The Silver Witch

And this night I am engaged in work that serves to remind me well of my place. Of my purpose. I seek a vision for the princess. I search for a seeing. For an answer to her question. For a way for her to have what it is she desires more than any silver trinket or jeweled necklace or gold-threaded gown. This night I am her prophet and her servant. Though she does not truly love Prince Brynach, nor he her. Though he would choose another if he were free to do so. Though I do not trust her intentions. I do not believe her to be loyal. Despite all this, I will do what I can for her. I will do what I must.

I have kept my fire well stoked, and even now the logs burn bright on a bed of scarlet embers. My outdoor fire pit is three strides from my front door, and five from the lake. Earlier I gathered and prepared everything necessary for my vision quest. I have spread my finest deerskin upon the gritty ground, so that I might lie in comfort as my spirit travels, and so that I will be accompanied by the spirit of the departed deer. The night is cold enough to freeze a shallow puddle, but not so bitter as to bother me while I lie still beneath the stars. I am close enough to the fire to benefit from its heat, and over my tunic I wear my fine woolen cape, its hood pulled up to keep my head warm. I might have chosen my wolf skin, but its own music would be at odds with that of the deer whose assistance I am hoping for. This is to be a gentle quest, not a hunt. Besides, the cape was a present from the prince. It is fitting that something of him should accompany me on my journey.

I have assembled what tools and ingredients I require. My drum is placed within reach on the deerskin. In a jar to one side is an infusion of mosses and mint, which I will take to revive and soothe me upon my return. The plants and herbs within it, strengthened by a spell given for healing, will go some way to easing my pain after the vision, and to restoring my body and mind as it readjusts to the weight of the common world. In my black cooking pot, suspended over the fire, the concoction simmers. I have used mare’s milk this time, as it is sweeter than cow’s, and gentler. Into this I have crumbled the dried fairy toadstool I collected a few days ago under the glare of the full sun. The bright red of the caps has softened and turned the mixture to pink. It smells of the forest floor, of the earth, of something strange and dangerous. As indeed it is. Too little, and there will not be sufficient to aid my vision. Too much, and it will send me into a dark place of pain and fear from which I will not return. I have judged the measure with great care. I am of no use to my prince dead.

Before beginning, I stand firm and tall in front of the fire and raise my arms to the heavens. I offer up ancient words taught to me in secret, and held in my memory for safekeeping, to be used only with a good heart, for the benefit of those in need, without hope of gain for myself, my assistance freely given. The words have magic in them. Magic of the Celtic elders, who have studied the ways of man for centuries alongside the ways of the underworld. Magic of the shamans, who have traveled this path before me seeking answers and wisdom. Magic of the witches, who are born with the light of spell-casting in their bones. And as I speak I feel my own spirit stir, my own essence shift and change and tremble in anticipation of what is to come.

Next I pull the pot from the fire and place it on the ground. I take my cow’s horn cup and dip it deep, scooping a helping of the precious liquid as full of the bewitching toadstools as can be. Pungent steam rises from the cup as the cold night air cools it. I take my place, cross legged, upon the deerskin. I ask my spirit guides to join me, I offer thanks to the woodland that has given up its bounty for me to use, I form my question, clear and plain, speaking it aloud into the dancing flames of the fire.

‘I seek Wenna’s progeny. Show them to me, or show them not to be, but bring me to the truth of it. If there be a way to coax such offspring into this world, let me know the manner of it.’

So saying, I raise up the cup, close my eyes and then down the foul liquid in three hungry gulps, closing my mouth and throat swiftly afterward, lest my stomach rebel against the poison I am inflicting upon it.

All is good. It is begun.

I sit at my drum and pick up a steady beat while I await the effects of the draught. I let my palms strike the drum skin, flat and slow to start, feeling the sound and its vibration enter my body. As the minutes pass, the fairy toadstool enters further, deeper, wider into me, into my mind, my soul, so that I increase the pace of my drumming. Faster now. Faster! I feel a darkness grip me. The lake and the crannog, the woodlands and the meadows, all have faded to nothing. I am removed from them, and they from me. I exist only inside my head, until the magic will release me on my journey. Pain twists in my belly and scratches at my throat. My breath burns through me. There is a noise, a fearsome roaring of a storm, building, building, building until I must surely burst with it! Burst or die! It is so strong. As if my body cannot withstand what I have forced it to endure. Shall I be smothered, pushed into eternal darkness?