The Missing Link

by David Tysdale

  "What hap-p-pens if I run out-t of energ-gy b-b-before I r-r-reach.--"

  "Most likely you will feel the effects after a leap, not during."

  Carole hugged herself for warmth. She was feeling not at all good.

  Professor Philamount seemed to misinterpret her grimace. "Do not think of it as a limit to your abilities Miss Sylphwood, but rather a conditioning problem. You must train your body to withstand the rigors of Free-Falling. One cannot expect to run a marathon simply by putting on a pair of sneakers and trotting off.

  "Practice these exercises until they become second nature to you, and your teeth will no longer chatter. Practice, practice, practice. However, again let me stress that no one else is to know. Now off you go. Find some suitable food, rest and regain your strength."

  Carole returned to the apothecary, where she met Brunstice and Herling on the front walk.

  The herbal crone grabbed her shoulder. "Hold on witchling. What ye bin up to?" She leveled a finger at Carole's forehead. "Where gets ye that bump, and why ye be shivering so?"

  "Practicing with Professor Philamount," Carole said.

  "What? That old fraud trying to kill ye off, and ye be going along with him? Bad as young Mariat, ye be. Skeedadle in there and fill yer belly with a bowl of Mariat's broth, and stay put awhile. I swear there's never bin a couple of hard-headed, trouble-making witchlings as to match ye two." Brunstice walked away shaking her head.

  "Head witch?" Carole asked before Herling started after the healer. "Can I have a word with you?" She talked quickly to prevent Herling from interrupting. She explained what she needed.

  "'Tis highly irregular," Herling said, when Carole finished.

  "But you can see my point?"

  "I can. I will give it some serious consideration Sylphwood. Now off ye go, as Brunstice says. Fill yer belly with healing soup."

  Inside Mariat was propped up in her cot, sipping away at a bowl and making faces after each swallow. She had a new chain draped around her neck. "How are you doing?" Carole said.

  "Brunstice says I be staying put 'nother whole day at least, and not going to tonight's party."

  "That's rough." Carole ladled herself a bowl of broth from a steaming pot. She sat next to Mariat and, under the watchful eye of her friend, spooned some into her mouth. She gagged, and spat it out again. "Ewww! It tastes like cat pee."

  Mariat snorted. "This cure be worse than the cause, that be fer sure."

  Carole tried a second spoonful, but coughed it back up. "How can you drink this stuff?"

  "Hold yer nose and swallow quick before ye chokes on it."

  She tried Mariat's suggestion and managed not to gag. "I'll stay with you tonight if you'd like. I don't care about the party."

  "No! The celebration be fer the arrival of the new witchlings, assignments of older witchlings, and fer catching up on news about what be happening arount the realm. Needs be that I know all that stuff soon as possible. Ye do that fer me and I find out the brew's answer fer ye."

  "How are you going to manage that? You can't even get out of bed."

  "Still have me sneaky ways." Mariat smiled, catlike. "Not ye worry Carole."

  --6--

  The banquet hall looked like a black sea, churning beneath the flickering candlelight of three gigantic chandeliers. Dozens and dozens of witches swirled about, linking up into islands of animated chatter and breaking loose again to join the free-flowing party. Carole was certain this wasn't just the regular Westhill crowd. Every witch from miles around must have been in attendance. And the noise they were making. A raging waterfall would have been quiet by comparison.

  She waded into the throng, steering towards a channel of calm between two long, central tables. They both were heaped with food that was steadily disappearing, though no one was actually sitting at them. She grabbed a plate from a nearby stack and selected a few morsels for herself, before looking around.

  Her attention was drawn to a corner where five witchlings were bunched together. One looked up, gave Carole a cold stare and shifted, so the crowd blocked her from sight.

  I'd sooner trust my neck to a vampire. Carole turned away.

  At the front of the hall and crowded against the head table, was a very different group of witchlings. These young and wide-eyed children were huddled around two matronly witches who were urging them to eat. The encouragement fell upon deaf ears.

  Brunstice was seated across from, and oblivious to, the group. She was sipping from a large mug of what could only have been dragon's fire brew. Carole watched the witch slosh back the lively ale, amazed she could drink the stuff without setting fire to her face. Professor Philamount, seated next to Brunstice, was keeping an eye on the mug too, though his interest seemed to be one of self-preservation rather than of a desire to drink.

  She wandered throughout the hall, listening to various conversations, and finding for the most part that the witches were just catching up on old friendships. A streak of color caught her eye. A calico cat was weaving its way across the floor and under a table. A second cat followed, and a third.

  She peeked beneath to see a group of the felines seated around an enormous wooden bowl. Some were drinking, others were howling together in song. She noticed that many were swaying unsteadily, and asked one of the matronly witches about it.

  "Ye be right, Carole Sylphwood. Those howlers be enjoying their catnip wine a little too much. They be waking with aching heads tomorrow, silly fools. Course..." The witch looked thoughtfully in Brunstice's direction. "Cats not be the only ones holding their heads when the sun does rise."

  Carole peeked under the table again. At the opposite end of the table from the cat revelers Brutus was growling impressively at a collection of adolescent kittens, which were crowded close. The kittens seemed utterly spellbound. Unable to resist, Carole listened in.

  Brutus was recounting the werewolf encounter at the northern hall. It was a relatively truthful rendition, except for the part where he chased the wolf up the stairs and single-handedly dispatched the vicious creature. Carole chuckled, but left the cat to his yarn. She wasn't going to be the one to set him straight, and no doubt those kittens would learn the truth, soon enough.

  When she stood up, she saw Lucreta approaching, accompanied by two unfamiliar witches.

  "This be Carole Sylphwood," Lucreta said, and smiled warmly. "She be a good friend to we Westhillers. Carole these be my older cousins, Jasmine and Jantice. We be talking 'bout what be best fer me after my schooling here be done."

  Both witches nodded formally to Carole.

  "Jasmine lives in a small cottage two or three villages to the west, and Jantice did live in a large town far to the south, where winter snows almost never touch the ground."

  "Did live in a town? You don't live there anymore?" Carole said.

  "Enough of non-witch folk fer me." Jantice spoke brusquely. "I be living with Westhillers from here on in. And such be my counsel to Lucreta."

  "They did both ride out the Conundrum years mostly with non-witch types," Lucreta said. "Remember I said most folk turned against us during that time? One town elder saw the dangers of not having a local witch about, and it be she who convinced Jantice to stay and keep the nasty critters away. But the rest of the townsfolk treated her poorly and often sought to blame her fer every little thing that went wrong.

  "You saw how pesky the werewolves be at the northern hall, Carole, well even though Jantice's town had high stone walls all around it, there still be wolves aplenty that she needed to fend off. Sometimes fer nights on end she got less than a wink of sleep."

  "And not a lick o'thanks from them churls neither," Lucreta's cousin said, "except Elder Marion. She be always a welcome friend at my hearth, but none other from that cursed place."

  "Marion be the town elder who convinced Jantice to remain."

  "I did my duty as I said I would," Jantice agreed, "and now I be done with them two-faced dastards. And they not likely to get any Westhillers from this time on, nei
ther. Not by my reckoning at any rate."

  "Are you staying too?" Carole asked Jasmine.

  "I not be certain yet, multitasker. My time not be so bad as Jantice's 'cause the folks at my village did know me well, but I admit it freely that they not be very warm and friendly these past years. That be a bitter brew to swallow, regardless of all else. Were serpents and vampires not such a constant bother, I think they'd have wanted me to skedaddle, too."

  "But wasn't it the Conundrum that made them act that way?"

  "In part," Jasmine said. "But only in that the Conundrum made it easier for them to slide into darkish behaviors. At the end of the day we all must take responsibility fer what we do, eh? Can't rightly blame another witch when ye be the one who casts the spell."

  "Do they realize how they acted, now that it's over?"

  "That be the strange part," Jasmine said. "A few feel right rotten 'bout how they acted and the things they did say--"

  "But most behave as though they didn't do a thing wrong in the whole realm," Jantice added. "If the townsfolk acted sorry fer treating me like worm dung these past years, I suppose I might consider forgiveness and forgetness. But they act as if they made it through those plague years all by themselves. Some don't even believe in the Conundrum, that they jest had a bad critter infestation. The fools!

  "Let them keep their blind and deceiving ways. If they don't want a Westhiller, that be plenty fine by me. Where be that cask of fire brew? I need a swallow." Jantice strode towards the refreshment table with her sister in tow.

  Lucreta smiled apologetically to Carole. "I best see what I can do to simmer her down some. It be bad to hold onto such bitterness, even if there be good cause for it." She hurried after her cousins.

  "Okay ye witches, witchlings and cats," Herling bellowed through the noise, while rapping a bowl against a table. "That be plenty 'nough kerfuffling fer now. Time to get to the business at hand. Ye can party again soon enough. Grab a seat."

  The merriment dimmed a little as witches began to congregate at the tables. Herling motioned for Carole to take one of the two still-empty chairs at the head table.

  She was reluctant to do so until she saw Lucreta moving towards the other chair. "I'm glad you're up here, too," she whispered to Lucreta.

  "Sames be with me," Lucreta said. "I not be used to being where all eyes can stare direct at me."

  Carole suddenly realized. "Does this mean you've graduated?"

  "Might be so." Lucreta grinned shyly.

  Soon all except the new bunch of witchlings were seated.

  Carole pointed to the children. "What are they doing?"

  "Waiting for permission. They have to be accepted into the coven, first. Ye will see."

  "All right!" Herling beckoned to the young witchlings, "Ye new lot, come here and form a line so we can all get a good look at ye."

  The remaining noise died quickly as all attention was focused on the children walking single file towards Herling.

  She cleared her throat. "Right. I be Head Witch Herling and..." she swept her arms to encompass the hall. "we be the Westhill Coven and various friends and such. Ye younguns hope to become part of this coven to learn the ways of Westhillers?"

  There was quiet murmuring and head bobbing from the little girls.

  Herling's nod showed her pride. "Most witches want to be part of our coven, but most not get to be. Westhill only accepts the best.

  "Ye be the first group to try since the time of the Great Conundrum." Herling pointed a finger at Carole. "The Conundrum that young Sylphwood here did finally put an end to."

  The little girls looked as one to Carole. Their eyes grew wider, as the hall erupted with the sound of applause.

  Carole's cheeks burned.

  "She and Philamount be Hub witches, multitaskers, and they be good friends with we Westhillers and be most welcome to all of our gatherings. So ye be sure to treat 'em the same as ye treat me. So now, on to the testing of yer mettle."

  The youngsters shuffled uneasily.

  "Well ye might be scairt. Ye not be told 'bout this testing part, cause ye can't study fer it. No need to get ye all worked up and worried 'til the time be at hand. Brutus, bring up those whelps that ye bin lying to."

  Brutus sauntered out from beneath the table and cross the floor like he had all the time in the world. Behind him, following nose-to-tail, were the kittens Carole had seen earlier. Brutus leapt onto the head table and sat down, facing the witchlings, who all backed away uncertainly. The kittens followed Brutus' lead, sitting in line at the table's edge.

  "Now, there be a story we Westhillers tell, 'bout long ago times and the White Witch. Perhaps ye younguns heard tell of such."

  Several of the hopeful witchlings nodded.

  "The story goes this way. There be a time back in the history of this Nightshade and Ghostly Spirit Realm when there be no such thing as the Westhill Coven. Back then witches wore colorful clothing, too.

  "In those past times the color that a witch wore be akin to her ability, and hence her place in witch society. Colors like red were being lowly, and colors like blue were being highly. So one could always tell how powerful a witch be, by the color of her garb.

  "Then along comes the White Witch. She be an extremely powerful witch and she took on the color white, that none before had the guts to wear. She be very pleasing to the eyes and ears too, this White Witch. But in time it became obvious that she be a mean spirited sort, who used her powers to get what she wanted through deception and force.

  "Eventually the other witches figured her out to be a nasty sort, but by that time none be able to stand up to her churlish magic. And it didn't go well fer any that tried to defeat the White Witch neither, nor for any who lived in her shadow.

  "Then one day there comes a witchling from a wild, rough and tumble region where no one be known to live except werewolves, vampires and the such. Nobody knew her name nor her family, but this witchling be dressed in rags of black. At that time black be the color for witches with little or no magic. Black be considered much worse even than red, though still a little better than non-magic folk.

  "Now this youngun went up to the White Witch and brazenly asks to be her handmaid. The White Witch be a suspicious type but she also knows there be nothing to fear from such a weak whelp of a black witchling. But what the White Witch didn't realize, be that the witchling not be weak at all.

  "That witchling actually had very powerful magic ability deep within her, she jest have no training to speak of.

  "The White Witch took no chances, regardless. She kept all her spells and such in a great stone tower, sealed with spells so thick that the youngun never be able to traipse anywhere near 'em. Only the White Witch and her witch cat be able to get into that tower.

  "Then one day, after the witchling had grown up, she challenged the White Witch. And so began a duel unlike any seen afore or since on this here realm. They say the skies went dark and rolled with thunderish spells for days on end, such be the power of their battle. Eventually the youngun destroyed the White Witch and her tower with all her evil magic lore.

  "That young witch be known ever after as Lunyae, 'cause she threw down the White Witch under the light of the healing moon." Herling pointed to a portrait hanging over the doorway, one Carole hadn't noticed before. The faded image showed a young woman with wild flying hair and dark penetrating eyes, illuminated by the light of a full moon. "Lunyae be the founder of this Westhill Coven.

  "Now maybe ye wonders how be it that Lunyae could defeat the great White Witch without any training? And I tell ye that, now. She did it three ways: Firstly, she be wearing black so as to remain humble-like and not appear a threat despite the powerful magic that she held within. Secondly, she studied secretly, long and hard, learning magic lore and especially learning ways to defeat the White Witch. And thirdly, she be taught by Feisty, the White Witch's cat."

  Herling again pointed to the portrait, and this time Carole noticed that Lunyae had a scruffy looking cat
sitting on her lap.

  "Feisty be an old cantankerous creature and a good match in temperament to the White Witch, but first and foremost he still be a cat. This be a thing that the White Witch in all her power and vanity forgot. Not all cats be pleasant creatures, but miserable or not, cats be creatures that detest evil.

  "When Feisty saw that the White Witch's heart be totally given over to evil, he took it onto himself to train Lunyae. It be Feisty who revealed to Lunyae all that be hidden in the White Witch's tower, and it be Feisty who revealed to Lunyae the White Witch's weaknesses.

  "So that be why witches wear black, today. Black be the true color of wisdom. Black be the color ye get when ye add all the other colors together. Black reminds us of the deep wisdom of Lunyae, who through her humble ways saved our realm from the grips of evil.

  "And that be why we keep companion cats, as friends but also as guides to warn us should we stray too far along evilish ways.

  "Look now ye younguns." Herling pointed to the kittens. "These here cat whelps have vowed to be true to the ways of Feisty cat. And since I began telling this story, they bin studying ye. Tis they that be yer test. If no cat comes to yer side, it be because they see true evil within ye. If that be the case, ye will leave our coven this very eve and never return."

  Herling gave no time for her words to sink in. She beckoned to the first child at the left end of the line. "Ye, there. Step forward and lets the cats take a final look."

  The girl nearly jumped out of her skin, but before she could take two steps, a pretty gray tabby mewed sweetly and leapt into her arms. Grinning from ear-to-ear, the witchling returned to the line, accompanied by hearty applause and table thumping from around the hall. The second girl steeled herself and stepped forward. A jet-black kitten slipped to the ground and wound itself around her ankles.

  Each of the witchlings were accepted in turn, until there was only one girl left. This witchling stood nervously watching and waiting. The kitten, a miniature version of Brutus, sat licking itself, neither accepting nor dismissing the girl. Time ticked on and Carole could see tears in the girl's eyes.