by Rebecca Brae
That brings up another issue. If this magick funk goes on much longer, I’ll have to pay someone to charge my ball. How embarrassing. And if I can’t find a job, I won’t even be able to afford a recharge. Great Galloping God of Thunder, what if my scry mirror goes dead? I’ll have to rely on carrier pixies or air elementals to deliver messages.
Even if pixies manage to deliver a message, you can never be sure who received it or when. I bet the little buggers have notes stuffed in tree crevices all over the countryside. And air elementals—don’t get me started on them. I heard about a witch who used one to tell her Outerplane cousin she was coming for a visit. It sucked up some kid and her dog and then dropped a house on the poor witch. Now that is a bad sun. I suppose I should be thankful that I’m stuck in my hut and not under it.
There was one faint ray of hope this sun: my familiar should arrive soon. I wonder what creature I’ll get? Magda received hers last moon. An asp isn’t terrible, unless you’re like her and are afraid of snakes. Funny how that worked out.
I’d love something traditional like a raven with one eye or an extra-large rat. They have the whole harbinger of death thing going on which totally fits my current mood.
Here’s hoping next sun’s forecast is fairer.
Wendias, Wolf Moon 17, 209
I’M FEELING BETTER. I relaxed last night, had a nice long sleep, and woke up with a refreshed attitude and a wicked idea.
REGARDING THE ATTITUDE:
If this village is fickle enough to terminate me after one accident (okay, so it was numerous accidents, but they all happened at once so I’m counting it as one), then it isn’t somewhere I want to work.
Accidents happen. It’s kinda their deal. Everything is rolling along fine and then, wham, you’re suddenly having one.
Actually, I’m thankful I found out how intolerant this village is before something really bad happened. This kind of environment breeds angry mobs and everyone knows what happens next: the witch is always the scapegoat.
REGARDING THE IDEA:
It came to me while I was sleeping, as all inspired thoughts do, and will be my fond farewell to the villagers. My last act as their hag. Let it be known that Hester Digitalis Wishbone held up her duties as village hag to the bitter end.
Besides, who knows when another witch will be dispatched. Best to channel any loose misfortune to my own ends before it grows strong enough to blaze its own indiscriminate path through the villagers’ lives, like a lightning bolt of misery.
People are starting to forget what happens when there isn’t a hag around to balance out all the healing and abundance spells. The giant sucking pit that used to be the village of Ghee’im’Oro should be a required field trip for all grade school students. Maybe then, hags would be treated with the respect we’re due.
Before first light this morn, I brewed a special concoction and dropped it into the village well. No magick required, just straight-up hedge-witchery, baby! And it worked like a charm . . . well, almost.
It was probably the trampled dragon entrails that complicated matters. I had to guess the quantity because there was something spilled on that section of my potions tome. The tincture was supposed to turn the well water blood-red, but nothing happened. I gave it up as a lost cause until I saw a field worker run by sporting bright scarlet skin.
Instead of turning the water red, it seems my potion turned whatever drank the water red. I say “whatever” because as I was flying around, I saw a rather handsome cherry-red cow with a milkmaid lying under it in a spilled bucket of pink milk. She must have fainted. They’re usually hardier than that. I’m sure she’ll be fine.
Ah, nostalgia. It hit me then that this was my last panic-inducing act of chaos in the village. I admit, my eyes were misty. I stuck around long enough to soak up the bedlam and then headed to Aestradorra for my appointment.
There was an extra zip in my broom and twinkle in my eye as I flew. The trees, fields, and lakes softened into a patchwork of colours far below, and I suddenly realized how fortunate I was to have invested in a palandar-wood broom after graduation.
My parents scoffed at the expense, saying the higher magick retention was an unnecessary extravagance. My father tried to argue it wasn’t safe because he felt the wood hadn’t been thoroughly tested. Sometimes he’s too traditional for his own good. I’m glad I didn’t listen. At least it’ll be a while before I have to worry about recharging it.
Surprisingly, the meeting with my union employment counsellor went well. She’s an interesting sort—a sentient octopus named Ouleah who sits in a small pool of water behind a desk made of living coral. She’s pleasant, thorough, and seems quite efficient, except for the falling asleep part. Our meeting took forever. She nodded off in the middle of handing me a form to fill out (a decidedly damp parchment which I hung on the back of my chair to dry), asking me what I considered my strongest asset to be, stamping three parchments of some description for my file, and offering me a steaming cup of tea (which thankfully ended up on the floor, not on my lap).
She also gestures excessively while talking. Carrying on a conversation with someone who’s overly gesture-y with two hands can be daunting, trying to keep track of eight flailing tentacles is downright overwhelming . . . and messy. I left sopping wet. When I eventually left, that is.
Ouleah was sympathetic about my magick burnout. She said I wasn’t the first witch this had happened to and recommended I contact a support group if the drought continued much longer.
There is one major (as in major-major) issue she brought to my attention: my Adept ceremony is in a little over one season cycle! I had no idea almost nine moons had passed since I graduated and went to work in the village. How time flies when you are busy hexing. And now, by Kyamites’ crippling flatulence, I am in trouble!
To become a full union member and work as a professional witch, I need to have both an employer and mentor swear an oath that my craft practice is in good standing. The union requirements state that, “A witch must work for an employer over one complete season cycle.” There is no wiggle room. The time can’t be split between different employers. And there certainly can’t be any breaks.
If I don’t find steady employment within the next three moons, I won’t be eligible to attend my Adept ceremony and I can kiss my career goodbye. No one respects, let alone hires, a witch who fails their Adept rites. I’ll be the laughingstock of my graduating class, the loser of my family, and I’ll have to pay to retake my last two semesters of college. The pain doesn’t end there either. I’ll also have to wait another two season cycles before I’m eligible for the next Adept ceremony.
I can’t even begin to imagine the horror of explaining all this to my parents. My parents, who graduated top of their classes and passed every rite as easily as thread gathers on the Fates’ spindle.
To make matters worse, now I need to find a position for a witch with no magick. Despite the absurdity of that notion, Ouleah thought it was possible. I hope she wasn’t pretending to be optimistic. She did warn me that such placements were geared toward junior-level Apprentices—meaning they won’t pay well—but that is the least of my worries right now.
I told her I’d take anything, which seemed to cheer her up. It did the opposite for me. The desperation of my situation hadn’t truly sunk in until I heard those words come from my mouth. I can’t go home to my parents like this. I’d have to explain what I did at the pub and what it might cost me. The thought is like a red-hot blacksmith’s vise clamped around my innards.
All I ever wanted to be was a village hag. As a child, I would follow ours around in awe. But, in the joy of my triumph and cursed youthful ignorance, it never occurred that I could lose the ability to weave hag illusions around my thrice-blasted unsuitable form.
As angry as I am, I can’t fault the villagers for firing me. They were right. Without a sure way to hide my curvy, bright-skinned youth, even I have to admit I’m not suitable. A hag’s appearance is too vital a part of the role.
If only I was naturally boney and pale! It would be so much easier to don the guise of a hag with some prosthetics, carefully applied makeup, and artful acting.
No. My anger now rests with myself, where it belongs. I spent six season cycles immersed in intense training to become a professional witch, landed my dream job right out of college, spent seven glorious moons as a hag, and then botched everything in the time it takes a handful of sand to fall through my fingers. Hester, you are a bloody fool.
Where do I go from here?
Soldias, Wolf Moon 21, 209
IT HAS BEEN a few suns since I last wrote because a lot has happened.
I bunked in Aestradorra at an inexpensive but respectable inn called The Hunter’s Hofas. I spent most of my free time trying to distract myself from depression by wandering the twisting lanes of the metropolis. Returning to my college town churned up an odd mix of feelings. The landmarks, the crowds, and the atmosphere of the place brought back many memories—some good, some not so good.
I spent an eventide with Magda, not demolishing a tavern for once. It was lovely to see her again, though I wished it were under better circumstances. I felt like such a dunce telling her what happened in the village and my subsequent predicament with our Adept rites. Her life is so together and drama free.
Thankfully, I didn’t have much downtime to fill. Ouleah scryed me about a new opportunity that opened up in a midland forest. I don’t care how soaked I was after our meeting or how many times she fell asleep on me, that beautiful tentacled soul is a lifesaver!
I am now the Assistant Witch at a Gingerbread Hut. There’s only four such huts for unwanted or lost children. I’ve never heard of positions in any of them becoming available before. My luck has finally turned.
As suspected, the pay is abysmal, but I’m not complaining. It’s a job! My worries about only having three moons to find employment were all for naught. Go figure. Now, I just have to stay here for one season cycle and I’ll be set for the Adept rites. It seems like a long time, but I spent almost that long in the village and the suns just flew by. After that, hopefully my magick will have returned and I can look for better-paying employment.
Room and board is included, such as it is, which is good because my savings are meagre and I’m sure I couldn’t afford three meals a sun on this wage, even if I went back to eating as badly as I did in college. The food is hearty, but a bit too rustic for me. There are only so many suns in a row I can stomach boiled bratwurst and gingerbread.
I’m also not used to having a roommate, let alone one who snores like an apple-drunk bull moose in mating season. It’s no wonder pieces of the hut collapse “for no apparent reason” (her words). The maintenance on this place is daunting. I can see why she needs an assistant.
Mostly what I’m expected to do is bake, so at least I’m safe on the no-magick front. The old witch, Althea, won’t even let me feed the kids—like it takes some kind of special skill to toss gingerbread cut offs and sweets into their rooms. Sheesh.
Althea’s pretty cool otherwise. She’s a true, old-school, shrivelled-up, crabby crone, full of wicked cackles and sinister schemes. She terrifies the kids who sneak illicit nibbles off her hut. Of the many effective hexes and threats I’ve heard so far, my favourite was when she promised to bake this one kid into the walls if she caught him at it again. Poetry in motion. She’s been at this job for a hundred and forty season cycles, so I should be able to learn a lot from her.
I’ve already discovered that I need to be careful around the ovens. Apparently, the last assistant accidently fell into one and it didn’t end well for him. I also found out, the hard way, that wearing robes with droopy sleeves is a bad idea. Althea cooks naked. Says it cuts the cleanup time in half. I think I’ll keep my robes on (minus the dramatic sleeves). I’d rather have a burnt bodice than a singed nipple.
The baking is more challenging than I anticipated. Keeping the huge wood-burning ovens heated evenly is next to impossible. So far, I’ve either burnt or undercooked everything. And there are endless shapes and toppings and presses and ingredients for the hut pieces. It’s hard to keep them all straight, especially when the sole hint as to what piece is needed is a half-eaten hunk of soggy gingerbread or a random hole in the wall.
Althea saw how lost I was and brought out a massive leather-bound tome (volume One of Seven). It must have been at least five inches thick. Turns out, the hut has a blueprint. A dense, confusing, multi-volume blueprint. It breaks the structure down into oven-sized pieces with maps, diagrams, dimensions, recommended ingredients, approved substitutions, baking times . . . I’d go on, but after a while of staring at the thing, my eyes gave out. I’m not even sure I understand how the indexing system works. How am I supposed to bake a particular piece if I can’t even figure out how to look it up?
And there’s no way I can guesstimate anything. The recipes change based on whether the piece is external or internal, whether it’s supportive or decorative, whether it’s laid vertically or horizontally. And don’t get me started on how to colour match decorative details.
Althea doesn’t understand my confusion because she’s done the baking for so long. She thinks I’m a complete idiot.
Apart from zapping ready-made meals and char-boiling the occasional stew in my cauldron, I don’t cook much. Like most modern witches, if I want a decent meal, I go out. I didn’t exactly tell my new boss that. I glossed over my cooking skills in the interview. Actually, I just replaced it with my potion brewing experience, which I figured was essentially the same—transferable skill sets and all. Turns out, not so much.
For now, I’m job shadowing as Althea fixes the hut, but I can tell she’s eager to get back to dealing with the kids. They do seem to be piling up. She considers keeping them in line and finding them permanent homes advanced tasks, so it’ll be a while before she trains me to handle that.
After my last few suns, I could be discouraged, but I’m going to view this as an opportunity to tap into expertise that has thus far remained hidden. Who knows? Maybe there’s a gourmet chef trapped inside me.
I’m going to start by studying the blueprints. Maybe they’ll make sense if I stare at them long enough.
Moondias, Wolf Moon 22, 209
MY FAMILIAR ARRIVED this morn and I’m still bristling. So is he, though I’m not sure cockroaches can bristle.
Before I had a chance to introduce Herman, the old witch mistook him for common vermin (a reasonable mistake) and tried to drop a pan on him. When I explained who he was, she apologized for the misunderstanding . . . once she stopped laughing.
Herman was not amused and has taken to hissing whenever he sees Althea. I doubt he will ever forgive the affront to his dignity.
So far, all he’s done is eat everything in sight and poo all over my stuff. I had to bake the same piece three times because the little jerk decided to express his displeasure all over it . . . repeatedly. And this eventide I found that he had expressed himself all over my pillow.
I don’t understand how I ended up with a cockroach. The union gave us a list of approved familiars with their accreditation package before we graduated, but I don’t remember “cockroach” being an option. I’ll have to find the handout and double check. I’m doubly suspicious because he’s not even a remotely witchy creepy-crawly (there are many decent ones like tarantulas and scorpions on the list).
There’s been rumblings in our community since I was a young witchling about how the familiar assignment process has become corrupted. The union tries to hide the fact that they use them as a hierarchical totem of merit, but most of us know better. Piss off the wrong person, and you’re screwed. I wonder who has it out for me?
Herman is clearly meant as an insult. A very public one. “Look at that witch. She must really suck. Her familiar isn’t even ranked.”
From the way Herman acts, you’d think the assignment was an insult to him. I suppose it could be worse. I could have ended up with a dung beetle.
Herman hasn’t said
one nice thing since he came. He won’t stop complaining about where we live. I guess he’s more used to a metropolis. The “ass-end of nowhere” (as he refers to this forest) doesn’t appeal.
You’d think the countryside would offer endless opportunities for a cockroach. There’s ample rotting vegetation to wallow in and lots of nooks and crannies to explore. And yet, he refuses to go outside. Says too many dangerous creatures are lurking.
If you ask me, the average metropolis would be worse. Thousands of grumpy people trying to coexist in a warren of closely-packed passages and residences, most of whom would react the same if a roach crossed their path. Smack. Splat.
Unfortunately, my housebound familiar is also easily bored. I caught him eating the kitchen table. Actually, I didn’t so much catch him as put a book on the table and witness its collapse. I deduced the rest from the neat cockroach sized holes in the gingerbread legs—just enough to compromise the structure, but not so many that you’d notice them on a cursory glance.
He’s going to get me fired if he keeps this up and I cannot let that happen! I promised Althea that I would replace the table, and she whipped out another set of tomes (volumes One through Four) describing how to construct gingerbread furnishings. How many books can there be about gingerbread? I mean, come on!
It took me most of this sun to bake it. I followed the recipe and instructions as best I could, but Herman kept distracting me with unsolicited advice. He claims to know about cooking from his stint as a chef’s assistant—said nothing left the kitchen if he hadn’t first tasted and approved it.
