by F. E. Arliss
In her dreams Emery fretted about learning swimming and the dread of submerging herself in the sea haunted her. A weakness in a witch was a bad thing. That weakness could be exploited and could damage the coven. Don Juan and Deira, who had been entertaining themselves in the Abbey, both being not fond of water, had been of little encouragement this time and often disappeared at the end of one of her long days of sailing. Don Juan said he could smell sea brine coming...as his long trip to find her Fijian pearl had traumatized him sufficiently.
Luckily Emery didn’t seem to get sea sick and hadn’t puked at all. Causing Mur to believe that she’d barfed all over him on the swimming day just to be evil. She hadn’t of course. On those nights at sea she seemed to sleep the sleep of the dead, the swells of the sea lulling her into a deep, often dream-ridden oblivion. The twins sometimes anchored in a small cove and she would wake in the morning to find the two piled in a tangle of brown limbs on the narrow shelf-beds that comprised the two bench-seats for the galley.
While she was always wrapped comatose in a down mummy bag, the twins would simply flop onto each other and fall almost immediately asleep. Even sitting next to one of them was like sitting next to a ceramic heater. Emery figured it was also why they didn’t need wetsuits - they were naturally hot, probably a trait given them so they could withstand the cold of the sea and the damp, frigid climes of the island. Sometimes she’d make them stand on either side of her and warm up her frozen limbs. It was like a god of the sea's twin engine turbo heater.
Finally, she’d also given up trying to keep her long, wavy hair in order. It had bleached out from a golden color to an almost silvery-white blond. Each day it would snarl and tangle and crust with salt spray and it would take forever to wash it, condition it and undo the matted mess it had become. Even braiding it into her usual French braid didn’t really help because the loose bits got tangled and fuzzy.
“Our ma’s name is Eilidh,” Ray had grunted as he and his brother each grabbed one of her wrists and simply dragged her down the cliff to their gnarled elderly mother. Having flipped her onto a weathered stump in the weak sunshine of the cobbled street, they disappeared only to return with a small flat basket they set next to Eilidh’s sturdy ankles. Next, Mur picked up a reed flute-like whistle that rested on a weathered window-sill and blew out a high-pitched set of notes that sailed endlessly away on the wind.
As the old lady applied some sort of fatty oil to Emery’s locks, turning them a slightly darker, ash blonde, people began to appear and drop small trinkets into the flat basket the twins had set in the street. Once Emery’s hair was completely coated with the waxy-substance, the twins rummaged through the small items in the basket and began to set them out on the stones at their mother’s feet.
A set of blue, sea glass beads came first and caught Eilidh’s attention. Quickly dropping them into the pocket of her worn cotton house dress, she rapidly set about parting and plaiting small rows of braids all over Emery’s head. In went the sea glass beads along each side of her face, the blue glass making her brilliant eyes shine like the sky on a sunny day. Abalone shells carved into small birds were threaded onto the bottoms of those braids.
Shells, tiny coils of what looked like gold wire, and small silver coins with holes drilled into them disappeared into the back of her head. A hump-backed crone dressed completely in rags that looked like they were made of seaweed and seal fur, carefully handed Emery a set of tiny round bones. Each small bone had a central hole and was marked with strange runes that looked burned into the surface of the white calcified discs.
Emery thanked her and covered the old crone’s hands with her own, squeezing gently and smiling in delight. The old lady bent to Emery’s ear and muttered, “cumhacht na farraige”.
Thinking it important from the way the old woman pressed her hands, Emery repeated, “cumhacht na farraige.” At the crone’s toothless beaming smile of encouragement, she repeated it again, “cumhacht na farraige.”
The old woman slowly began to sway, continuing to hold Emery’s hands and chant, “cumhacht na farraige” as Eilidh wove the small bones into the crown of Emery’s head. Emery joined in, as did Eilidh, Mur and Ray. Soon other people arrived and the chanting swelled. Emery’s body broke out in goosebumps, then sweat, and still it continued. Finally, the last tiny bone was placed and the last, long braid fastened at the bottom with what Emery suspected was seaweed wound around it. The chanting halted and complete silence reigned.
For whatever reason, Emery simply smiled - beaming at the group of people who now stood in front of her gaping at the finished work of intricate plaiting as though they’d never seen anything like it - then she slid bonelessly onto the cobblestones in a dead faint.
Without her knowing it, Ray simply hoisted her up, bowed to the small crowd and carried her back up the hill, followed by Mur still muttering the chant at intervals. The four old witches were gathered at the mouth of the Abbey and hurriedly tucked the unconscious girl into bed. Each secretly returned to stare at Emery’s new hair style. None of them dared touch it.
Chapter Five
Changeling
The next morning when she finally woke from her chant-induced sleep, Emery couldn’t wait to see what her newly braided hair looked like.The Abbey had only one mirror that she knew of and she simply hadn’t bothered to make the trip to the tiny powder room off the large hall. It had been roughly converted into a half bath for visitors - not that they ever had any that she knew of - maybe sometime in the last century.
The small room boasted an ancient toilet with a wall-mounted water tank complete with a rusty pull-chain flush, an old enamel sink and, against one corner, a Victorian-era standing mirror in some type of wood that was indistinguishable as the century-old varnish had darkened and cracked.
Rushing down the worn cobbles of the Abbey, she skidded to a halt in front of the door to the powder room, pushed open the door, slammed it shut and turned to face the mirror in anticipation.
Dorothea, Millicent, Bertha and Letty having heard the slap of her feet as she’d run past the study, all rose and peered towards the powder room. Not sure what to expect, Bertha muttered, “I hope she doesn’t scream.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Dorothea snapped. “She’s worn that antler hat for the last five years. How is this any different?” All three of the other old crones snorted and looked at the older woman as though she was out of her mind. “The girl doesn’t really care about looks…,” the old woman trailed off as she remembered the delight Emery had enjoyed each day of college in donning her uniform, brushing out her long hair and applying a little bit of blush and lip gloss. She had cared. Dorothea felt her heart sink and turned back towards the powder room, listening intently.
Millicent, suddenly cross, growled out, “No matter what, you can never change the fact that the girl is simply naturally gorgeous.” Three sets of agreeing, “Uh hums,” whispered out.
Emery’s excitement had faded the moment she looked in the mirror. She’d barely looked at herself over the past year as she roamed the Isle learning all its nooks and crannies. She’d known she was getting a good tan, as even the watery-sunshine turned her pale skin golden, though still many shades paler than the twin’s nut brown limbs.
Now, a stranger stood in the mirror clad in a pair of too small, flannel pajamas and crowned with the head of someone she didn’t recognize. Legs suddenly weak, Emery sank to the ground, mute. After a few seconds of staring, she crawled the last few feet to the old mirror and slowly rested her head on the spotted glass.
Shakily she shucked out of her pajamas and using the mirror as a crutch pulled herself up. Opening her eyes, she stared at her face. A year of fish, lamb and vegetables had honed the baby-fat away from her face and body. While she’d always been strong, now she was almost unrecognizable to herself.
High cheekbones, full lips and bright blue eyes framed by startlingly pale silver eye-lashes stared out at her from below bleached-white eyebrows. Slender ashy-silver br
aids hung at each side of her face, the aqua-blue and cobalt beads of sea glass bringing out the blue of her eyes. Her golden blond hair was gone, replaced with an intricate network of silver-white braids bedecked with shells, glass beads, gold wire, and a few small silver coins that an elderly man had put in the basket. (Dorothea was sure the girl had no idea she was wearing a few million dollars worth of antique lost Viking silver!)
Eilidh had arranged the braids so that they hung neatly behind or in front of her small ears. Don Juan’s gift of the Fijian pearl showed from the upper curl of her left ear. Near the top of her head, a series of small white discs woven into the braids rose across the back of her head like an ancient crown. The discs in the center-back were the largest and graduated down around the circumference of her upper skull like stepping-stones. The silver-white ashy hair, white lashes and eyebrows were mesmerizing against the golden skin and brilliant blue of her eyes.
The entire effect was as though some ancient sea queen had risen from the depths and stepped into the mirror’s wobbly glass. Emery, as though in a trance, let her eyes lower to her limbs and torso, taking in the entire image of herself as though she was meeting a stranger.
In a way, Emery supposed she was meeting a stranger. She wasn’t a kid anymore. That was obvious from the woman who stared out at her from the glass. She’d filled out with muscle and lost her baby fat. Her skin was golden all over except for the small area across her flat chest and over her narrow hips where her black two-piece swimsuit had ridden. Her long neck was held rigidly upright atop a set of chiseled shoulders and toned biceps. This she supposed was due to the crones constant reminders to stand up straight and the strength needed to ride horses, hold a sword, and shoot a bow and arrow - not to mention the constant winding of sails.
She now bore a striking resemblance to the twins. There were a few differences. Her legs were more graceful, though her calf muscles and thigh muscles were just as clearly defined. Her chest wasn’t quite as flat. She had the slightest of small mounds that topped her broad pectoral muscles and her nipples were larger and pinker. And, of course, she didn’t have a male appendage. Her shoulders were broad and her arms cut into defined muscles just as theirs were.
The greatest difference, besides no dick, Emery grinned to herself, were her tattoos. The intricate, brown bats still hung wings spread from her collarbones. A silver spider’s web radiated out from her navel, contrasting strikingly with her gold skin. The web rippled as though alive as it traversed the ridged six-pack of muscles that comprised her abdomen. The turtle on the inside of her wrist seemed to have migrated up her arm a bit and was closer to her elbow now than to her hand.
It wasn’t that she disliked what she saw in the mirror, it was just different than what she’d imagined. She’d been thinking of herself as a teenager. But that teenager who had merrily swung down the halls of St. Andrew’s was long gone.
Some of her classmates were dead from the virus. No one knew when school would go back in session and while they had wi-fi here on the island, it was patchy at best.
It had been a good decision to come to the island. No one here was ill and they were completely isolated from the virus. Most of the goods that were shipped in were simply unloaded on the dock and left to the cleansing elements for a day or two. Emery also had a strong hunch that the immune systems of everyone who lived on the island were far stronger than that of the average population. Cold, damp and wind made for rugged individuals.
To top it all off, Emery also knew that if she returned to school, she’d be far ahead of her other classmates. The classes she took here on the island from the crones were far more in-depth and far more advanced than what she’d been learning at school. College was pointless now.
Nor would joining the military be of any use. She could fight, shoot, rock climb, and now sail as well as any soldier or sailor. Ok, so she still couldn’t swim worth a crap.
Emery took one last glance at herself in the mirror, then left the small room and walked naked down the cold halls to her bed. Not feeling the chill, she slipped under the covers and slept the sleep of the stunned.
The crones sipped tea by the fire and worried.
Several times in the night Emery woke, fingered her hair with its beeswax coating and uniquely integrated trinkets, then dozed again.
By morning, she’d come to some deep realizations about who and what she was; who and what she was going to be; and the fact that she had to accept that her life was going to be different than she’d imagined.
Emery wasn’t normal. She would never be normal. Would she be ashamed that she didn’t look like a mainstream girl? Would she slink about trying to cover her tattoos and unusual hair? Would she unbraid her gifts from her head as soon as she had to go out in public? Why should she make excuses for looking different? She’d always looked different with her deer antler hat, strange puffy-thighed jodhpurs and lace up boots. Was she going to start now?
No, it was shameful to deny her gifts, deny herself, deny the training of the crones. She would not be put down. She would not cower or hide. She was unique, magical, and magnificent. As a deep determination settled into her very bones, Emery relaxed into sleep. She knew who she was.
Chapter Six
New Skin, New Skill
The following morning Emery woke early. Foregoing underwear, she slipped on a pair of beat up nylon shorts, pulled one of the ratty, hand-knitted wool sweaters that were ubiquitous to the island over her head, and laced on her worn paddock boots. Then rummaging through her belongings at the bottom of the centuries old wooden wardrobe against the wall, pulled out the cherished University of St. Andrew’s twenty-two karat gold coat of arms ring her mother had given her when it was first learned she would attend the prestigious university.
Then, summoning Don Juan and Deira to her, she descended the stairs. Don Juan sat atop her head gripping the largest of the spine bones, small black eyes snapping with anticipation - he could tell something was up. Deira had simply crawled into the curve behind Emery’s ear, dug in the small, hooked spines at the tips of her long legs and curled into a tightly clinging ball.
“Going to town,” Emery grunted at the crones, whose faces wore various expressions of concern. “I’ve still got a long way to go with the water training, right?” she asked Bertha.
“Yes, dear,” the older woman affirmed quietly, running her hands nervously down the front of the bib-overalls she favored and then raking her fingers agitatedly through her hair, once again reinforcing its ‘finger in the light plug’ look. Dorothea simply nodded and smiled at her. Millicent and Letty sipped tea and nodded too.
“I’ll be charging a few items of clothing to the Abbey account. I need a new skin,” Emery said, matter of factly. At the crone’s questioning chorus of “Uh hums,” she turned and left them without any more explanation.
Emery slipped out of the cold, damp confines of Thorneridge and plodded off towards the tiny village. Passing the twins she grunted and continued on. As usual, the two slung their arms around each other’s shoulders, shrugged and took the shortest route to the sea.
Her first stop was the blacksmith. He had a roaring fire already going and was trimming the feet of one of the many donkeys that serviced the island pulling carts, carrying loads and occasionally carrying the odd person. Emery loved riding the donkeys so they were all used to her. She rubbed the small, shaggy beast’s ears until his feet were finished.
“Whatcha needin’ queenie,” the grizzled man asked quietly, clanging his tools down onto the blackened patina of his work bench.
Emery dug out the once precious St. Andrew’s class ring and handed it to him. He took it in one enormously calloused paw of a hand and eyed it. “Hmmmm,” he said, cocking an irregular eyebrow at her. Several patches of hair had gone missing from the furry caterpillar-like growths. She suspected they’d been burnt off by embers from his forge.
Explaining what she wanted in as clear of terms as she could manage - since she wasn’t exactly sur
e herself, she left him humming a song as he lit a flame under a round bowl-like lump of charcoal and set out a row of tools that looked ridiculously small in his large hands. He’d muttered to her that gold had to be melted in charcoal using borax. She wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but she trusted that he knew what he was doing.
Next she wound around the back of the small harbor to visit the man who scrapped rubber and other recyclable items. Describing to him what she needed, she left with a load of things bundled in a blue plastic bag. It was a miracle that they’d found everything, but nothing went wasted on the island and Kern, the young sunburned man with flaming red hair who ran the recycling center, knew exactly where everything was located in what, to the untrained eye, appeared to be a heap of junk and garbage.
Don Juan loved Kern and had leapt onto his shoulder, whispered into his ear, and as the pair of them scurried about the chaotic stacks of the yard, often meeting up to compare items. Between the two of them, Emery had only to agree that what they’d found would be great for what she needed and then headed off with Don Juan waving one tiny paw at Kern’s receding figure. He then broke out singing a bawdy ditty that the young man had just taught him, waving one tiny gray-hair covered arm dramatically as though singing with Pavaroti.
