Witchlanders

by Lena Coakley

  Skyla’s cheeks went crimson. She looked at the sky as if there were someone up there who could witness his stupidity. Then she turned on her heel without answering and stormed down the hill, her long braid flicking back and forth behind her.

  “Now what did I do?” he yelled.

  Skyla turned again and shouted up to him. “You know, Ryder, you talk and talk about ‘honoring our father,’ but I remember how it was. Every time he told one of the old stories, every time he spoke about the Goddess, or about Aata and Aayse, it was all you could do to keep from laughing out loud.”

  “That’s not true,” he sputtered. “I never laughed at Fa.”

  “You and Mabis loved to sit up there on your high perch and laugh at everyone below you. ‘How stupid people are to believe in things. How much better we are than everyone else.’” Skyla put her hands on her hips. “Well, Fa was one of those people and so am I. And now so is Mabis! You’re all alone on your high perch, Ryder. Enjoy the solitude!”

  Ryder went back to working the hill, up one row and down the other, but his usual songs didn’t come to him now, and he couldn’t get Skyla’s words out of his mind. Girls were irrational creatures. You never knew what you did to make them angry, and they never just came out and told you.

  Above him on the prayer hill, Skyla and Pima were stretching out their arms, beginning the sun position, the first part of Aata’s prayer. From a distance, one looked like a miniature version of the other, with their long, skinny limbs and hair the color of the fields.

  “Prayer hill,” he muttered. “Next year I’ll plant hicca up there. Get us five more sacks of flour.”

  Pima saw him looking and waved, jumping up and down in the grass. “Hey, Ry-der!” she yelled.

  He thought of yelling back—that would really annoy Skyla—but instead he smiled and put a finger to his lips; Aata’s prayer was supposed to be silent. Pima put her hand over her mouth, remembering, then stretched her arms out and bowed low, lifting one wobbly leg behind her. Next to her, Skyla’s pose was as steady and graceful as a statue in the village shrine. It was a pretty sight, Ryder had to admit. Behind the girls, the jagged mountains rose up dramatically, scarlet with zanthias in seed.

  The witches are in their reds. Ryder thought he had heard the expression recently, but he couldn’t remember where. With a sigh, he turned from the view and went back to work.

  A year ago Ryder had been just days away from leaving home, days away from setting out for Tandrass or one of the other port cities. Somehow he’d always known he wasn’t meant to be a farmer like his father. He was supposed to do something else, be something else. He could never put his finger on what, exactly—but he’d resolved to go to sea to find it. Then one afternoon he came back from a trip to the village to find his father in bed in the middle of the day. There was something wrong with his face—only half of it was working. Mabis sat in a chair beside him, staring straight ahead. She had a jar of dried herbs in her lap, but it was unopened. Pima lay next to Fa, trying to push the slack side of her father’s face up into a smile. What’s wrong, Fa? What’s wrong, Fa? she kept saying until someone shushed her quiet.

  Fa had seemed so ordinary when he was alive, but everything held together then. He would have pulled a sixtyweight out of these rocky planting hills, Ryder thought. He would have known what to do about Mabis. For one brief moment, it didn’t seem silly to bow and bend to the Goddess or believe that the lucky man guarded the fields. Skyla had a connection to their father that he would never have.

  When he came up to the top of the hill again, Ryder saw the lucky man differently, as something almost precious, an artifact of his father. The helmet at the top had tilted to one side, giving the figure a quizzical look. It was an enemy helmet, with one long slit for the eyes and a perfectly round hole for the mouth. Ryder had never thought to ask his father if he had killed the soldier who wore it.

  “I never laughed at Fa,” he said to the lucky man. “He didn’t really think I did, did he?”

  “Do you think he can answer?”

  Ryder wheeled around, startled.

  “The bone. Give it to me.” Mabis stood in front of him. Her dress was clean, and her hair was brushed and braided, but there was something greedy in her eyes. Ryder looked for the telltale stain of maiden’s woe on her lips and fingers, but he found nothing.

  “You told me not to.” He glanced up to Skyla on the prayer hill, but his two sisters couldn’t see him. They had begun the earth position and were kneeling in the grass with their foreheads touching the ground.

  Mabis grabbed him by the wrist. “I want to ask the bones why the witches don’t come,” she said. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “You can watch me. You can make sure—”

  “No!” He clutched the pouch to his chest and stumbled backward into the lucky man. It fell over, and the helmet went bumping down the hill, disappearing into the rows. “There goes our luck.”

  He said it as a joke, but when the words came out of his mouth they seemed ominous. He backed away farther, rubbing his side where the pole had scraped his skin.

  “I need it,” Mabis insisted. She was talking about the bone, but was that really what she craved, or was it the flower?

  Again, Ryder felt that strange feeling of loss for his mother, although she was standing right in front of him. Her disdain for witches and their prophecies had always been such an important part of her. Who was she now that it was gone?

  “It’s time to put out that fire, Mabis,” he said, suddenly feeling awash in frustration. “The witches didn’t come because you have nothing to tell them. It’s all nonsense. There’s no stranger in the mountains, no assassin. You’re just a farmer’s widow gone mad on maiden’s woe!”

  Mabis stepped back, her face crimson, and Ryder winced, knowing he’d gone too far. He braced himself for an angry torrent of words, but his mother pushed past.

  “Mabis!”

  Without looking at him, she fled off toward the cottage, hicca tassels brushing her arms as she went. First Skyla, now Mabis, he thought, shaking his head. And all he wanted to do was get the crops in.

  He found his mother in the clearing between the cottage and the barn, tending to the fire. In the past three days, Ryder had grown to hate it. The bitter smoke seemed to permeate everything. He tasted it at the back of his throat, smelled it in his hair. Yellowhead didn’t seem to mind, though. The family horse was so old he had lost his sense of smell, and he stood not far from Mabis, happily tearing up mouthfuls of grass.

  Mabis didn’t turn around as Ryder approached, just tossed another bundle of herbs into the flames. For a moment the pale, gray-green smoke that rose up over the trees darkened to viridian.

  “My coven has forgotten me. I’m the sister of Lilla Red Bird, and they’ve forgotten me,” she said, her voice wretched.

  Ryder sighed. “Who knows what witches remember?”

  As he came up beside his mother, he could see she was blinking back tears. There were dark circles under her eyes. She had been fighting her craving for three days now, and it was taking its toll. Most people said she looked too young to have children nearly grown, but today Ryder could see that she was starting to show her age. There were thin, spidery lines on her forehead, and her cheeks seemed drawn.

  “I was so sure,” she said. “So sure I’d seen something in the bones.”

  “Mabis, all my life you’ve told me that there is no magic in the world, that witches have only fooled themselves and everyone else into thinking they can predict the future.”

  “I know.”

  “So . . . why? Why change your mind now?”

  It took his mother a long time to answer. When she did her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her over the crackling of the fire. “He was lying sick, Ryder. Lying sick in the fields all morning. If Farmer Raiken hadn’t come along . . . Even then it was too late.”

  She was talking about Fa, of course.

  “Nothing anybody could have done about that,” R
yder said firmly.

  “Are you sure?” She turned to him with shining eyes. “If I hadn’t turned my back on the coven, if I hadn’t thrown away everything I ever believed, I might have known. I might have predicted it.”

  “No! Mabis, throwing the bones isn’t real. You’ve always believed that. Can’t you see? It’s only that—that plant that’s made you doubt yourself.”

  “Maybe.” She turned away. “Probably. But if something happened to you or one of the girls and I didn’t do anything . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I should go up to the coven myself, just to be sure.”

  Ryder wondered why she hadn’t gone already. But then, she never went up there, not even to take the tithe. “The witches are too proud to listen to the prophecies of a villager.”

  She shook her head. “There are other covens. I could go to them. They’d remember me from the war.”

  “Do you really think it would make any difference?” he asked gently. Mabis didn’t answer.

  Yellowhead ambled up behind them, poking his head between the two as if he wanted to be part of the conversation. Mabis wiped the corner of her eye and laughed as the horse rubbed his forehead against her shoulder.

  “You’re right,” she finally said. “Of course you’re right. It’s all a lie, witchcraft. No one knows that better than me.”

  Ryder wasn’t convinced by this sudden change of heart, but he stroked Yellowhead’s neck and didn’t question her words. The horse tossed his head with the pleasure of the attention. He was lazy with wisdom, more a family pet than a work animal. Ryder loved the stubborn old creature, but today all he saw was the gray around Yellowhead’s muzzle, the bluish film that was beginning to mask one of his eyes: Everything on this farm was falling apart.

  “I think you’ve aged a hundred years since Fa died,” Mabis said, as if she’d been able to hear his thoughts. “You’re a good son—taking on this farm. I know what you’ve given up to stay.”

  Ryder gave a short laugh. No, he thought. No, you don’t. He wished Skyla hadn’t reminded him about how he’d once wanted to go to sea. It was easier not to think of it, easier not to be reminded of how much his world had shrunk down to this small farm, to the four walls of their bare cottage.

  “Here,” she said quietly. “Give me that bone. I know exactly what to do with it.” Ryder’s hand went to his chest. “Trust me.” His mother smiled with her hand outstretched. “It is mine, you know.”

  The greedy look had left her eyes, but still Ryder hesitated. Slowly he took the leather pouch from around his neck and, holding it out by its leather cords, placed it into his mother’s palm. Mabis’s eyes didn’t leave his. Without even glancing toward the fire, she tossed the bone, pouch and all, into the flames.

  “Mabis!”

  A log shifted, and a cloud of sparks rose swirling into the air like a swarm of burning bees. Yellowhead whinnied with alarm and stepped back.

  “Oh,” said Mabis as she followed the sparks with her eyes. “Look at that.”

  “But . . .” Ryder stepped toward the fire. In the depths of the flames, he could see the leather pouch blackening and curling around the bone inside. “You told me it was special.”

  “Yes. Very special. It’s been in our family for a long time. The way the witches tell it, my sister won us the war with that bone.” Mabis frowned.

  “It’s not too late. A stick . . .” He looked around wildly. “I need a stick. I could pull it out.”

  “Don’t,” she said sharply, grabbing his arm. “Do you see now what I would do for you? Do you see how strong I am? Stronger than any plant.” Ryder wondered who she was trying to convince, him or herself.

  “Don’t worry,” he told her. “I’ve pulled up all the maiden’s woe. Even if the craving overcomes you, you won’t be able to find any.”

  His mother dropped his arm. “It is my will that has kept me away from the river, Ryder. My own will. If I wanted a flower, I assure you I could find one.”

  “I don’t think so. I’ve searched downriver all the way to Raiken’s farm.”

  Her face turned stony. “And what about upriver?”

  This made Ryder hesitate for a moment as he wondered if there really was a way for her to climb up there. “It’s too rocky,” he answered slowly. “You know that. If there was any maiden’s woe upriver, you’d have to walk on water to get it.”

  “What makes you think I can’t? When I was a witch I used to walk on water all the time.”

  Ryder snorted. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

  Mabis pursed her lips and stared into the flames. After a while she took his arm again, gently this time. “You know, Ryder,” she said. “There is a lot more to the world than what you can see. Sometimes I think it was very wrong of me not to teach you that.”

  No one could walk on water. But the idea must have stayed on Ryder’s mind, because that night he dreamed of it. Something was calling to him. Something was singing to him—a strange muttering, humming song. He followed it to the sea. Ryder had never seen the sea before, but in the dream it was familiar. Far offshore, on a surface smooth as glass, two little girls held up their skirts and stepped daintily, laughing at their new skill, ripples circling out from satin slippers.

  “Careful,” Ryder called from the beach. “You’re too far.”

  The girls looked up. “Hello? Is someone there?” Their voices were strange, someone else’s. They shouldn’t be so reckless, he thought. They will ruin their best clothes, and Father will be angry.

  Ryder stepped out onto the sea to fetch them, not wondering how it was done. The water was clear and deep, and he held out his arms for balance as he walked. A large fish, like a triangle with a tail, loomed up from the depths, pale and slow, then withdrew into blackness. Ryder shivered with delight.

  This is easy, he thought. It was the song that held him up, the song that was coming from the sea itself. Ryder found himself humming, then singing, repeating the melodies like a lesson.

  “The sea is a lullaby,” he said, when he’d reached the girls. “I never knew that.” In his ears, the song of the sea thrummed and whirred.

  “He wants to go there,” one said, laughing.

  “But he doesn’t know the first thing . . .” The other giggled.

  Ryder gasped, and the music of the sea turned sharp and dissonant. He didn’t know these girls. What made him think he had? Their pointed little faces were ghostly white, and they stared up at him with ink in their eyes.

  “Blackhairs,” he breathed.

  The girls started to cry. Underneath his feet the sea grew rough, lifting him up on a hill of water. Little hands clutched his clothes. “How could you be so cruel?”

  “I don’t believe in this!” Ryder shouted to the darkening sky. “This is a dream, and I don’t believe any of it.”

  “Now he’s done it,” said one of the girls through her tears. All at once the music stopped, and Ryder plunged through the invisible skin of the sea. The water around him was cold and black and silent.

  “I can’t swim,” he sputtered, breaking the surface for a moment. The girls looked down at him with fear in their dark eyes.

  “Hello?” said one.

  “Is someone there?” said the other.

  Ryder slipped under the waves again. As he sank to the bottom, the white faces of the girls were like twin moons, receding and receding and receding.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE WHITE WITCH

  “You had a nightscare.”

  The room was dark. For a moment Ryder thought the small, cool hand on his face belonged to one of the eerie children in his dream. But it was just Pima.

  “Go back to sleep, Sweetlamb,” he said, yawning. Instead she climbed on top of him, sharp knees poking his thigh. “Ow!” Pima landed on him with a thump. “Get off,” he said, laughing. “I have to pee.” Her breath was warm against his neck.

  “I’m coming with you,” she whispered into his ear. “I’m going wherever you go.”

  Ryder
groaned. The hay in the mattress had shifted into lumps under his back, and his muscles were sore from picking.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “Just the fields.” He pulled her to him and stroked her hair, finding sticks. Pima had been running wild lately, but she didn’t seem to mind. “You smell like barn. I’ll make you sleep with Yellowhead and the goats if you don’t take a bath.”

  “I don’t believe in washing,” she informed him. She wriggled out of his hug and sat up, straddling his chest. “You were singing in your sleep again. La, la, la!” She bounced on him, singing tunelessly. “Lolly, lolly, lolly la.”

  “Shh! I do not sound like that. You’ll wake the others.”

  “Maba isn’t here.”

  Ryder looked over. Skyla was a lump swathed in blankets—but Mabis was gone. She’s started the picking, Ryder told himself. Or the milking. But he knew he’d check the river first. Maybe she was walking on water.

  Ryder sat up, adjusting Pima on his lap. “I guess I should get up too.”

  Pima threw her arms around his neck, squeezing him tight. “I told you I’m coming with you.”

  “Why don’t you climb on Skyla instead?”

  The lump of covers stirred. “No,” it croaked. “No climbing on Skyla.”

  Ryder sighed. “If you come with me, you’ll have to work. When I was little, Fa would give me a sack and send me through the fields to look for missed berries.”

  Pima thought about this for a moment. Then she pulled a corner of Skyla’s blanket over her head. “I can’t do work,” she said. “I’m still asleep.”

  He was pulling on his boots by the door of the cottage when Pima slipped around the red curtain and called out to him.

  “Ry-der!” He looked over at her in the dim light. Her short nightgown showed her bare legs. “Are you sure you’re not going away?” He could hear the worry in her voice.

  “No, Lamb,” he said softly. “Of course not.”

  “Maba says bad things are coming. She says . . . that we won’t all be together much longer.”

  Ryder gave a faint gasp. “She was wrong to say that,” he said sharply. “It’s not true. Besides, she’s . . . changed her mind now.”