by Carl E. Mullin ©2020
Ziya’s eyes were closed, her hands fingering the metal beads, and did not hear.
“Sister Ziya?” the sister knocked on the opened door again.
She blinked and looked up.
“It’s time.”
The witch-nun considered. She rose to her feet and tugged her green hood over her head and nodded. From her spartan cell full of books and drawings, she followed the sister through the ancient stone pathways, her emerald cloak billowing. She counted her prayer beads every step of the way. Along the path she glanced though the latticed windows out at the green courtyard outside. The flowers were in a fine bloom this year, so unlike the chilly summers of past decades. She snatched what small pleasures she could as she stepped toward her sure judgment.
About the circular stairs of massive stones they climbed, retracing the steps of a thousand-years’ worth of the witch-nuns of their order. Thin loophole windows lightened their climb. Reaching their floor, they reached the heavy and well-worn oak door bolted together with broad iron bars and ivy-like iron hinges. With a gentle knock the nun asked, “Mother?” She cracked the door open and peeked inside. “Mother?” She straightened and nodded to Ziya.
She breathed deep. “Thank you, Sister,” she said and went in.
The tapestried office was larger than her cell and flooded with intellectual treasuries of centuries. The bare stone walls had wooden cases with worn finishes and was loaded with ribbed leather-bound tomes. Their spines had faded gilded letters. They shared the shelves with the parchment scrolls encased in dusty wooden cylinders and wooden boxed codices. Brass globes of stars and planets topped the covered tables along with the collector’s wooden boxes of herbs and plants and earths and little bones of birds and toads. Everywhere the shawls of different and colorful designs covered the sofas and chairs. Jars of multiple sizes and shapes held potions of various colors. An iron stove gave warmth behind the desk.
In the far corner of the cell, a high chair faced an opened window, the fresh summer air breezing in through the embedded bars. A woman’s spider-thin arm dressed the cushioned armrest, her thin and deeply pruned fingers at rest. The door shut behind Ziya. She stood in her place, her fingers interlaced in silence, her eyes lowered.
A few minutes passed. “To me, child,” a strong voice called out from the high chair. Ziya lifted her eyes and walked over. She knelt and kissed her Mother’s hand.
An old face looked at her with wrinkled skin like a turtle, her lips drawn thin, her brow bearing a simple silver headband over her neat-partitioned white hair that flowed to her legs. Her eyes danced with a grey steel color. What beauty and play she once had had passed. Only the strength like her ash cane remained. She tipped her head back to study Ziya with dispassion. “Ziyatoestah.”
“Mother,” Ziya lowered her face.
The Mother cupped the young woman’s chin and lifted her face, “You regret?”
Ziya considered this. “Some, Mother.”
Mother set back and studied her protege. “I have the report from Sister Heather, Sister Brigit and Sister Julia concerning their inquiry into your conduct over this poor girl’s goeta. It was not flattering.”
She picked up the report from her side table. Ziya didn’t look up. She continued, “Child, I am eight-hundred and some odd years old. I was trained in the craft by none other than the Lady Morgana the Fay herself, years after the unfortunate passing of her brother. The craft she learned at the feet of our goddess Hekate, who has our love and devotion. Since the day the Danes plagued the shores of our fair England when I was a child, I have known many folks, both great and small. I have trained many of our order since Morgana went on to the land of eternal apples to be with her brother. Some were bold warriors. Some were mild healers with moon-faces. Some have proved superior diplomats who weaved peace between the princes and between the commoners. Many a favorite I have. None remained. Into the twilight they have passed, the handmaids of their beloved Lady who walked the roads between the gates.”
She replaced the report and clapped her hands. “Yet, a few I had, I treasured in my old heart. One of them is you, Ziya.” She raised Ziya’s glittering eyes to her. “You are my favorite among many, though you be a stranger to this land purchased with the bones of my Saxon fathers. You have a great gift, housed in the heart of a mild and patient girl. There is a burden in you, child. A burden that opened your soul to the troubles of those not your kin. A burden that led you to a hard-won wisdom that fit you, to be a counsel to the kings. Many a girl have come here for many reasons over many centuries. Some for the love of our Lady, some for fame, some for the ability to make a man hale, some for power, some for knowledge, and some,” she looked at Ziya again, “for release.”
“Mother.”
“Hush. I know.” The Mother sat back. “I have been watching you, child, since you entered our order as a frightened little girl, alone and friendless and full of fear. Fearful of the power within you and whatever had been haunting you to our door. I knew since that day in that school that there is a great power in you. Power to rouse the dead with your songs. I had to draw this out of you. Draw it out before I could train you for your destiny.” She bent to brush away her stray locks. “Your intelligence and your kindness, they won my affections for you. And a gift for tongues. Foreign words flow easy from your lips. Beautiful words you spoke well as if born to them. You would make a fine teacher one day. I initiated you into our Lady’s mysteries. I made you a handmaid to our Lady who has your love. Even if you lack that gift inside you, you would make a fine handmaid still to our Lady, the holy Nurse who bears love for the lost and the lonely on the misty road, in the dark woods, and in the silent crow-field.”
“Mother.”
“Now to the current unpleasantries.” She picked up the report again. “I have specifically trained you in psychagogy. You seem to have an affinity for the spirit-work. The dead seem to respond to you when you sang them from the grave for prophecy and healing. Very few of our sisters could do this, much less without fearing and loathing. A simple spell, a simple magic of healing they can do but the spirits call for a strength of character and a presence of mind, particularly with the toadmen. This kind of magic attracted low creatures who enjoy the pain and despair of the others, particularly with their daughters. The very young especially. The women who did this magic were especially vicious. The elders and I have tested you repeatedly for we know well the harrowing nature of this dark healing. Since we released you to perform the goetia, you have performed with excellence and with a thoughtful care. Until this,” she pointed to the report in her hand. “Why?”
She did not answer.
“You lost control. This should not have happened, child. Why?”
She sighed and answered in a flat voice, “I was provoked.”
“Why? I have reviewed all your cases over the years. This toadman wasn’t the worst. Why is this different from the more troubling shades?”
“I…” she shut her lips. “I don’t know.”
“Ziyatoestah Holl-Mahpyuatashuke, I dislike lies. Especially from…a daughter.”
She bowed her head, feeling more shame flooding her being. “Forgive me.”
“I will if you speak the truth. Your sister Loretta informed me how you hardly eat or drink these last few weeks. She doubted that you even have sufficient sleep, if at all. You have grown distracted, child. You have fallen asleep even when a case is pressing on you. You have even talked in your sleep. Ziya, she fears for you.”
“It’s–it’s really nothing. I need some rest, that is all.”
“Ziya.”
She didn’t answer.
“Child, what you have to say, it shall be sealed between a Mother and her charge. No one will know. Now speak.”
She wet her lips and stood away from the Mother, her mind racing. The Mother did not press for answers. She held out her hand, “Come. Sit with me, child.”
The young nun took her hand and sat on a chair by her. As she considered her thoughts, the Mother rose on her ash cane to pick up a warm pot of tea from the iron stove. The water steamed as it poured from its spout into the two cups on the table. A spoon sang against the china as it stirred the water. The girl stood to carry the cups for the Mother as they returned to their seats. She sipped her cup as the elder retook her chair.
Ziya spoke, “I have been visited these last few weeks by…an omen.”
A frown. “An omen?”
“Dreams. They were, at first. Frightening. I tried to dismiss them.”
“Go on.”
“Then they grew more…intense. Vivid. They even began to invade my waking hours.”
“Tell me.”
She told her.
An hour later, Mother was leaning against the edge of her crowded desk, lost in thought. Ziya watched, her eyes alive with expectation. The birds sang pretty songs outside the bright-lit window. Not receiving an answer, she rose from her chair and stepped mouse-like to her, her hands clapped to her belly, “Mother?”
The Mother seemed to recover from her trance and turned to her. She smiled a reassuring smile and brushed her cheek with affection. Ziya pressed her hand to her cheek. “What is it? What do they mean?”
Mother drew a deep breath, “I do not know.”
“Do not know? But you are skilled in augury.”
“This is beyond my ability.”
“But what am I to do?”
“There is one who can give you this oracle.”
Ziya fell silent. “Must I?”
The Mother put her hands on her shoulders. “Only she can give you the answers. And a peace.”
“I can’t. I wish to remain here. This is my home.”
“Then the waking dreams will not leave you.”
She grew quiet. “Is there no other way?” A sad shake of the head was her answer. She strolled over to the open window, her fingers playing with each other. She glanced down at the lush garden in the hazy daylight. Her sisters going about their daily rituals of planting, of pruning, of idle gossip, and of prayer. The Mother tapped her cane over to her side and hugged her arm. She looked down at the kind hand on her arm and then at her flighty fingers. “No other recourse?”
“None whatever, child.”
Her flat chest heaved and her head lifted. A choice made. “What must I do, Mother?”
Regretful pride flowed through the Mother’s face. “You must leave. You must seek her out at the place of her power. Only our Lady, our goddess Hekate can give you your answers.”
“Then I shall answer the call.”