The Silver Witch

I wait until the sun is directly above me, and then take my basket and head toward the woodland to the south of the lake. It is a dry day, mild for the time of year. Others are no doubt welcoming the brightness of the sunshine, but it is a trial for me. I wear my hooded cloak so that my eyes, sensitive to such harsh light, are afforded at least some shade. As I walk across the water meadows, the noises of busy lives upon the crannog start to fade. With each step the laughter of the children, the hammer of the blacksmith, the coaxing calls of the cowherd, all recede as if into memory, to be replaced by the less insistent sounds of the copse. The trees here are carefully managed. None may be felled without the prince’s permission, so that there is always heavy timber for building houses, or slender ash for making arrows, or logs to keep the people of the crannog and the village warm in the chill of the night.

There are few leaves left on the branches now, but still the light alters as I leave the open grassland and step between the tall trunks. There is sufficient shattering of the sunlight to allow me to lower my hood. I am aware of the heat of the sun on my face, still, and resolve to make a balm of chamomile and honey when I return to my house to guard against blisters. The woodland floor is yet a tangle of plants—ground elder, brambles, ivy, the remnants of rosebay willow herb, all tumble over one another in their scramble for space. Above me birds make the most of the fair weather. On an oak bough three lazy crows spread their wings to soak up the warmth of the sunshine through their glossy black feathers. In a holly bush a plump robin, full of his own importance, sings to claim his territory and warn off any rivals. A mother blackbird, browner than her name suggests, flits past at knee height before trilling her warning of my approach. How much more tuneful are the birds of the woods than the birds of the water. Ducks and geese make their raucous racket without once finding a note of sweetness, whilst these tree dwellers are practiced in the art of melody.

I cast my eyes to the ferny floor in search of what I will need for the princess’s vision and spellcasting, for my gifts are twofold. The first is that I am able to work as a shaman, to enter a trance in which, should I be blessed, a vision will come to me. A seeing that foretells the future, or answers a question, or offers guidance. There are times I find my visions in the flickering flames of my fire. At others I see them rise from the moonlight reflected on the lake. They can come to me unsought, or I can chase them, in which case I prefer to aid my quest with the use of certain mushrooms or herbs. Today I look for the bright red caps of the elfin toadstool, which I will simmer in milk and sip in silent contemplation. The measure is of vital importance. Too little, and it will prove ineffective. Too much, and it will prove fatal.

My second talent is for the casting of spells, and for this I am called witch. Some put a spit in that word, others whisper it. I care not. The magic was bequeathed me by my mother, as she had received her own from my grandmother. All of us born to dwell in the moonlight, marked with the silver eyes and milk-white hair of our kind. Our spellcraft and talents are born of the lake, so that we know how to use its pure water and the plants and herbs that grow in and around it for our cures and spells. But only I was touched by the Afanc, our wise and ancient mother-of-the-lake who dwells deep in the cold waters. How proud my mother was to have her daughter so blessed! What an honor that I was chosen.

My skills allow me to act upon my seeings, and for that I, and those who need me, should be grateful. Princess Wenna will have subjected herself to Nesta’s remedies, some of which might have worked, had the problem been a simple one. But I suspect there is a strong obstacle to her fertility. One that even I may not be able to remove. Still I shall endeavor to help her. For my prince. And for my reputation. I stoop and pick moist moss, dropping it into my basket, and reach further for the tiny leaves of the wood sprite, a shy plant that hides itself beneath its bigger, bolder cousins. As I crouch low my senses respond to the musky scent of the damp earth and rotting stems of the more tender growths that will retreat beneath the soil for the winter. On a warm day such as this these smells are powerful, and a pungent warning of the bleak months that lie ahead.

A rabbit, gray-furred and bright-eyed, hops slowly into the glade. He is intent on his feasting, and has not noticed me. And if he did, he would not fear me. He would recognize a fellow forager, recognize a kindred spirit. He has not the strength and speed of his sister hare, and there is something in his vulnerability that causes me to be uneasy, yet I have an affection for his kind. How could I not? Of a sudden, he tenses, raising his head and ceasing his nibbling in one sharp movement. For a second more he is as still as the dead bough behind him, then his ears twitch once and, in half a heartbeat, he is gone, bounding away through the foliage, a gray blur. Here, then gone. Visible, then vanished. I hear it, too, the approaching horse. Its hooves thud into the ground slowly but heavily. It carries a rider. I straighten up but do not turn. Soon I can hear the clinking of the iron bit the horse works in its mouth, and the creaking of the fine leather of the saddle. The crows flap away from their perch. The robin falls silent. The horse stops. Its rider dismounts.

Without turning, I offer my greeting. ‘Your horse is moving too slowly, my Prince, you will never catch anything.’