“All too well,” Isabella muttered as her Familiar trotted down the corridor, back toward the main hall of the abbey.
The witch continued alone toward the sanctuary, thoughts swirling in her head and heart, boots clicking with familiar staccato against the abbey floor. But as she wandered along, gazing thoughtfully at the rose stained glass windows, everything within sight so familiar, she realized something: it wasn’t familiar. Not really. Not anymore. She stepped forward, pressing a finger against the cold glass at the heart of one of the white roses. Because Emily had come with her now, she knew her life had changed forever. She was no longer the lonely woman who stalked these corridors wondering if she’d ever get anything right. For the first time in her life, she had gotten one thing right.
Her stomach turned again, thinking of Emily. As Alice had said, it was very unlike the Changer to brave a crowd by herself. What did it mean?
Steady on, Isabella, she sighed, breathing in and out a great cleansing breath. It didn’t mean anything. And she had a play to put on. And Alice would find Emily. And that was that.
The skin on the back of her neck pricked, the universal telltale sign that someone watched you. She turned, gazing back down the hall—but now, against all odds, there was no one there.
She trotted down the rest of the corridor, not turning around again.
You know what shenanigans go on here on Imbolc night.
Down the hall, a soft breath of wind, misplaced here in the sturdy little corridor, brushed over the glass in a window.
A soft hush, a sigh.
And then velvet silence.
---
“Once I get this baby out, I’m going to kill you with my bare hand—you're late,” Bridey announced to both Pye and Isabella, when they spilled out into the sanctuary proper. Bridey was already half-dressed for the play and accompanying ritual, her elaborate braids piled on top of her head in an upward spiral, and she was shrugging into the red cloak that the ritual priestesses all wore.
“Have you seen Emily?” Isabella asked all in a rush, and Bridey shook her head, pulling the cloak on the rest of the way.
“I’m sorry, Belly, I haven’t. Please get into costume now, or we’re going to have a repeat performance of last year, and I don’t think I can carry on like I did then what with a child in my womb. C’mon, people, we don’t have all night!”
“For such a small woman, she packs a punch,” said Pye admiringly, stripping off her shirt and ducking behind one of the painted wooden hills of stage scenery.
“That baby’s going to pop right on out and start giving orders,” said Isabella, eyes to the heavens, smiling softly.
Derek, Line and Annalee were leaning against the wall closest to Isabella, rehearsing their lines under their breath. “Hey, don’t screw it up this time!” called Derek when he spotted Isabella.
“Love you, too, Derek,” she muttered, struggling out of her dress and leaving it draped on a spindly chair next to Pye’s castoffs. Every year, everyone else got to wear beautiful ritual robes and clothes, and Isabella’s wardrobe fate was...well, far, far removed from that. She drew on the ragged dress now, holey, dirty and exactly what a beggar woman would be expected to wear.
The sanctuary had been divided into rough quarters for Imbolc night: in the stage’s corner, the ramshackle curtain was drawn, covering the makeshift scenery and actors' dressing. Isabella could hear the crowd murmuring outside beneath the vaulted ceilings she could see from her vantage point and the stained glass windows she could not. As expected, there came that little flutter of butterflies in her stomach, what she always felt before the play, but the flurry of wings was double in number tonight—perhaps triple.
“Hi!” said Tabby, ducking behind the curtain. She had a wooden plate and bowl and handed them to Isabella with a smile before turning to head back to the curtain. Isabella gazed down at the bowl and plate, perplexed, then felt her blood run cold and turn to ice.
“Tabby,” she said, holding the plate and bowl up in her hands, “why did you give me this milk and cookies?”
“For Emily and the ghosts,” said Tabby thoughtfully, as Isabella knew she would. Isabella sighed out for a very long moment, set the things down on a nearby table, and nodded to her friend.
“Thanks, Tabby,” she muttered, the witch beaming with pride before exiting through the curtain again. When it shifted back into place, Isabella could see the crowd gathered beyond, sitting cross-legged on mats and blankets on the chill stone floor.
“Isabella!” Bridey called, word rising above the murmuring voices in the sanctuary.
“Coming, coming,” she muttered, ducking out from behind the scenery with Pye. Bridey looked Isabella and Pye over, glancing at Derek, Line and Annalee’s costumes, too.
Line and Annalee were resplendent; though this was their first time in the play, they’d managed to put together their costumes expertly. Everyone vied for the roles of the two goddesses; no one much cared for the part of the beggar man and his wife, which was why Isabella and Derek were lucky enough (not really) to always have the roles that no one else wanted, simply because they’d always had them.
And every year, Pye volunteered to play the trickster goddess Mask, because no one else was brave enough to invoke her in the temple dedicated to her rival, Cordelia.
“Places everyone,” Bridey smiled, nodding her approval. “It’s about to begin!”
Isabella breathed in and out, moving with Derek behind the hovel-shaped bit of scenery. A breath in. A breath out.
The candles in the sanctuary dimmed by magic. The voices grew hushed and still.
The curtain rose.
---
Once, long ago, there was a harsh, dark winter. The darkest that had ever been.
The goddess Cordelia wandered the frozen earth, her ear always tuned to the cries of desperation from the mortals who were dying from the cold, from not enough to eat, from the drawn-out dark season that should not have been. So Cordelia moved among them and helped, a goddess among humankind, offering bread here and a warm fire there, easing a sickness or a troubled heart.
Our goddess Cordelia, the Lady of the World, She Who Gives Us Beauty, Love and Kindness, was the beloved of the great sun goddess Sadara, who knew the depths of Cordelia’s kindness, who had admonished her bride: Do not give so much of yourself that you become nothingness. For I love you with my whole heart. Go and grant the mortals kindness through this dark winter while I set it right, but do not give away all that you are. And Cordelia had promised that she would not.
One particularly dark night, Cordelia wandered through the frozen wasteland of a great, shadowed wood. Hearing voices, she hid herself among a stand of evergreens and listened as only a goddess can.
“Husband, we will die if we find no food,” said the beggar woman, drawing her shawls about herself to keep out the biting chill. The beggar man hefted his empty traps on his other shoulder. They had not always been beggars, had once been able to live in these abundant woods with no fear of hunger. But that was before the long winter, before his traps ran dry, before they lost their house and had to move into a hovel that was more dirt than wood, more vermin than human. “Can we not find one lone rabbit for the pot?” begged the woman.
“Wife, there is no food to be had in this whole forest,” said the beggar man sadly, letting his traps drop to the snow, dropping to his knees, too. “I would give anything,” he muttered hoarsely, clasping his hands together, “for a single hare to be found in a trap of mine. But there are no hares left, or none fool enough to be caught. This winter has made the animals wary. We will die, wife.” The beggar man clasped his wife’s hands, and they knelt together, embracing in the snow, shaking from the cold and the hunger.
Eventually, when they had wept all their tears, they rose and stumbled their way back to the hovel, resigned to meet death that night, together.
Cordelia drew herself up, tall and straight and shining. She knew what she must do. She would transform into a hare, and she would fe
ed these people. And when they had devoured her, because she was a goddess, the food would multiply in the house, and they would be saved—forever saved. And when they deposited her bones to the earth again, she would transform back into the goddess and be on her way.
She took off her snow-dusted cloak from her shoulders, setting it reverently on the ground, tucked around the roots of an oak, for as long as the cloak touched the dirt, the world goddess would be able to transform back to her true self.
But her rival, the trickster goddess Mask, had been following Cordelia for quite some time, now, seeking a weakness in the goddess that she might exploit. Mask and Cordelia had been at odds for as long as stars had swung in the heavens, and Mask, seeing Cordelia place her cloak upon the ground, knew that her time had finally come.
But the goddess Cordelia rose, stiffened, glanced behind her and saw the trickster’s shadow. “Mask, I know you are there. I know you have been there. What do you want of me?”
Mark rose from her hiding place, and she rose in anger. “My sister is moving against the natural order of things,” said Mask, clicking her wand of bones at Cordelia in admonishment. “You know that humans are mortal and that they must die.”
“This winter is not in line with the natural order of things,” said Cordelia, voice strong in the descending dark. “And I will protect the mortals so that all of humanity does not perish. We know why the winter has gone on so long, Mask, and Sadara is putting it to rights…”
“Sadara,” Mask hissed, spitting, “will never find the key to spring, and spring shall not come. And chaos will descend upon this land.” The trickster licked her lips, rambling forward. “You’ll transform into a hare to save these folk, my pretty lady? You must know that, if you do, I will steal away your cloak. And you will be lost forever.”
Cordelia stood, straight and tall, clenching and unclenching her fists in turn. She knew, of course, that without her cloak, she could never regain her true form. She would be a hare, always, the beggar man and woman would eat forever, but she, Cordelia, the goddess...would be lost. She knew this, just as Mask did, and yet...
And yet.
Cordelia wavered.
“You would lose yourself for one mortal man and woman? They are nothing,” spat Mask as Cordelia stepped away from her cloak.
“This is not their time to die. Everyone must pass, yes. But they aren’t meant to now. Not like this,” said Cordelia, closing her eyes.
“And you know, as I do, precious lady,” Mask spat again, “that this man and woman are of no consequence? That they will not have descendants who do any amazing thing, no hero, no savior, that they will live ordinary lives and have ordinary children who live ordinary lives?”
“But they will live them,” murmured Cordelia, and with that, she transformed into a great hare, her furred chest taking quick breaths in the cold, dashing through the woods, away from Mask, who leapt greedily upon the goddess' cloak, brandishing it into the ink-black night with a whoop of triumph.
The hare was fast as starlight, and she crisscrossed ahead of the mortals and let the trap nearest to their hovel door take her leg. When the beggar man and woman came to that last trap, they dropped to their knees, shaking, holding each other, crying out great sobs of gratitude.
And they killed the hare, her warm blood spilling against the moon-bright snow, carrying her reverently into the house, where they prepared her with shaking fingers and cooked her over the tiny bit of fire that burned in the center of the shack. They ate her with bare hands, weeping as they did so, for they had not eaten in so long, they had begun to forget what food was like.
They left the bones on the table and fell asleep, curled up in each other’s arms.
And when they woke, the room was filled with all manner of good things, breads and barrels of flour and squash and apples and smoked meats and even pastries. The beggar man and woman knew, then, that the goddess had come to them and had blessed them, and whispering prayers upon prayers of thanks, they reverently took the bones of the hare, took them out beneath a great oak tree, and left them there.
But Cordelia's cloak did not touch the earth, and the spirit of the goddess remained in those bones, trapped and silent as death.
Sadara, the great goddess of the sun, found the key of spring where it had been hidden by the trickster, Mask, and came to the world with a great cry of joy. Sadara and Cordelia had been separated for too long, and the sun goddess longed to hold her beloved in her arms, now that the world could be set to rights. But when Sadara dismounted her horse of flame, when her divine feet touched the earth, she crouched down, pressing her palm flat against the dirt.
She could not feel Cordelia upon the world.
So Sadara snarled, mounting her horse of flame, turning the mare's great flickering nostrils toward the Darkling Forest, for she felt the presence of the trickster goddess, Mask—and where there was Mask, there was often Cordelia, too.
“Mask!” shouted Sadara when she entered the forest. And, as the trickster goddess must, she appeared before the sun goddess, bowing—but not too low—back stiff, face in a sneer.
“Yes, mistress?” hissed Mask, making of the word a slur.
“Where is Cordelia?” asked Sadara, dismounting and striding up to the trickster. The trickster bent away from the towering wrath of the sun goddess.
“I know not,” said the trickster, which was the truth: she did not know where the beggar man and woman had placed the hare’s bones. But if Sadara asked a question, it must be given a truthful answer.
And Sadara asked then: “Where is her cloak?”
Miserably, the trickster pointed to the top of the tallest tree, where she’d tangled the cloak in bony branches, so that it would not touch earth again. Sadara’s horse of flame leapt from the ground, catching the cloak in her flickering teeth, and brought it to earth.
And the hare's bones clicked together, growing and building a woman that was a goddess. And Cordelia ran to her beloved as spring slowly, slowly began to melt the snow.
That single act of kindness from the world goddess on one of the darkest, coldest nights has always been remembered by her people, the mortals who live upon her world, who eat of her great bounty, who feast in her honor.
Blessed is the goddess of the world! And blessed are her children, the mortals!
---
A great shout went up amongst all of the people assembled before the makeshift stage, raising their hands to the far-off peaked ceiling, then pressing their palms against the stone floor, heads bowed, sending their thanks to the goddess who once, long ago, had aided humanity out of love. Isabella, too, crouched down with the other actors, pressing her hands against the stage floor, the worn wood almost warm beneath her palms.
There was so much warmth in her heart, warmth toward the goddess as she'd helped recreate the story...but it faded almost instantly as she noticed the cold in the hall. For an unexpected chill drew across Isabella’s face, then, as she crouched down on the floor—a chill so cold that every thin hair on the back of her neck stood to attention. Isabella raised her head, gazed out over the crowds.
The other assembled witches—didn’t they see her? For from the door that led to the greater abbey came a white, shimmering figure. This was no goddess, like in the play. Isabella knew it instantly as she stared at it.
It was a ghost.
She’d been at Lunarose long enough to know the ghosts that roamed the halls on Imbolc night. Once, when she was very small, she actually ran screaming through a ghost's body. This was before her witch’s training, in which she learned that no ghost could physically harm you; they had a code, just as the witches did. But ghosts might still bring ill tidings and death along with them, and they could possess mortals, as well, for a short time. A ghost could enter any living thing. And, perhaps worst of all, they could bring a feeling of great sadness that would linger possibly forever, hovering over a space, or a person, like a dark cloud.
As the ghost moved through the door a
nd began to wander amongst the humans in the sanctuary, drifting closer to the stage, Isabella could just make out her hazy features—for the ghost was a woman. A beautiful woman, with long shimmering hair and large eyes that Isabella wondered if, once, might have been blue. Her dress was very old fashioned, the sort of gown that reminded Isabella of the costumes they’d worn for the play, with tiers of fabric and lacing along the edges of the hems, though Isabella could never have told you what color the skirts and bodice were.
The ghost wandered for only a heartbeat, but it seemed like an eternity to Isabella. Why didn’t anyone else look up and see her? Why did no one else react to her?
But then the ghost paused at the edge of the stage. She gazed up, and she looked to Isabella, their eyes locking and meeting, bound together for a single heartbeat.
Isabella’s heart raced, her body and limbs frozen to the spot as the ghost and witch stared at one another. Then, quick as breath, the ghost turned and drifted toward the opposite door, the one that led out of the sanctuary in the direction of the priestesses’ quarters and the guest chambers.
She passed through the closed door and was gone.
The assembled people, as if bewitched, as one raised their heads, then began to murmur amongst themselves, smiling and laughing. They hadn’t noticed the ghost. All they were talking about, in cheerful, animated tones, was the play.
The hair on the back of Isabella’s neck still stood to attention, and that’s when she saw Alice striding through the crowd on her little tabby legs, leaping up and onto the stage beside her witch.
“I couldn’t find Emily,” Alice whispered, nudging the witch’s hand with her little cat head so that the witch must pet her. “But I can smell her, so I’m quite confused. Something’s up, Isabella—did you see the ghost?”
“Of course I did,” hissed Isabella, scooping up her Familiar and standing as the other actors did to applause. Isabella bowed carefully, Alice balancing on her shoulder as she went down and up. “Alice, what does it mean?” she murmured, as she and the other actors raised their hands and bowed again, the curtain drawing closed before them.
Under Her Spell Page 11
