by Carl E. Mullin ©2020
illustration by Carl E. Mullin
©2020
In England, Sister Ziya was ill at ease.
She sat cross-legged in a forest alive with shadows under the New Moon, her Mistress’s sign.
She had been meditating for the entirety of the day and into the night. Now she held the dearest thing in the world to her. In her hand was a key that she wore about her waist. Made of gold, it was a large skeleton key. Its bow-ring was made of three thin serpentine lines intersecting to form a rose-shape. The thin key-shaft thrust into the empty center of the rose-ring on one end. Its other end extended downward to hold the two mirroring square plates on its tip that extended in opposite directions. Called the bit, the plates had an unusual cutting of a sideways Y-shape pointed like arrows in opposite directions. On each plate three holes were drilled into the space around the Y, forming an unseen triangle. Flourishing lines snaked along the edge of the plates. It was the sacred symbol of her patron, the Lady Hekate, the Keeper of the Gates Who Guard The Way.
Ziya closed her eyes and enclosed her key with her hands. She said a small prayer and breathed deep. When she opened her eyes, she rested her key in her lap and picked up a small and cheap earthenware plate. It would serve her purpose for the battle ahead. She dipped her brush into a small bottle of paint and wrote out a name across the plate, “Radulf Hoggard”.
She set it aside and picked up a small and squat brown witch-bottle with a round belly imported from the Rhineland of German Confederation. Five inches tall, it was stoneware glazed by the salt blast. Its neck had a carved bearded man that gave the bottle a name, “Greybeard”. It had proved itself useful in the witchcraft for centuries. She eyed it with care, turning the bottle over in her slender fingers, feeling it for any flaw. There was none.
She put it away in her bag and returned her attention to the plate. The name felt dry and sticky at the touch. The curing of the paint would be completed soon and so she put it into her bag.
With clasped hands, she sighed and looked up at the new moon. In the past the moon reassured her, reminding her of her lady’s closeness, especially here in the woods. The Lady was the Mistress of the Roads, of the Wilds, of the Transitions. She was the holy Nurse of the Captive Bride and many other things. Her great hand was on her shoulder always and she found comfort in this fact. She closed her eyes and breathed the summer air. These woods reminded her of home.
Home. She opened her eyes to look at the dark moon again. She had seen the moon back home, among the tall grass, taller than her little self a long time ago. Where the wild spotted horses roamed free. She could smell the wet leather shielding her from the torrid rains mudding the plains and the damp buffalo rug keeping her small frame warm. Now she walked alone like her Lady. She touched her breast where her heart was. It was a long time ago. Too long. In that warm night, all her years as the nun melted away and she felt small and vulnerable and alone. She longed for the big and weathered hand to hold her shoulder but it was too late. If she was English she would weep at the thought. She was not English though she spoke their tongue, acted as they acted and lived as they lived. It was not in her blood to weep easy tears for it was not her people’s way. It was in her blood to grieve in a quiet dignity, to bear her pain in a quiet resignation. She loved the English and adopted their ways and made them her people and yet they were not her blood. The drums around the campfire stirred her blood tonight and she wished to draw near. To draw near to hear the thunder of hairy herds.
Impossible, it will never happen but her heart cared not.
She shut her eyes. She did not belong back there anymore. Her place was here. Her place was now home.
This thought was becoming too distracting for her and she pushed those memories away. A girl’s life was in balance and she needed her. She needed a witch-nun’s hand. She forced herself to focus on her, on her fears and her loneliness. She pulled out the plate and stared at the name. The sneering rotten skull flashed before her. There was no doubt about him and she knew how to handle him.
And yet, something about him made her feel uneasy.
She put the plate away and breathed hard.