looked about herself in desperation. “I am cold. Have you my traveling cloak?”

  Raven exchanged glances with Hairy.

  “Maynard said to keep it from her, lest she misuse it,” one of the day-shift guards warned, as he returned from the mouth of the cave with an empty tray.

  “But if she really is one of the Twelve, she might need it to save us,” Raven argued.

  “Or disappear,” the day-shift guard said.

  “Or run,” added the other.

  “Go get it,” Hairy nodded. Raven sprinted back to the cave.

  “Did I tell my yarn truthful?” the cook asked Sierra. “I heard that tale long ago, before magic was forbidden.”

  “Aye,” Sierra said. “There is a companion tale, a tale of the Guardian of the Crystal Caves. I don’t know it, because my mentor became too old to speak before she could tell me.” She gazed up at the rippling sky. “I doubt that she has lived to see this day.”

  Sierra fell silent. Mamie was the key, she realized. Perhaps Aubergine was calling them for Mamie’s sake, and not because of Tasman. Had Mamie died without revealing the lost tale? She watched as Raven returned, carrying her traveling cloak, and smiled. Perhaps her wrap would help her cast a clearer eye.

  The others stood back, fearful, as she pulled the llama cloak around her shoulders, careful to keep the hood down, lest she disappear on them by mistake. The power of persuasion the coat offered should be enough to send her on her way. She closed her eyes as familiar heat surged through her body, infusing her with inner strength. She found she could bear the next pulse of Aubergine’s call without lurching forward. She wondered how the rest of the Twelve were coping with the command. It was impossible to resist, especially for those who had been Aubergine’s protégés. If she had the answering fire, she could release the grip of the call. Without that response, Aubergine would think no one was coming and would let the crystals beckon them repeatedly. The traveling cloak helped. Soon the summons became nothing more than a dull ache.

  Finally the cook could bear the silence no longer. “What does your knitted magic tell you?” she asked.

  “Right,” Hairy added hotly. “Is it the end of the world, then, or not?”

  “It is the end of the world as we know it,” Sierra said, her eyes growing bright. “But you mistake the fire in the sky. It is nothing more than a sign.”

  “A sign,” the kitchen wench mused. “Just a sign of the times.”

  Sierra raised her eyes and permitted a sifting of the fine ash to fall on her face. “It is a call for the Twelve to gather.” Summoning the warmth of her traveling cloak, she turned her lion eyes on the guards. Flecks of gold stood out in the tawny irises. “I am destined to join them.”

  “Go gather,” Raven agreed, waving her off. “Do whatever it is you do.”

  Hairy stared at the smaller guard in disbelief. “What in cracked crystal—?” he began.

  “It is the knitted garment,” the cook said. “It puts him under her spell.”

  “No, it is her stare that casts the spell,” breathed the kitchen wench. “Look at her eyes!”

  Sierra turned her gaze upon Hairy. “I must leave here,” she said quietly. “Help me get to Bordertown. And quickly.”

  “Of course,” Hairy said amiably. “If you can truly save us, I shall lead you to Bordertown myself.”

  “Save us,” the cook echoed.

  “Yes,” the kitchen wench nodded eagerly. “I want to be saved.” She was cut short by a sudden piercing cry overhead, which had them all searching the horizon once more.

  “Yet another wonder,” Sierra said softly, as the guards flocked to the edge of the clearing before the Burnt Holes and prepared to draw their bows.

  “This day can get no stranger,” the cook said, craning her neck toward the source of the sound. She gave Sierra a conspiratorial look. “Mayhap this time I’ll have my own yarn to tell.”

  High in the rosy sky, a creature swiftly winged its way toward them from the south, its black shape growing larger as it approached.

  Hairy pulled an arrow from his quiver and turned to eye Sierra suspiciously. “What in the Lost Caves is that?”

  Sierra watched the flying figure work its way closer, its movements winded and labored. Although alone, it flew as if chased. Turning her lion eyes upon it, Sierra saw nothing and she understood immediately: it was not of this world.

  “Drop your arrows.”

  “You’re daft,” Hairy told her, bending his bow.

  “You can’t kill it. I see no aura,” Sierra said. “It might be already dead.”

  The guards dropped their bows and ducked for cover as the great beast soared and swooped overhead, its huge wings pushing musty air down around them.

  Wrinkling her nose, the kitchen wench wrapped her knitted scarf around her face. “Ugh,” she spat.

  “It’s a monster,” Raven guessed, studying the furry body and leathery wings, the dark skin stretched taunt over a framework of bones. “A great winged Lowland beast—a dragon, maybe.” He flipped through his cards. “No Skells for that.”

  “No dragon,” the cook breathed as the huge bird swooped overhead. She glimpsed ears cocked and alert behind opaque eyes. “It’s blind. Blind as a bat.”

  The creature gave another piercing cry and the kitchen wench cowered.
“I hate bats.”

  “Aye, it’s a bat.” Hairy ducked as the huge body circled the clearing once more. “A great monster bat, such as the Dark Queen would ride.”

  Sierra stood unmoving in the snow, staring up. She knew what the creature was, except that it was not possible. The animal she was thinking of had been dead since the world began again, or more. She scoured her memory for the tale, the tale that would explain what was happening, but nothing came to her mind except the beast’s name:

  “It is a dervish,” she said with dismay. “The likes of which I have only heard, I’m afraid.”

  “A dervish?” Raven said, unconvinced. “A dervish, undead?”

  “Afraid?” Hairy balked. “We gave you back your magic knits.” He gestured to her traveling cloak. “You’d best not be afraid.”

  The dervish emitted yet another plaintive cry that sent shivers through the small group, and circled once again.

  “He’s lost,” the cook mused. “He cannot find his way.”

  “Dervish.” Raven fingered his Skell cards. “What kind of creature would you call dervish?”

  Sierra was at a loss. She still could not summon the story, because it came from the lost yarn of the Guardian, the tale Mamie never told.

  “I don’t know,” she said simply. “Dervishes were sacred and few. It was thought that they alone were able to guide their First Folk family from this world to the land of dreams. The First Folk treated them like royal pets.”

  “Like dogs?” Hairy asked. “You mean to tell me this dervish was a First Folk dog?”

  “I’d hate to see what they had for cats,” Raven laughed. “Big, may-hap with teeth like butchers’ blades.”

  Finally the dervish began to wing away, disappearing around the Blind Side of the glacier.

  The kitchen wench sighed with relief. “He’s leaving.”

  “Where did it come from?” the cook asked.

  “The Crystal Caves,” Sierra said. “Remember the yarn you told about watchers in the cavern of colored rock? Each royal dervish was buried there along with its First Folk family.”

  Hairy squinted into the sky. “Well, I hate to tell you, but this one came from the South.”

  “No,” Sierra said. “It escaped from the South.” She looked at them in turn. “Someone captured it within these caves with a mind to take it to the Lowlands.”

  “Lowlanders,” Hairy nodded shrewdly. “So where would this dervish be going now?”

  “Back,” Sierra said. “He’s trying to find his way back to the Crystal Caves.”

  “Wait,” Raven said. “You mean someone let that winged beast out of this glacier? On purpose?”

  “Lowlanders forced it out.” Sierra said angrily. “A dervish would never willingly leave its First Folk family.” She eyed them all. “Someone has broken into the Crystal Caves.”

  Sierra finally understood the reason for Aubergine’s summons. The Dark Queen’s scouts had at last discovered a way into the Crystal Caves, and Aubergine knew. But did she know that the dervish had been freed? And was her summons too late?

  Because Sierra had seen the dervish fly toward the glacier’s Blind Side, she thought that might be where Lowlanders had excavated it.

  As she pondered, the little band of guards and kitchen help packed up, preparing to flee.

  What troubled Sierra most was that within her cell and even here in the clearing, she thought she could hear the mutterings of the ancients. There was no known passage between the Burnt Holes and the Crystal Caves. Sierra sensed that somehow they were connected. If she went back inside the Burnt Holes and started walking, perhaps her secret socks might help her find a way through to the crystal chambers and the tombs beyond. Sierra began to climb back toward the charred mouth of the Holes.

  “Wait,” Hairy called, running up behind her. “Steer clear, witch.” When she didn’t turn, he shouted even louder. “Hold up, I say.”

  “She’s going the wrong way,” the wench complained to the cook, who was dousing the fire.

  “Bordertown’s to the south,” Raven called up the slope, pointing helpfully.

  At the dark entrance to the Burnt Holes, Sierra turned, radiant in her cloak. “We must find the Crystal Caves,” she said. “We must find them before they are plundered and the secrets lost.”

  “We must,” Raven agreed, marching past Hairy.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Hairy grabbed Raven’s sleeve and spun him around. He challenged Sierra. “You’ll not put him under your spell again. We gave you back that magic coat, and now you’re going to save us.”

  “Naught is worth saving if we do not protect what is within,” Sierra hissed. “The violation of the Crystal Caves must be found and resealed.”

  “That is certain death.” Hairy shook his head. “The caves will be soon overrun by Lowlanders. We must flee to the garrison and warn the Northland Guard. They are many. We are few.”

  Sierra disappeared into the cave entrance. “Get her,” Hairy ordered the day-shift guards. “Bring her back.”

  Slipping into the shadows, Sierra flipped up the hood of her traveling cloak and as the guards reached the mouth of the cave, she vanished.

  Raven groped in the dark. Sierra shrank against the wall and passed down the corridor unseen, eluding them all. Once they were gone, she cleared her mind and let her feet do the walking. They seemed to know where to go.

  Back in the antechamber, Raven appeared empty-handed. “She’s gone. Into thin air.”

  “Now look what you’ve done,” the cook scolded Hairy.

  These intermediate-skill-level socks are knit from fine yarn in an easy ribbed pattern, and will always keep you on the right path, even if you are lost. This pattern is sized for women.

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  After settling Mamie on a threadbare settee, Ratta tended her animals and washed herself in Esmeralde’s basin.

  CHAPTER 13

  THE BUCKBOARD WAGON THUNDERED INTO the clearing in front of Esmeralde’s cottage, churning mud as the wheels splashed through puddles. Ratta slowed the sweaty mules to a halt and sat back heavily on the bench.

  “For the love of the Lost Caves!” She swore loudly.

  There was no need to check the house. No light shone from the windows. No smoke rose from the chimney. The flower boxes had been planted for spring, but had not been recently tended. Nobody had been home for some time, and of course she knew why.

  She turned a worried glance toward Mamie, who lay wrapped in the never-ending shawl and had barely stirred since yesterday. Ratta put a roughened hand tenderly to the old woman’s lined face. The skin on Mamie’s cheek felt hot and papery. Donning her soft, ruffled mitts, Ratta peeled back the shawl, searching for the rhythm of breathing, which came so shallowly she could not tell if it was real or she was willing it so.

  “Broken shards!” She glared at the dark house. Then she gently gathered Mamie in her arms, caressing the old woman’s face with the fine Merino wool that encased her hands, begging Mamie to live. Ratta pulled on the extra-fine hand coverings when she had tender work to do, such as handling Mamie. The lanolin that had been left in the yarn softened her chapped skin, and what’s more, the slightly frivolous design made her feel up to any task.

  All morning long Ratta had studiously ignored the telltale red in the sky, willing the hue to be gone, to be replaced by blue or even gray-clouded rain. But the feverish color had merely faded to a rosy haze over the landscape, echoing Aubergine’s words of warning when they had gathered around the table at the Potluck on that last day. Only Teal and Tasman had been missing, although traces of Teal, remained if you knew where to look.

  There would be a sign, Aubergine had said, looking tired and somehow smaller without the circlet of heavy amethyst stones around her neck; and not all would heed its warning. No doubt this fire in the sky was the summons Aubergine had prophesied.


  Ratta remembered that Lilac Lily had warned her that she would come, because she would have no choice. Well, Ratta told herself, she did have a choice and she wasn’t going, no matter how strong the call, because she strongly suspected that Smokey Jo was behind the summons. Such a flamboyant show of fireworks smacked of Smokey Jo, who had never been able to keep her stubby hands away from a cook fire or a tinderbox. Perhaps Smokey had finally figured out how to open the seamless box and had lit the cold-fire crystals as a lark before Aubergine could stop her. Or maybe Aubergine didn’t even know. There was a slight chance that Smokey Jo had prodded Aubergine into calling them all; but what was the point? The glacier burned daily, Mamie was all but dead, and the lost stone had never been found. Why would Aubergine want them to gather at the Potluck now?

  In truth, the last thing Ratta wanted was to trail north to Border-town to carry out Aubergine’s bidding once more, like the underling she had been when young.

  However, resisting the call was more difficult than she had expected. The sky sizzled pink, and it was nigh noon. Ratta could not deny that she felt the call, yanking at her as if she were under a spell. Mamie stirred at last, her eyelids fluttering but refusing to open, while her parched lips worked like an infant’s, searching for suckle. Ratta cradled the old woman’s head and shoulders, not knowing how to put her at ease.

  Esmeralde’s remedies or Indigo’s teas and herbs might offer Mamie some relief. Ratta soaked a rag with cold honeyed tea from her flask and put it to Mamie’s mouth. The puckered lips worked the cloth thirstily. Ratta raised her eyes uneasily toward the abandoned cottage. She knew it didn’t make sense to drive farther in search of Esmeralde’s aid. She was certain the old witch’s other haunt, Indigo’s greenhouse, would also be empty; for both witches would have trudged off to the Potluck together, like the good girls they were. Perhaps she did not need Esmeralde’s lore, Ratta allowed herself to hope. Perhaps all she needed was a remedy or two, or maybe three, from Esmeralde’s pantry. It would not hurt to look.