The Witch's Diary

by Rebecca Brae

  It’s strange. I’ve become so used to struggling to gather power and elementals, that it’s a shock each time they heed my call. I’m still not back to normal, but some well-used Novice castings are becoming second nature again. I’ll have to govern myself more closely. I don’t want any more magickal accidents.

  Magda’s family was unharmed, if slightly dishevelled and shocked. Luckily, they didn’t try to return or Missera, Herman, and I would have taken more serious measures.

  Magda was a wreck. I bundled her up in a thick blanket on the couch and brewed a soup my father always makes when I’m not feeling well, along with some strong, milky tea.

  It took a while before she was ready to talk, but I’m so glad she did. Sometimes venting your feelings relieves the pressure enough to make facing a new sun bearable.

  Apparently, she’s been under tremendous pressure for the last two moons to land a promotion that’s coming up in her department. She made a minor mistake this morn that her jealous co-workers blew way out of proportion. And then her oh-so-not-helpful family showed up. She was so disheartened that she didn’t see the point in going to work next sun, or ever.

  We had a good cry together while the soup boiled. I am disappointed in myself. I allowed my professional woes to eclipse everyone else’s struggles. I never meant to add to Magda’s stress but I’m afraid that’s exactly what I’ve done, and I’m a crappy friend for not noticing she was struggling sooner.

  My world hit rock bottom when I lost my magicks and the village hag job. Some suns, it was hard to convince myself that I wasn’t completely worthless. It’s occasionally still a battle. That Magda would ever feel the same never occurred to me because she is so clearly amazing. She must have learnt early on how to hide her fears and doubts to protect herself from her family. She’s very good at it and that’s sad on so many levels.

  We stayed up late, talking about things we’ve never shared with anyone else, or even wanted to admit to ourselves. Somewhere in there, I convinced Magda to eat and lay down in bed. Missera and Herman curled up on one side of her, with me on the other. We didn’t want her to be alone. She’s asleep now, as I write this. Her pillow is still damp from her tears.

  I wish I didn’t have to leave in the morn. I told her I was going to scry the Employment Cabal and get them to postpone my start date for a few suns, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She even confiscated my scry mirror.

  I agreed to go only because she promised to keep working for the next moon and to talk to me before handing in her broom if she still felt the same way after. I will scry her every few suns to check on how she’s doing. I’m sure Missera will take good care of her, but I’m really worried.

  Maybe Magda’s current job isn’t right for her, but I do not believe for an instant that she wasn’t meant to be a witch. That’s her family talking. Curse them for making her question her vocation!

  Wendias, Nettle Moon 3, 209

  TRIPLE GODDESS GIVE me strength! Whenever I think my life is finally getting back on track, the Fates wind up and smack me a good one. I don’t even know where to begin.

  I suppose I’ll start with where I ended up. I’m in the Outerplane! The Outerplane! Gah!

  The plane shift was . . . uncomfortable—imagine being folded in half with your head stuck up the ass-end of a dragon experiencing severe intestinal issues. That’s close. Between the temperature fluctuations, foul smells, and a horrific wailing noise, I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it. I’d say never again, but I’ll have to go through it at least once more if I plan on making it back to my own plane. The indignity!

  Things went downhill from there. I materialized in a room with a bunch of other poor sods, all equally horrified and ill. We were herded into an Interplanar Arrivals Terminal to wait in line for processing by a lone attendant—an angry goat with flappy ears who could only have been slower if she were traveling backward in time.

  Usually ports are busy, but not this one. I guess there isn’t much interest in visiting a level 7 null zone (big surprise), at least not via legal passage. From what I heard of Althea’s trip, there is a booming market for interplanar contraband here.

  When I finally got to the attendant, she asked what I was doing here and how long I was staying. Unfortunately for me, I couldn’t answer either question. That didn’t go over well. Honesty rarely does. She waved over a guard (at least that’s who I figured the gelatinous blob was from the badge it had floating around its innards . . . though, there were a considerable number of other items in there too).

  I explained that my new employers had arranged passage, hence my confusion about the details, and said there must have been a mix-up. There was no way the Outerplane could be my intended destination.

  The attendant checked over my travel parchments. After a long sneer, she informed me that it was the passenger’s responsibility to double-check all documentation and that I was “luckily” at the correct port.

  My heart sank. I looked around with new despair as she ordered me to proceed to the luggage terminal. Beyond the little swinging gate beside her cube was a blank hallway. No signs indicated which way to go. I wandered, lost and more than a little confused, until I stumbled across a warehouse-sized room littered with luggage. Dust and cobwebs coated most of the piles. Locating my sack and broom took a while.

  HERMAN WASN’T WITH my baggage. I wasn’t overly surprised as the port in Aestradorra made me check him into a special terminal for animal companions and familiars. I searched around until I found a small kiosk tucked into a corner with a sign that read: Outsized, Irregular, & Unusual Baggage. I figured that described Herman perfectly.

  A harried-looking ape-like creature covered in bright green feathers flitted back and forth behind the window. Although he was more enthusiastic than the first attendant, I thought he had made a mistake when he wheeled out a huge wooden crate stamped “Live Cargo, Etc.”

  Armadillos are compact—it’s one of my favourite things about Herman’s current form (possibly my only favourite thing). I was about to ask him to double-check my claim tag, when I heard a familiar groan from inside the box. I knocked on the side and was greeted with a string of Herman-esque swears.

  Not sure I really wanted to know the answer, I inquired whether the journey had caused him to swell. My hands and feet had puffed up during the plane shift. Had Herman experienced a similar reaction, only on a body-wide scale, forcing the attendants to move him into a larger container? Based on its size, I was scared to see how much swelling.

  My fears were shortly allayed and then stoked to a whole new level. Herman confirmed that he was mostly his usual size. The exception being a swollen, possibly broken foot as Bob had tipped over during transit. Also, the bunny was freaking out.

  I swore loud enough to garner a worried frown from the attendant. I didn’t care. Being stuck in the Outerplane was more than enough to contend with. Now I had a gargoyle and hyper bunny to manage, on top of Herman.

  I couldn’t fathom how in Hel’s rooted realm they got themselves transported here. To clear Herman, I had to fill out a detailed form claiming him as an anxiety aide (what a laugh) because there was no box to check for “witch familiar.” I would have remembered arranging for the rest of the gang to tag along.

  The attendant’s expression turned suspicious. His feathers rippled from green to yellow as he shoved a new stack of parchments into my arms and pointed to a door on the far wall. When I failed to move, he jammed the cart handle into my hand and gave me a shove. By the time the door closed behind me, his feathers were deep orange.

  There, I found another line. I wheeled the cart to the end and tossed my sack and broom on top of the crate. I was settling in, preparing for a long wait, when the gelatinous fellow from the first line-up weeble-wobbled over and escorted me to a private room. And by escorted, I mean partially absorbed me and my luggage (including the crate, which was quite a feat), then spit us out when we arrived. It was messy.

  A-ha, I thought. There has been a m
ix-up and he’s going to apologize and see me back to my plane posthaste.

  Not so.

  Then began an odd ceremony in which he performed an involved set of gestures with a beeping wand while I repeatedly walked through a large metallic arch. It had the kooky air of wizardry about it. After the first ritual, two other guards joined the gelatinous blob for some synchronized wand waving, this time with a monotone chant thrown in.

  There wasn’t so much as a prickle of magick. Whatever spells they were weaving must not have worked. Probably because they hadn’t bothered to memorize the words (they read the chant off a rumpled parchment). It never pays to hire the untrained when working magicks. At best, it’s ineffective. At worst, it’s cataclysmic.

  They repeated the arch and wand ritual with my baggage. The crate caused quite a disturbance when it fell off the cart, lost its top, and Bob rolled out. His sudden appearance triggered some kind of alarm spell. A bright red lantern flashed on the ceiling and a loud wailing noise blasted from everywhere at once. There must be a banshee on staff. It took the guards a long time to reverse the spell and calm the banshee. Amateurs.

  I answered another round of questions, pertaining to my profession and the disposition of my cargo. They became quite snarky when I said I was a witch. Probably couldn’t fathom what business I had in a level 7 null zone. To be honest, I can’t either. Why would anyone hire a witch to work somewhere they can only access the barest scraps of power (if any)? Given my condition, doing anything magickal here is going to be doubly hard. And I was just starting to shake this damnable magick drought. Curses!

  The guards scrutinized my travel documents, which only worsened their confusion. I glanced at the original import parchments I filled out for Herman. There were several new pages attached detailing the crate contents. The scribe work was neat and precise, much like what I remember on the Notice of Condemnation I received from the building inspectors at the Gingerbread Hut. I will be having a long chat with Bob.

  The new pages appeared to be the most contentious. Bob was recorded as décor. They gave him a thorough exam and grudgingly declared him a legal import. His bunny was categorized as a meat product, which spurred an argument over whether meat could really be meat if it was walking about (or hopping, in this case). Obviously, they have little experience with shambling akarathash. Their society is ranked by how much flesh is exposed, with the ruling class displaying an alarming amount of raw muscle and adipose.

  After all their rituals and readings, the guards still had no idea what to do with us. The blob gave me a pair of glasses for translating Outerplane written languages, a guidebook, and another mountain of parchment to read and sign. Going through it all would have taken forever since they were scribed in infernal-ese (which the glasses predictably did not help with), so I relented and signed everything. At that point, I just wanted out. He let me keep copies after putting them through a strange wizard device that duplicated everything. I’ll read them later, when I’m not so stressed and mind-fogged.

  I convinced the guards to help roll Bob back into the crate. The bunny had taken a liking to the gelatinous fellow, so at least it was easy to catch, or rather extract. Last I saw, it was sitting on Bob’s head, licking itself. Herman refused to go back in with them, so I stuffed him in my sack. The guards didn’t care where I put anything, as long as I was on my way out.

  They escorted us to a set of double doors which opened into an elaborately trapped loo. Normally I would enjoy such shenanigans, but my mental agility wasn’t as keen as it should have been.

  Three large stalls with gleaming porcelain basins full of water clearer than a mountain creek sat against the wall to my left. I initially thought they were for travellers to refresh themselves in but after a closer examination, one of the basins suddenly made a horrific noise and swallowed all the water inside.

  What fiendish mind created such a trap? Or were they simply creatures skilled in mimicry? Imagine some poor fool being sucked into Goddess knows what or where. The Outerplane is a tricky place.

  A row of smaller basins on a counter lined the other side of the room. Their polished spouts magickally produced water at a wave of my hand. A massive, impossibly perfect scry mirror hung on the wall above and a dizzying array of potion bottles crowded the back of the counter. I considered scrying Magda, but I didn’t have the magickal wherewithal and didn’t want to tell her what had happened until I stopped panicking.

  I carried on to the next set of doors. One of two shiny creatures clinging to the wall growled as I passed. Its hot breath wafted over me and I jumped back, watching to see what its mate would do. The enraged one eventually quieted and I gave the other a wide berth.

  An engraved sign hung above the doors at the other end of the room:

  The glyphs made more sense with my new glasses: Interplanar Terminal Exit. Please refer to your Traveller’s Guide for local customs and regulations.

  There had been no time to review the guidebook yet, and my knowledge of the Outerplane was limited so I went with my usual plan of keeping my head down. It works, at least for the short term.

  Another plaque hung outside the doors which read: Executive Employee Bathroom. I barely had time to read it before I was swept away by a stream of rushed and anxious people. And by people, I mean mundane humans . . . as in they were all mundane humans. Every last one of them. Not a tingle of magick anywhere. I’m used to seeing a mix of forms and species and talent. The homogeny was jarring.

  I had no idea where to go or what to do. The building was a never-ending vaulted monstrosity. Thankfully, people stopped crowding me when I proved I was willing to ram them with my cart.

  I wandered aimlessly for a time and started to notice people reacting oddly. Some stared, while others avoided looking at me. A kid tugged on my robes and asked if I had a black cat. Her mother rushed her away after I said no and pulled Herman out of my sack. I don’t know why. It’s not like he was spitting or drooling. He was swearing but non-witches can’t understand familiars.

  A disembodied voice from overhead called my name and instructed me to proceed to Information Desk 5. I broke down and asked a human guard where that was, and she directed me to a brightly coloured desk, two floors down and a twenty-minute walk away. I attempted to ride my broom, but it didn’t work. Not even a little. A non-operational broom is a serious issue. How am I supposed to get around? The guard looked concerned about it too and kindly offered to escort me to the meeting location.

  When I arrived, a tall man stepped forward and asked if I was Hester Wishbone. I was pleasantly surprised to note that he was unique among the boringly uniform tide of humanity. Long, silky black hair covered every part of his body. At least I think it did. He wore trousers and a long sleeve shirt, so I couldn’t tell for sure.

  I nodded and he introduced himself as Sam, my new boss.

  The person behind the desk and the guard exhibited a mix of fear and curiosity mostly directed at Sam. Like they wanted to stare, but at the same time get as far away as possible. Passersby showed the same inclination.

  I smelled my robes to make sure I wasn’t the problem but as far as I could tell, I wasn’t putting off any offensive odours. It’s possible my sniffer wasn’t up to its usual standard. The swirling soup of humanity and strange chemical tang of the building had long since overwhelmed my senses.

  Sam must have noticed everyone’s discomfort because he asked if I was ready to leave. He offered to wheel the cart for me, but I declined. I wanted to remain in control of it to prevent another rolling Bob mishap. Sam held the doors open and we passed into air that smelled marginally better.

  A herd of hard-shelled beasts with blazing eyes roared past us spewing clouds of vapor, and I suddenly knew where the chemical smell originated. Sam didn’t appear alarmed, so I quelled my initial instinct to dive back inside and followed him through row upon row of the sleeping beasts. He stopped beside a huge box-shaped one. Colourful designs of intertwined snakes, divination cards, and a feathered
man and woman flying toward each other patterned its skin. “Karneval Života” was inscribed on its side in fancy lettering.

  He disappeared into the creature’s posterior amidst a cacophony of loud screeching and rattling. I thought he had surely met his end, but he called out from inside, asking me to wheel the cart around. I did so with great trepidation, questioning for the millionth time what I had gotten myself into.

  The beast turned out to be a kind of wizard mechanical construct with an empty compartment at the rear. The noise had been a door in need of grease. A new unease hit as I glanced around the lot and the full enormity of the situation settled in my mind. I was surrounded by more wizard contraptions than I had seen in my entire life. The Outerplane is overrun with them! Magda will never believe this.

  After loading my crate, sack, and broom, Sam showed me to a smaller compartment at the front and belted me into a cushioned seat. Herman elected to stay in my sack. I shortly wished Sam had given me that option.

  I am loathe to describe the abject terror of our journey. All I will say is that my screaming alarmed my new boss, who had no idea that travelling in a “truck” was a new experience for me. I’m sure there were probably some very interesting sights along the way, and I think Sam tried to talk to me, but nothing really registered until he stopped the infernal contraption in a field.

  I threw myself out and kissed the ground, making a quick but earnest appeal to the All Mother for her continued protection. It made for an awkward introduction to my new co-workers who had gathered to meet me, but it didn’t seem to faze them. They politely told me their names while I lay in the grass. Some of them inquired after my well-being. To be honest, I don’t remember much of what was said. I was just so happy to be alive. I’d take flying my broom through the worst moor storm over traveling in a truck any sun.