The Broken Circle: Yarns of the Knitting Witches

by Cheryl Potter

  “Fire and ice,” he swore softly. After relieving himself in the tunnel, he crept back into the low cave, where he stumbled across his gear. He laced his heavy, nailed glacier boots and shrugged into the outer tunic of his Guard uniform, securing it with his oiled climbing belt. From his rucksack, he broke out a ration of deer jerky and chewed slowly. The idea of waiting here, hoping Mae would return, made him uneasy. The solitary witch might have several hideouts in this glacier, or maybe she spent more time roaming the Crystal Caves than she had let on.

  Warren counted up what he knew. Quite by accident, Mae had found the forbidden caves and inadvertently awakened the ancients. A scouting party of Lowlanders had broken into the chasms as well and begun to plunder the graves of the First Folk. He added his fear that soon the Dark Queen would amass enough troops to return and ravage the ancient tombs in search of powerful crystals and secrets of old to conquer all.

  As a sledder in his youth and later as a scout in the Guard, Warren had witnessed bands of Lowlanders on the move. Many of them were masters of infiltration, able to move quietly and quickly as a group, because they talked with their eyes. There were thousands of them, and he suspected they would return in full force in a matter of weeks. What chance did Mae have to save the First Folk from desecration? What chance did any of them have to protect the ancient secrets?

  Warren swallowed the last of his jerky and took a swig from his water skin. Somehow, he would have to escape this glacial maze and get word back to the garrison in Bordertown without attracting notice. He had no delusions about tracking Mae. He knew he would find her only if she wanted him to. Even if he did manage to get back to daylight without Mae’s help, who would pay attention to his warning? Certainly not his company commander, a surly man called Tanner who would sooner jail him than listen to him. During his short stay at the garrison, he had made few friends. Many of the other conscripts were frightened farm boys from the Western Highlands or deckhands from the fisheries of the Far East, slow to learn sled craft. They had little appreciation for a trainer barely older than themselves who had won the Winter Games. He had only found one real friend, Niles, a Northland youth who was almost as skilled with a bobsled as he was. Niles was probably the only recruit from his unit who would not report him on sight.

  Warren shoved what little gear he had into his rucksack. The Lowlanders had his sled. He might never see it again. As an afterthought, Warren went into the back of the cave and rummaged around until he had a good-sized handful of crystals from one of Mae’s lidless trunks. He might need them for barter, a bribe, or simply to prove the truth of his story.

  Outside Mae’s cave, he hastily disguised the opening with the fallen stalactite and turned to the right, going up the icy passageway toward what he hoped would be the outer world. Though his eyes had adjusted to the dark as much as they could, he had to move slowly in the gloom. Even with his hands stretched out in front of him, he kept hitting his head against outcroppings of ice or stone. He couldn’t even tell where the walls were. Warren climbed, keeping the sound of rushing water underfoot and to his right, remembering the unnerving vibration of the hidden river below and to his left when he descended through the tunnels behind Mae.

  For a while, Warren felt hopeful. As he moved through chasm after chasm, he sensed that he was rising steadily. He thought he felt fresh air stirring through a side passage, so he turned in that direction. The tunnel grew lighter, and the icy walls began to stand out from their dusky surroundings. He no longer had to reach out his hands to keep from hitting his head. A chilly breeze began to whistle through the cave, ruffling the hair that stuck out beneath his snowflake watch cap. Encouraged, he climbed faster, relishing the rush of cold air and the light, which seemed to grow brighter with each step.

  Suddenly the passage dead-ended in a cavern filled with wind and alive with blood-colored light. In the ceiling far above he saw a hole, a natural skylight intensely illuminated with an eerie red glow. Warren thought the light came from outside the glacier, but it was so strange he could not tell if it shone with daybreak or sunset. Behind the wailing wind he heard a distant hiss and pop, as if there were an enormous bonfire, perhaps consuming everything beyond this barren place from which it seemed he could not escape.

  As Warren gazed upward and wondered if he would find his way out to discover he was the only being left alive, soot began to sift through the shaft, coating the ice around his feet in fine ash. As a child, he had watched fireworks displays on the eve of each New Year. Before the war, the Trading Post would bring in wagonloads of sparklers and bottle rockets that the Banebridge townsfolk would set off from the trestle bridge over the River Runne. Those fireworks welcomed the New Year with a festive rainbow of colors. This burning red light looked more like warning than welcome.

  Suddenly, he remembered an old nursery rhyme, from a fishwives’ ditty: Red sky at night, sailors’ delight. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning. Shivering, Warren gazed at the blazing sky beyond the icy vault, realizing that whether it was night or morning didn’t matter, because he was miserably lost.

  Even though time seemed to stand still within the glacier, Warren bet it took him the better part of an hour to get back to the dark passage from which he had turned into the dead-end tunnel. He again turned right and started climbing. Before long it became obvious that someone was on the path behind him. First he heard the sound of booted feet tripping drunkenly up the incline. Then an orb of light bobbed past his head to flick across the contours of the passage in front of him.

  When he heard a cackle of laughter, he turned. “Mae,” he said, his voice flooded with relief, followed by anger. “Where were you?”

  “Were you, were you, were you,” his echo mimicked.

  Mae stopped, holding her pink quartz high over her head. She looked more agitated than usual, if that was possible. Although her face was hidden by shadows, he could see that her free hand kept straying to her breast, as if she were suffering from heartburn or indigestion. She lurched toward him for no apparent reason, and then, scowling to herself, scuttled back.

  “Mae, what’s wrong?” He said, starting toward her.

  She shone the blazing beam straight into his eyes, then turned and fled.

  Staggering back, Warren put his hands to his face. “You crazy witch!” In her lair, she’d left him sightless as a bat, and now she’d tried to blind him.

  When he opened his eyes all that remained of Mae’s presence was a trace of light flickering far down the corridor. In a moment, he would both lose her and be in the dark again.

  “No, you don’t,” he growled.

  He began to run as fast as his nailed boots would permit, the sound of steel on ice ringing down the passage with each step. Mae stayed just out of sight, skittering around a slippery corner or ducking into a crevice. More than once he had to retrace his steps to pick up her trail. Following her bobbing light, he chased her through cave after cave until they were both exhausted. Finally Mae skidded to a stop within the entrance to a large cavern. Warren had no idea where they were. Pausing to catch his breath, he watched Mae turn toward him abruptly, as if pulled by an unseen force. Her movement reminded him of metal filings drawn to a magnet.

  “Nooooooo!” Mae howled, clutching at her breast.

  She wore a tattered lace-up jacket that looked as if it had been salvaged from an old Guard uniform. It hung to her knees, as big as an overcoat. She tore at the rotted laces, ripping them savagely.

  “No, no, no,” she muttered.

  “Mae.” Warren held out his palms to her. He edged closer. “Mae, look at me.”

  Mae fixed him with a glare of hate. “No,” she spat.

  As she turned to escape into the dark void, Warren tackled her from behind. The glowing crystal flew from her hand and skittered away, leaving them in shadows. Mae’s breath collapsed with a whoosh and she fell over like a rag doll. Fearing that she was faking but also worried that he had hurt her,
Warren pulled the thin length of braided rope off his climbing belt and secured it around her waist, so they were bound at the hip.

  “Try to get away now,” he taunted, stepping back so that the line pulled tight. Instead of scrambling to her feet, Mae lay flat on the ice and bit at her tether, snarling like a cornered animal.

  Inside the lip of the immense ice cavern, the pink quartz rose from where it had fallen and bathed them in its eerie light. Holding out his hand to shield his eyes from the glow, Warren watched the orb begin to bob toward them. It moved slowly, while Mae whimpered like a puppy, refusing to rise, even slapping away his hand when he offered it.

  He prodded her with the toe of his boot. “Mae, get up,” he said.

  Instead she moaned and twitched further from him. Her involuntary lurch jerked the cord so tight that Warren was surprised she could still breathe.

  As the beacon floated closer, he began to panic. Why wouldn’t Mae get up? He tried to lift her, but that only led to more biting. He cursed his own stupidity for binding them together, for she had become a human anchor. He didn’t have time to undo the knots and leave her. Hesitantly, he unsheathed his climbing pick. It was against sledding lore to cut good, braided rope. With the other athletes at the Winter Games, he had even sworn an oath against it. But this was no game and it was time to run.

  As he bent to hack the rope, the magic crystal blazed just inches away. Fierce light flooded over him into to the corridor beyond, toward which Mae kept jerking in fits and starts. She blinked in the brightness, a secret smile on her dazed face.

  “Mae,” she said, closing her eyes to bask in the rosy glow. “Oh, yes.”

  “What in cracked crystal?” Warren swore angrily, tightening his grip on the ice pick. He would use it as a weapon if he must. “What now?”

  The air behind the shining quartz began to ripple. Warren raised the pick overhead and stopped in shock as he watched his mother, or a ghost that looked like her, appear in front of them.

  “That’s no way to greet your kin,” Sierra said, pulling down the hood of her traveling cloak and stepping forward to embrace her son.

  “Mother!” The pick clattered to the ice. “What did you . . .?” His voice trailed away as his eyes took in the crystal in her hand and the familiar multicolored mantle she wore. “How did you . . .?” Then he made the connection. “Your traveling knits harbor magic,” he accused.

  Sierra laughed. “They always did.”

  “What about this hat?” Warren touched the snowflake fur cap Mae had given him. “All it’s really done is keep my head warm.”

  “If that’s what you think,” Sierra said, as Mae scrambled to her feet to hug Sierra, pulling so hard on the rope that Warren almost fell over.

  “Mae!” She hung her skinny arms around Sierra’s neck and squeezed tight. “Mae, Mae, Mae!”

  “I’m glad to see you again, too, Mae,” Sierra said, trying to pry her off gently.

  As Mae loosened her grip and lurched away, Sierra took a deep breath and put a hand to her chest. “She’s acting a little stranger than I remembered,” she admitted.

  “She’s no more crazy than usual,” Warren replied, tugging on the cord around Mae’s waist to keep her from wandering farther. “Of course, now she’s got the voices of the First Folk in her head. But she’s used to it.” He turned to Sierra, unable to prevent anger from creeping into his voice. “I guess you know all about that.”

  “Untie her.” Sierra searched his face. It wasn’t just the stubble on his chin or the look in his steely eyes that made him look older. Truth could age a person. “I don’t know how much you’ve gleaned in the few months you’ve been gone,” she began.

  “More than I ever thought possible,” Warren answered, his blue eyes flashing. “You should have told us who you were. You are The Keeper of the Tales, aren’t you? The only knitting witch alive entrusted with all of the yarns?”

  “So they say.” Sierra felt her cheeks burning.

  “Well, I should not have had to hear your own tale told by a toothless trustee passing out washrags in the garrison,” he said. “I didn’t know whether to believe him or not until I heard a similar story from a barmaid at an alehouse, and then an old Guardsman visiting his son in the infirmary. They all say the same thing, Sierra Blue.”

  Still tethered by the climbing rope, Mae began to worm her way between them. As they argued, her face began to crumple, as if she fought tears.

  “I have had no choice but to live my life as it was fated,” Sierra began, already aware that her son would not understand, for she saw his path as clearly as her own. His time had not yet come to decide if he dared to tempt fate or not.

  “I am your son, not a pawn.” Warren interrupted. “First father used me, to guide the Dark Queen’s Lowlanders. Then, after I got caught on the military road, you let the Guard take me away in a rolling cage.”

  Sierra shook her head slowly. “I have no power over the Guard.”

  “You are the next witch in line!” Warren shot back. “That is what they all say.”

  “I was next in line,” Sierra said. “There’s a difference.”

  “Your Northland Guard trained me,” Warren thumped his chest. “They trained me well. Do you know what they trained me for? To become Lowland fodder. They trained me to die.” He threw up his hands. “Now here I am, lost, with a crazy old witch, a mother I don’t know, and a price on my head.”

  Sierra eyed him silently. Flecks of gold stood out in her irises and her face took on the long-range look Warren had learned to fear as a child. Sierra turned her gaze on Warren and wrapped her traveling cloak tight. “Are you through?” she said. “Because there are a few things I would have you know. Then we must leave this place. Time is short.”

  Afraid he had already said too much, Warren looked away from her.

  “The soldiers of the Guard are not my allies. They arrested me,” Sierra told him quietly. “They took me away in a rolling cage, the same as they took you. Until this morning, I was imprisoned in the Burnt Holes.”

  Warren raised his eyes. “No one ever escapes from the Burnt Holes,” he whispered.

  “So they say.” Sierra’s voice was hard. “I see that you are now a man, no longer a boy. So do not whine to me like a spoiled youth about your troubles, for everything that happens does so for a reason. We all have plenty of misfortune,” she said, laying her hand on Mae’s shoulder. “Some more than others.”

  The slight figure swayed between them with her hands over her ears, her eyes bright with unshed tears.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “Free her, then.” Sierra said, more gently. “Let her off your leash. She’s one of the Twelve, not a dog.”

  “As you say.” Warren bent to untie the rope. “But she’ll try to get away. She always does.” Mae twitched a step toward the corridor, pulling the line tight again. “See?” He said grimly.

  Sierra put her arm around Mae and smoothed her ragged hair. “She’s not trying to run off.”

  “Mae,” Mae purred, settling her head against Sierra’s chest.

  “Lavender Mae has been called,” Sierra explained. “All twelve of us have. When the summons calls you, it feels like a hand reaching for your heart, pulling you forward.” She peered past him into the gloom. “I hazard that you did not see the fire in the sky this morning?”

  “Was that what I glimpsed through an air shaft? A blood-red light filled the cavern.”

  As Warren freed her, Mae jerked away, only to scramble back and clutch at Sierra’s skirt.

  Warren looped the rope back around his climbing belt.

  “The red dawn is Aubergine’s doing,” Sierra said. “She is calling the Twelve to the Potluck. All these years, Smokey Jo saved cold-fire crystals, smoldering in a box, to use as a signal if Aubergine needed to bring us together.” She gazed at Mae, who clung to her leg. “That’s what you saw in the sky. The lure
is involuntary unless someone sends the answering fire.”

  “You can’t stop yourself from going?” Warren asked in alarm. “None of you?”

  “Only if one of us sends the crystals from a corresponding box skyward. The answering fire releases us from the call, by letting Aubergine know we are coming.”

  “Who has the other crystals?” Warren asked. “The Dark Queen? Or does Aubergine herself keep them somewhere safe?”

  “Until a few days ago, the answering fire was in my care,” Sierra said. She seemed painfully tired.

  “You?” Warren asked, dumbfounded. “Why you? You lived as a farm wife, not a witch.”

  “If that’s how it looked to you, then I did a good job.”

  Peering up at her, Mae nodded vigorously. “Mae,” she agreed. “Mae.”

  Sierra eyed Warren coolly. “I harbored that box of cold-fire crystals until I was arrested at the fair.”

  “The Guard arrested you in Middlemarch?” Warren snorted in disdain. “Why? Did you give someone wrong change, or something?”

  “I wish,” Sierra laughed without humor. “No, I was accused of using magic, what else?”

  “Well, were you? Magic has been forbidden. That includes at the fairgrounds.”

  “Of course I was,” Sierra said, with irritation. “I do it every day. But not in a way mere soldiers could discern.”

  As Mae began to cackle, Sierra paused and spoke directly to her. “Someone has betrayed us, dear.”

  Then she turned back to her son. “The Northland Guard is hunting down the Twelve. Before they forced me from my stall, the soldiers were watching Esmeralde’s stand as well. Fortunately, she never showed.” She looked at him grimly. “The men who led me away knew who I was. They know who all of us are.”

  “I have heard it said that the Guard is on the hunt for knitting witches,” her son confirmed. “But I don’t know why. What happened to the crystals? Did the soldiers take them?”

  Sierra shook her head. “I hid the box from them. I think your sister wards it now.”