The Broken Circle: Yarns of the Knitting Witches

by Cheryl Potter

  Now the brick oven above the fireplace had been fitted with a new baking rack, and Lily had laid in enough supplies to feed the Twelve. She had gathered a basket of apples, burlap sacks of onions and potatoes, and sent the stable boy to Butcher’s Block for a fresh turkey and a side of bacon. Lily and Smokey had spent over an hour in the sundries tent at the farmers’ market and had returned to the Potluck with paper twists full of herbs and spices.

  “If you keep moving the pots off the burner, we’ll never have dinner ready for our guests,” Lily scolded.

  “But we haven’t had a nice warm fire in the kitchen stove in months,” Smokey protested, her eyes dancing. “It’s so pretty.” Reluctantly, she replaced the iron disc and slid the sweet potatoes back over the heat, where they resumed their boil. She gazed up at Lily. “Besides, there’s just the three of us. We have no guests.”

  Lily looked at her and said nothing.

  “Oh, I know,” Smokey sighed. “We have to ask or else you won’t tell us anything. How tedious. Do you mean I have to ask a question even for something as small as this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, are they coming today?”

  “Of course! Why else would we be roasting such a large turkey, and baking not one but two apple pies?”

  “Who will come? Everyone?”

  “You know better than that.” Lily nodded toward the summer kitchen, which opened into a low-walled yard where they used to plant a kitchen garden. The wooden gate led to the alley between the Potluck and the pottery next door. “I think I hear a cart. Why don’t you see if there’s someone at the gate?” Lily had begun rolling out pie crusts.

  “Do you think it’s the icebox?”

  “Go see,” Lily said, as she cut pretty diagonal slashes in the top of each crust and dabbed the pies with butter.

  Smokey Jo needed no more encouragement.

  Smokey jumped down from her stool and hustled through the doorway into the summer kitchen. She needed to go outside to check the alley, because she could see nothing through the window. The side gate was closed, and she was too short to see over the wall. All the deliveries came to this side of the property. Just this morning a new cutting board had been dropped off to replace their scarred wooden block, and sacks of flour had come from the grain mill. Now they had corn meal and stone-ground wheat flour for baking, as well as steel-cut oats for porridge.

  Finding none of her own outerwear near the door, Smokey threw on the old patchwork kimono that had hung from a hook by this door almost as long as she could remember. Before she disappeared, Tracery Teal had knit the motley garment from scrap sock yarn. Since Teal had evaporated into a cloud of green haze, the bright jacket had belonged to no one, but neither Aubergine nor Smokey Jo could bear to get rid of it. Not only did the kimono keep the memory of Teal present in their minds, it was also handy. They both wore it at one time or another, as a barn coat or to walk to the market on cool days.

  The jacket hung to Smokey’s knees and its bell sleeves covered her fingertips. She ran out the door, letting it bang shut behind her, and skipped across the garden path.

  She unlatched the wooden gate and flung it open. A pair of gray mules pulling a covered wagon was approaching the side entrance. Two women sat side by side on the bench seat. Smokey tried to figure out who they were, and thought she recognized the driver.

  “Ratta, is that you?” Mamie Verde’s servant girl had become a middle-aged woman, but the frizzy red hair that threatened to escape her bun gave her away.

  “That it is.” Ratta pulled the mules to a halt. “You look the same, Smokey Jo.”

  “Well, you don’t,” Smokey said. “I could only tell you by your hair.”

  “Then who am I, little one?” The stout woman sitting beside Ratta shook out her bun to reveal blonde hair beginning to gray, which did not help Smokey identify her one bit. Smokey examined her clothing. Over sun-bleached pantaloons tucked into hiking boots, the woman wore an oilskin mantle of the type favored by migratory trekkers from the Western Highlands.

  “One of the Twelve, surely, but not Mamie Verde, for you are not that old and you have no wheeled chair.”

  The Highlander smiled. Smokey noticed the large felted backpack stowed between her trekking boots. On her lap she held what looked like a spotted dog, except it had horns. The animal looked at her and let out a baa. Then Smokey could guess, although she could barely believe her eyes.

  “Winter Wheat?” Smokey asked in a timid voice, hard-put to believe that Ratta and Wheat would be traveling together, since they’d never gotten along.

  Smiling broadly, Wheat nodded.

  “The sheep gave you away.” Smokey reached up to pat the little ram. He arched his neck so that she could scratch under his chin.

  Wheat handed him down to Smokey. “This is Tracks. Watch that front foot; he’s lame.” Shouldering her backpack, she clambered from the wagon.

  “You two always disliked each other,” Smokey commented.

  Ratta shrugged and laid aside the mules’ reins to lean back and check the wagon. “We have a common cause,” she said, distracted.

  As the gnome watched, Wheat rummaged behind the bench seat, and lifted out her shepherd’s staff. Smokey’s eyes lit with delight when she saw the hooded crook. “Wheat, you used to zap her with that thing, remember?”

  “It is I who remember,” Ratta said. “She burned holes in my sleeves and my skirts. I did not own one article of clothing without singe marks.”

  “Nothing my staff burned through your garments was as fiery as your tongue toward me,” Wheat said. “You forget that Lilac Lily made me mend all of your clothes. I went through entire spools of thread.”

  Ratta stepped down from the wagon. “Lily must be here.”

  Smokey nodded. “She arrived yesterday. She’s in the kitchen, baking pies.”

  “Anyone else?” Ratta asked.

  Smokey shook her head. “Just me and Aubergine, same as always.” She paused. “Aubergine is napping. She does that now, most afternoons.”

  Ratta eyed Wheat. “Let’s get this done with before anyone else shows up. Will you help me?”

  Smokey reached up for Wheat’s staff. “Can I hold it?”

  With a laugh, Wheat surrendered her crook and followed Ratta to the back of the wagon. Together they let down the tailgate and reached inside. Filled with glee, Smokey regarded the crook no differently than she had as a child. With a secret smile, Wheat nodded her permission.

  Smokey leaned the tall staff against the garden wall and snatched off the hood.

  Freed, the crystals began to swirl on their tethers. They hit and sparked. Inside each golden orb Smokey saw what she fondly remembered: the outline of a scarab beetle, encased in amber, more beautiful than it had been when alive.

  “Ooooh,” Smokey whispered, mesmerized. “Can I practice with them?” she asked, but no one was paying attention. Wheat was carrying the lame sheep and Ratta had hefted a large bundle wrapped in a shawl.

  The grounds man arrived to unload their bags, followed by the barn boy. As the stable hand led the mules and wagon away, Smokey escaped down the alley with Wheat’s staff and trotted around back to the hidden entrance to the dye shed. As a child, she had often stolen this same staff from the hall tree in the summer kitchen and snuck back here to practice burning holes in the snow banks. Now, even though the snow was almost gone, she could not help herself. Standing near the secret door to the dye shed, she pointed the staff across the alley. As the cabochon crystals crossed each other in a circle of light, Smokey focused the beam on a lump of dirty snow. Her heart began to pound, anticipating the delightful hiss of melting ice, but that did not happen. Instead Smokey found herself dissipating into the air. She would have clapped with glee, except she had no hands. She was unseen vapor, drifting anywhere she wanted to go. Smokey hoped that whatever spell she had somehow cast over herself would last all day.

&nbs
p; It had been many years since Smokey Jo had disappeared into smoke. The last time it happened seemed like a half-forgotten dream. She had been a young girl playing with Wheat’s staff in this same alley, wearing this same patchwork coat of Teal’s. Early one morning, Smokey had nicked both the staff and the kimono and run out to the garden before anyone but the cook had stirred from bed. Smokey had begun by melting a pretty pattern of holes in the snowdrifts with pinpricks of light. Except then the cabochons had swirled back and hit behind the staff, sending a shower of sparks over her. Fearful that she had burned Teal’s jacket, or singed her own hair, Smokey had put a hand to her head but saw no hand. Then she had peered into an icy puddle and seen no reflection. That had made Smokey grin, for no matter how hard she tried to make herself disappear on her own, it never happened.

  Smokey recalled the wonderful day she had spent drifting about the marketplace. She hovered above the food tents, drinking in the sights and smells. She watched sausage sputtering over an open fire, while next door licks of flame from a brazier sent corn popping inside a covered iron kettle. At another stand, she observed chestnuts roasting among glowing embers, while on the rack above peanuts boiled in brine. When the spell finally wore off in the late afternoon, Smokey had reappeared, hungry and tired. She had walked home dejectedly, the kimono tied around her waist and the staff resting over her shoulder. Even though she had only borrowed them, Teal and Wheat would be angry. She had no doubt that she would be punished with a week’s worth of kitchen chores. How she hated peeling potatoes.

  Today, Smokey Jo did not want to waste precious time at the food stalls in the marketplace. Almost without thinking, she seeped through the back fence and slid under the doorway of the secret entrance to the dye shed. Soon she was in the room that housed the great pot. She noticed with satisfaction that Aubergine had been busy preparing for a simmer. The dye pot had been cleaned and set on a platform over a freshly laid fire that had not yet been lit. The huge iron cauldron was half filled with clear spring water, and a jug of white vinegar stood ready on a side table, next to a pillar of sea salt. Places for all Twelve of them had been cleared in a circle around the great pot, and behind Aubergine’s chair, dyestuffs had been laid out carefully. There were logwood and cochineal, indigo and madder, rosewood, marigold and jet. Smokey looked around for the little milk-glass jars of ground crystal, but saw none. The mortar and pestle stood off to the side, empty. The pantry door was closed and locked as usual, but it only took Smokey a few seconds to find the keyhole and push her way through.

  What she saw in the dark closet disturbed her. The shelves meant for dye crystals and other rare stones lay bare. There was no shard of amethyst or fire opal, no nugget of turquoise or malachite, crystallized amber, raw ruby garnet. Not even a chunk of common rose quartz sitting on a shelf glowing in the dark. What was worse, a mossy haze hovered high in the back corner of the pantry. As Smokey watched, the fog began to collect, like cream rising to the top of fresh milk. Soon it became an angry green cloud and Smokey, no more than vapor herself, understood who it was.

  “Teal?” She asked, thinking it might be best to offer up the kimono. “I did not mean to take your coat unchallenged.”

  In answer, the storm cloud engulfed her like a sudden squall whipping across a glacier pond. The harder she fought to break free, the more the swirling mist obscured her vision. Smokey felt the jacket being ripped from her shoulders. All around her it began to rain.

  “I was just borrowing it!” Smokey protested.

  The cloud released her suddenly and she tumbled in a wet heap to the floor. Seconds later, Wheat’s staff clattered down beside her.

  Smokey held a grubby hand in front of her face and grimaced. She was no longer smoke. Even in the gloom she could make out all five fingers. She hugged her damp sleeves, shivering, because the kimono had vanished. Wiping her eyes, she peered upward, searching for the teal-colored mist, but whatever had taken the jacket had evaporated. Rising, Smokey snatched up the staff. The cabochons had gone dark. She always hated it when that happened. The spent crystals would have to rest, perhaps for hours. She tried the door. It was still locked. Its only key hung from a metal ring that Aubergine kept in her knitting bag. Smokey was not supposed to touch the key, although she sometimes did when Aubergine was napping.

  Alone in the dark, Smokey sat against the door and pulled an apple from her apron pocket. What to do? She bit into the crisp fruit. What to do? She listened at the keyhole. If she heard anyone in the dye shed, she would call out and kick the door until someone unlocked it, for the last thing she wanted was to miss pie for dinner.

  Lily waited in the open doorway of the summer kitchen with a bright smile, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Who have we here?” she called to the two road-weary women who made their way slowly up the path. She stepped aside so that they could enter with their bundles and bags. “Ratta?” She took the carpetbag from Ratta’s arm.

  “Lily,” Ratta said. “Well met.”

  “Who is that behind you—Winter Wheat?” Lily looked at Ratta in alarm. “Did you arrive together?”

  “We did,” Ratta said. “And we brought Mamie Verde too.” She dipped her chin toward the quiet, shawl-wrapped form. “Lily, you seem surprised.”

  “Imagining you and Wheat as traveling companions is difficult.”

  “You haven’t seen anything yet.” Ratta rolled her eyes toward the shepherdess behind her. “Wheat has a sheep that she pampers like a lap dog. She means to keep it in the house.”

  “A pet sheep?” Lily’s smile began to fade. “In the house?”

  “Hallo, Lily,” Wheat clapped Lily on the shoulder and held out her backpack. “Meet Tracks. He’s a purebred Jacob ram.”

  Lily took the felted bag from Wheat’s shoulder and glanced at the animal cradled in her arms. “He is a sheep,” she said. “He belongs in the barn.”

  “Not Tracksie,” Wheat countered. “Lily, the Lowlanders scattered my flock. Tracks is all I have left. And he is lame.”

  “He is a barnyard animal,” Lily said firmly. “Fix him a pen in the stable.”

  “It won’t be as it was before,” Wheat promised, brushing by Lily. “There’s just the one animal and I’ll confine him to my room, until he is healed enough to walk freely.”

  “Here we go again,” Ratta snorted. Still bearing Mamie, she trailed Wheat into the kitchen. She looked around for a good place to rest the old woman. The only clear space was the small round table near the wood stove. Gently, she laid her bundle on its surface, keeping her hand possessively on the shawl-wrapped body. She would move the old woman to a comfortable bed as soon as possible. She eyed Lily. “No one will want to room with Wheat.”

  “No one has to room with me. There are so few of us left that we shall all get our own rooms. Right, Lily?”

  Lily looked at her blankly.

  “You are bound to answer true if she asks,” Ratta said.

  “I simply don’t know,” Lily replied. Peeling back the shawl covering Mamie, she gazed thoughtfully at the wrinkled face with the closed, sunken eyes. She gave Ratta a brief glance. “I suppose you want the downstairs room again?” Turning, she led them through the kitchen. “Well, you are going to have to fight Aubergine for it.”

  Ratta lifted Mamie’s body and followed the others into the front hall. “Aubergine sleeps down here?” She glanced at the closed bedroom door. “When she has that upstairs suite, overlooking the city center?”

  “Aubergine is old,” Lily said. “She does not care for stairs.”

  “Can I have my childhood cell with the dormered window?” Wheat asked.

  “There are fresh sheets on the bed and the room has been aired.” Lily looked at the sheep and sighed. “Let the barn boy know if you need a forkful of straw.”

  “Thanks, Lily.” Wheat made her way toward the front staircase. “It’s really good to see you again.” She clumped up the stairs in her hiking
boots.

  “If Aubergine has Mamie’s room, where are we to sleep?” Ratta asked. She peered past the kitchen pantry to the tiny maid’s quarters. “I once slept back there.”

  Lily shook her head. “We hired a scullery girl to mind the kitchen. She sleeps there.” She looked Ratta over carefully. “You need not do chores any longer, for you are one of us. It will be your folly to forget that.”

  “It seems that no one else remembers,” Ratta said. “When I met Wheat on the road this morning, she asked if I was coming here in Mamie’s stead. I came in my own stead.” She narrowed her eyes at Lily. “If you know any of my secrets, then you must know that.”

  “I do,” Lily said. “And I know you will do what you must to save us.”

  “I am bound by Mamie to voice the Lost Tale. But only if Sierra answers the call.” Ratta looked down at the still form in the sparkling shawl. “There are rumors on the track that the Guard has arrested members of the Twelve. I don’t believe we will be seeing Sierra any time soon.”

  Lily opened her mouth, but then thought better of speaking.

  “I did not ask.” Ratta warned. A harsh laugh escaped her lips. “Don’t tell me what I don’t want to know.”

  “Suit yourself.” With a sweep of her skirts, Lily turned back down the hall toward the kitchen. “I need to see to our supper. Take any room on the second floor.”

  “What about Mamie?” Ratta called after her. ”I have little desire to traipse with her up and down the stairs, day in and day out.”

  From the kitchen doorway, Lily looked at Ratta steadily.

  “What?” Ratta implored her, in the silence that followed. “I would know,” she admitted angrily.

  “There is no need to carry Mamie upstairs,” Lily said at last. “The parlor is prepared.”

  “We do not know if she has passed,” Ratta protested, as fear crept into her voice. “She may still live. Wheat said so herself.”

  “Wheat sees to the ailments of sheep.” Lily stepped forward and put her hand to Ratta’s heart. “You know. Right here you do.”