“I think the boy very well could save her by himself.”
Meredith looked at Hectain and back at the wound. “You may be right sister, but I’m afraid the boy doesn’t know how to stop the magic from draining him to do it, and what’s worse I’m sure he would willingly give up his life to save the girl. We must not let that happen. Let’s begin.”
The three sisters took positions around the bed and clasped hands tied their energy to one another’s in the process. Meredith nodded to Reval and Reval began to raise their energy, guiding it to blend in with the boy’s so as to be able to direct it better. The sisters began to hum the tune behind the song the boy was singing out. They continued this as they built up their energy, letting it rise up higher and higher, and as they did they began to understand the words the boy sung. One by one they joined their voices to his. Though only the one candle was standing lit on the bedside table, the room began to brighten. The women could feel the song’s magic as it settled deep within each of them. Time passed, and Meredith looked up, she realized then they had all slipped back into their crow forms, and yet they sung out in the old language of Fey with their very human voices.
Hectain from where she stood could see the torn skin coming closer and closer together. She could feel the magic penetrating her own body and mind, and she could see she was willingly giving over some measure of herself to the magic as well. She watched as an energetic bit of herself melded with the old magic and became one with it. Though she knew that part would never again be hers, she felt it was right to give it. Looking deeply into the magic she saw that it was in fact a speck of love from her heart.
Across the bed Reval also saw Hectain’s heart open and spin off a piece. Reval watched as the piece of love joined to the old magic. She sighed, even as she sung on, she understood then that the old magic worked because of love. She wondered if her sisters knew. She looked from sister to sister’s face and saw that they both had given love away to this old form of magic, they were blending deeply with it and while something about that worried her, she would not be left behind again, so she too tore away a small piece of her heart and sent it freely to the old magic. As her magic joined with the others, the room exploded in light and suddenly the sisters all saw the rift in time, like a ragged tear through space. Their energy swirled around the torn edges of Gwenth’s wound, while simultaneously they watched the world the boy came from spinning out of control, caught as it were in the rift.
On and on through the dark night they sung, the strength of the magic was so great, she was sure that she had seen the Fey world vibrating, spinning to the old song. She noticed the girl’s chest rising and falling and knew on some level the real danger was over. Suddenly Meredith felt tired and then her voice faltered, and she missed the next word. The magic was slacking off, dissipating and with it their strength was failing.
As the last drop of old magic fled the room, the sisters one by one slid down to the floor. They lay like great dark heaps of feathers upon the floor boards, held in place only by their exhaustion. The candle had long since burned out and the room lay in total darkness.
It dawned on Meredith the boy’s voice had grown quiet also. She hoped he was alright. She tried to rise. She needed to check on the baby, but as quickly as the thought came, her chin fell to rest against her chest and her breath rose up, becoming a snore.
Trouble Maker
“I tell you I saw that young boy flying.”
“Now ma, you know I think you’ve been hitting the cider again. I’m not going to let you go and bring up no charge of witch craft against James’ family. That man has had enough trouble,” Aidan MacDermot said.
“What are you saying Aidan? Are you calling me a liar?”
Aidan sat by the fire watching his wife as she crimped a crust on a Shepard pie. He knew his wife was pure meanness through and through, and while he liked to forget that most days, so as to make his life a bit easier, he could see that she had set her cap on getting involved with the witch trials, and he feared for his good neighbors.
Reaching up he took a braided hank of grass from the mantel and stuck it unceremoniously into the flame. He sucked at his pipe pulling the flame gently into the bowl packed tight with his smoking mixture. Sighing loudly, he threw the burning grass into the flame. “Wife I won’t have you making up stories to suit your fancy. Such a tale these days can get a man and his family hung.”
Coira looked up from her pie and caught Aidan’s eye across the room. “I will have you know I’m not making up any story. I saw that boy flying, he had wings, and that new woman opened the cottage door and he flew right in easy as you please.”
Aidan sighed as he watched his wife’s hands steadily working the top crust into place. He wished, not for the first time, that she had died in childbirth, and that the baby had been saved instead. His neighbor had raised a lovely daughter single handed, till he had finally remarried last year. Aidan ran his finger through his rough red locks, if his wife didn’t shut her gob he knew trouble would come. He felt his gorge rising up in his throat. Coira pushed him too hard at times. “I think you better shut up Coira if you know what’s good for ya.” He slammed his clay cup down upon the side table.
Coira who was so use to Aidan’s gentle ways nearly knocked the pie from the table at the loud noise. Reaching out she caught the pie tin with her claw like fingers, saving it in the nick of time, from sliding off onto the floor. “I don’t know what’s come over you old man, but I won’t have you trying to scare me so,” she yelled, as she brusquely carried the pie to the oven. Where it would cook slowly over the tamped down coals, and be ready for tomorrow’s meal. “The way you’re behaving, ain’t natural. You’d think you were possessed by them witches!”
Aidan stood in a rush of anger and stomped to the door, taking his coat and cap from the hook he opened the door swiftly and turning back he gave Coira a warning look before he slammed out into the yard.
Coira sniffed the air as if whatever was rotten had finally cleared out. She had never minded what Aidan had said in the past, and surely he knew she would continue to do as she saw fit now as well. Someone had to tell the authorities about what she had seen. The judges would be arriving soon to hear the evidence against any who were charged with witch craft. She didn’t want to miss out on being part of that.
Dampening down the fire for the night, Coira took the heated stone from where it sat in the hearth and went into their sleeping room and changed into her gown and cap. She lay down on the pallet; the stone already buried deep under the covers and laid her head down upon her arm, ready to rest. She knew from experience Aidan would eventually return. Right then she made up her mind, to not let his anger be of any bother to her. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Outside the storm had abated and though the night was cold she knew in her bones, it would be a fair day tomorrow. She would walk up to the neighbors and snoop around a bit, if there was even one thing out of place she would take herself straight off to the magistrate.
Coira blew out the candle. The old man wouldn’t need it. He had night vision like a cat. She burrowed down into the blankets and lay listening to the wind blowing over the heather, till sleep finally took her. She found herself dreaming of flying boys, and of a world where singing could heal illness.
Sometime during the wee hours of morning, she felt Aidan climb heavily onto their shared pallet, and lay down beside her. Forcing herself to breath evenly, she pretended to sleep. Ever since their only child had died within her, she had refused Aidan’s attentions. She didn’t deny him out of hatred, but from fear of bringing about her own death, fear that the deal she had willingly offered the devil when her child lay heavy already dead within her womb, would finally catch up to her, and she would have to pay the price. So she feigned sleep, keeping instead vigil with her fears.
Aidan’s heart was heavy, as he lay still, so as not to waken Coira. He knew that if things went badly tomorrow, Coira would walk proudly to the magistr
ate and do what she happily saw as her duty. Fear lay heavy on his mind, for he realized that even the small quarrel with her this evening, might be enough in her twisted mind to turn James’ family in for witchcraft. Aidan lay staring at the ceiling, letting his mind wonder over the bitter years. His love had been so good and strong, but after the baby died, Coira seemed to close up and turn away. He had understood of course, and hadn’t pushed her as some men would have, but then he was a different sort of man. He knew what real love felt like, and he had always let his heart lead in matters of love. That trait had been what originally attracted Coira to him, back in their youth.
He could not let her force her way this time. He could not allow her to lash out with her hatred, and hurt a good family, but he couldn’t bring himself to hurt her either. It had always been his fault the child had died there was no doubt in his mind about that. He remembered that terrible night long ago, as he watched the first rays of dawn rising in the east. Aidan still awake heard the first birds begin their morning songs, and then his exhaustion overtook him and he fell into an uneasy slumber.
Coira rose when the sun’s rays made their way into their sleeping room. She dressed quietly, and pulled the door shut behind her, as she stepped out of the sleeping room. Coira’s practiced hands quietly built up the fire and removed the warm pie from the hearth where it had baked slowly throughout the night hours. Cutting two pieces out for Aidan, she set them aside, and then she wrapped the rest of the pie in a clean towel and hurried with her bundle out the door. A still warm pie would be excuse enough to be welcomed into the neighbor’s house. Off she headed over the hill toward the neighbor’s cottage. The valley that lay between them had always been shared by both families, each bringing their herd to feed on the rich valley grasses during the wet winter. Coira marched along the sheep path. She took note of the damages last night’s storm had wrought, and considered it proof enough, from what she could see, that those folks were witches. Coira paid no attention to the birds’ bright singing or the small wild life that made the highlands their home. Her mind stayed fixed upon the task at hand, she wanted proof that the neighbors were witches, some bit of knowledge that Aidan couldn’t dispute. She climbed through the dew covered grasses, wetting her skirt as she went up the long track to the neighbor’s cottage.
Coira almost slithered the last 100 feet to the door. All seemed quiet, too quiet. Most sheep herding families would be up and hard at work at this time of the morning, but not a sound came from inside the cottage. Coira decided it was good idea to sneak around to the side window and peek inside. If they were witches no one would blame her, and if they were not witches no one would ever know. Stealthily, she walked through the high grass to the far end of the cottage, and setting the pie pan down on a log; she slipped quietly up to the shuttered window. Putting her eye against the shutter, Coira looked into the darkened room. She pressed her eye a little closer to the shutter; she was finding it difficult to peer through such a small crack. Oh why did they have to be so fastidious and build their shutters so tight? Suddenly Coira slipped in the wet grass and fell heavily against the shutter banging the wood against the window casing. She froze for an instant and then turning, she fled, making a left at the cottage entrance, taking the road toward town.
Heading Home
At dawn James took to the road. He wanted to be home before the noon meal. He never liked being away from his own croft overnight. Yesterday’s storm had blown up suddenly, coming out of nowhere and so he’d been forced to stay as guest at the Tilcroft manor. True the extra time had cemented a new friendship with the master of the manor, a relationship that not only brought with it the opportunity of profit, but also a surprising friendship. Even so James felt a strong pull to hurry along the road toward home. It was true Meredith’s very capable sisters were still attending her at the croft, and they had brought a young boy along to help out as well. Though he couldn’t put his finger on the reason, he’d awoken with some anxiety about his family. It would take three more hours of walking but then he would be home and could rest a while, if the storm hadn’t done too much damage.
The morning air was fresh and he passed the time watching the wild animals that made their homes in the hedgerow. They scurried intently about, repairing their nests or gathering in food. James smiled, for he had always been amazed how beautiful this world was. It was one of his favorite places. He caught himself and laughed out loud. What a strange thought, wasn’t it his only place, the world he lived in? His smile quickly faded, replaced instead with an overwhelming sense of having forgotten something important. His mind tried to recall the lost information, but as it was only a fleeting thought, it continued to elude him. He wondered, was it about his land or perhaps the sheep? Maybe it was something about his wife or child? He felt his frustration growing, clearly there was something he was forgetting, and it left him with a very real sense of foreboding. The feeling of unease continued to grow; until he desperately wished he was home. He wished he could fly, or even had a horse to ride. Since he had neither he decided he would run a little ways. The high side of the trail was drying up a bit and if he hurried he could be in the village before the hour was out and then it was only six more miles to home. Shouldering his jacket, he began to trot at a fair clip toward the village.
The village of Aird seemed unusually quiet. James walked toward the center of town the passing the market stalls as he went. The cobbled together stands stood empty and lifeless. The drainage ditch and an occasional rat seemed to be the only things moving. James felt a growing sense of unease. It wasn’t normal for the village to be so still. Usually tradesmen and farmers were milling about, trying to sell their wares or services. Women were always hurrying through the streets, making their way from one task to another and dogs and children filled the streets, hoping as they always were to get into a bit of mischief. James crossed the lane and walked up the steep street, toward the council house. Quietly, he slipped along the tavern’s stone wall. At the corner he stopped and listened, he could just make out the sound of voices as they carried on the wind. He eased his head around the corner of the stone building. At the far end of the street a crowd stood gathered around the entrance to the council house. He stepped easily into the street and walked quickly towards the people. The hair on his neck stood up, James slowed his pace a bit and began to look around, from left to right. Something felt wrong, but he couldn’t say what it was. Nothing about the buildings looked out of place, and yet he was sure something was wrong.
James walked over to the Miller, who stood at the back of the crowd. “Aye Mike, what’s going on here?”
Mike turned towards James, his eyes went wide, and he leaned in close to James and whispered. “Good God man, get out of here.” The miller turned swiftly away from the crowd and tried pulling James along with him. “Your neighbor is in there swearing your family is a pack of heathen witches.”
“What?”
“Shhhs, now come away with me lad,” Mike said. His grip was tight on James’ arm, as he tried again to hurry James away from the council house.
James shook his arm, trying to free himself of the Miller’s strong grip, “Let me go man, I won’t run from that lying woman.”
“Listen lad, it’ll do you no good,” he hissed. “People are afraid right now. Get away I tell ya, and take your family up to your shieling, in the hills. Stay out of sight for a while till they settle down.”
James pulled free, but the commotion hadn’t gone unnoticed.
“He’s here, the witch is here,” an old woman yelled.
The people in front of the council house turned to see what the crone was saying and caught sight of James standing in the lane arguing with the Miller. Looking more like a pack of wild animals then town folk, they turned as one and ran towards James, who did not run away.
Several of the men surrounded James and the Miller effectively blocking any escape they might have tried to make.
The magistrate came out of the council house,
and seeing that James MacAfee was surrounded by the town folk, he made his way down the steps and through the unruly crowd.
Coira MacDermot, scurried along behind, as she tried to keep up with the magistrate’s long stride.
“Well MacAfee, your neighbor here has been telling me of some very odd goings on at your croft? What do you have to say for yourself?”
James looked Mrs. MacDermot in the eye and proceeded to spit right at her.
Coira seeing her chance, pretended to faint, let herself slide down to the ground where she lay amongst the legs of the citizenry in the dirt.
The group pressed themselves back away from James and Mrs. MacDermot. Only the magistrate held his ground. Stepping over to the woman he knelt down and felt her neck. He opened each eye and noticing the spittle at the corner of her mouth he rose up. “Take him,” he said, to the group of men. “I believe he may have put a spell on the old woman.”
The men of the village looked from one to the other as they tried to steel their courage, just in case it was true, and they too were brought low by the warlock.
The magistrate’s voice rose, “What are you waiting for, take him to the cell I tell you,” the magistrate hollered at the frightened men.
The men moved quickly, using whatever tools they had at hand to try and force James into the council building.
The magistrate watched as the miller slipped quietly away from the crowd. It wouldn’t do to hang the miller. There would be no one to grind the barley and oats, if there was any grain this year worth milling.
REALM'S END (BOOK OF FEY 1) Page 20
