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Witches Weather
“Something’s coming”, her grandmother used to say on days like this. She’d urge the family to stay inside, to put up sigils for protection, to wait it out hoping they weren’t the target. The old woman and her uncanny ability to somehow feel witches weather coming kept them safe for a long time. But sometimes even her grandmother couldn’t protect her. And then, oh then it was time to embrace witches’ weather instead of hiding from it. To learn the wheel of the year, to discover hidden and long-lost rituals and bond with others like her. To dance in the storm one cold night and marvel at the intoxicating power that now flowed through her veins, spiking and sparking each time lightning struck the hard, charred earth. Grandmother never would have wanted this for her but for the first time in her life she felt free. And being free meant no more hiding, no more turning the other cheek. Being free brought the freedom of getting even.
“One for sorrow…”
She felt it before she could even open her eyes. When she woke up that morning it took a few heartbeats for her to connect the tug behind her breastbone with the oath she had sworn a year and a day earlier. And though time had passed, the memory of swearing an oath of vengeance with her coven in answer to an attack on one of their own remained with startling clarity in her mind. Nobody harmed one of her coven members and got away with it. No one.
A year and a day ago, hours after the attack, only delayed by healing, they had stood together, shoulder to shoulder, their eyes hard and their faces set in stone. They had vowed to make the perpetrator suffer, to burn him and his life down to nothing and then salt the earth afterwards for good measure. None of them would bother to stop at “an eye for an eye”. No, if someone decided to “take an eye” of one of their own, they would take that someone’s entire body, house, and family in retribution.
She got out of bed and opened the window when her eyes fell on the lone crow sitting on the windowsill. The air tasted different than it had when she went to bed, sharper and heavier somehow as if carrying a promise. The crow looked at her, cawed, and took off and she felt a vicious smile carve out a place on her face in answer to the crows call. Today was the day, then.
“Two for joy…”
Many miles away, someone else was getting ready for the day, whistling merrily to themselves. Their window was firmly closed but they still saw the two crows on the fence of the property and smiled. It was going to be a joyful day. They turned away from the view to get breakfast and thus missed how the wind turned and picked up, the harsher gusts of air disturbing the cows and forcing them to abandon their post.
Some days, joy is rather short-lived.
“Three for a girl,
Four for a boy…”
Even though the day had just begun, the sky started to darken, almost as if someone – or something – had changed their mind and decided that what was about to happen should stay in the dark and never see the light of day.
And with this third sign, it was undeniable that something wicked was afoot. Witches’ weather always accompanied an attack of sorts and had normal folk cowering in their homes, hiding behind sigils that would rarely give a witch a true challenge. It was as if Mother Nature – or something far more sinister – protected the witches by shrouding them in darkness as the coven members left their homes towards the ritual grounds, sneering at the flimsy protections on the houses they passed. As if a few sigils, not even properly drawn, let alone correctly aligned could keep them out, could possibly keep someone they turned their anger on safe. The thought was laughable.
They had read the signs of the changing weather and recognized them for what they were – a call. And even if they hadn’t been able to see the signs, the tugging of their oath would have been enough to tell them that the day for vengeance was finally upon them.
They had left their houses, cloaks fastened, and hoods secured over their heads for the trip out of the village. Once they made their way into the dead forest escorted by the crows flying over their heads they let down the hoods. There was no need to hide their faces anymore, they were free here.
They travelled in silence – no words needed to be spoken between them on today of all days – as they centred themselves for what was to come. For what they were about to unleash on the subject of their oath.
And though the forest was dark, thick, overgrown, and intimidating and the air grew ever colder with each step they took until they could see their breath, they felt no fear or even disquiet. For they knew without a doubt that they were the most dangerous things roaming the forest today.
“Five for silver,
Six for gold…”
When they arrived at the clearing they had selected for the ritual to see two crows waiting for them in addition to the sentinels that had accompanied them on their journey so far a wave of calm washed over them, and they knew they had made the right choice. It started to rain as they began to empty their pockets and satchels of the ingredients needed for the ritual, gathered, and prepared over the course of the past year.
Dried herbs and poisonous berries joined liquid silver and a strand of golden hair, making up the majority of the ritual’s components. To strengthen the ritual, they would not only sacrifice material wealth, but each coven member would make a personal sacrifice of their choosing during the ritual as well. While they were waiting for the rain to stop and the last sign of the witches’ weather to come, each of them meditated on their personal sacrifice, making, or reaffirming a decision or reevaluating now that the ritual was upon them.
Then, they were prepared.
“Seven for a secret,
Never to be told…”
The seventh crow brought fog with it. Thick and silent it rolled through the trees into the clearing until it was covering everything around them, yet the space for the circle between them mysteriously stayed clear. The fog was like a blanket of protection, as if it was deliberately shielding them from being spotted or interrupted by anyone who was not let in on the secret of the ritual.
They had worked on this ritual for months, the first one they created themselves. The attack on one of their own had been personal so their response had to be personal as well. And what better way to make this personal than to devise their very own ritual of revenge instead of using or adapting a generic one?
One of the once more hooded figures stepped forward, an open vial in their hand, and began to walk in a circular motion, their steps fluid and graceful, never once hesitating or wavering as the liquid silver flowed from the vial onto the ground to form the circle of their ritual. Once the circle was cast, each of the coven members took their place on the outside of the doubly drawn circle and one by one they stepped into the outer ring to deposit their offerings to the Lady, shielded by magic from the toxic vapour of the liquid silver.
A wreath of Laurel for success was placed into the circle first, then Cypress and a black rose for the death, despair, and sorrow they wanted to cause. The bird’s-foot trefoil cast into the circle by the fourth member signified their need for revenge just before the victim of the attack a year and a day ago laid down Aloe and Rosemary in remembrance of the grief and pain they had gone through. Finally, each member of the coven put down a wreath of Tansy, their final declaration of war on the one who had dared to bring harm to one of their own.
They bowed their heads and waited with bated breath, not moving even one muscle. For all their bravado and earlier certainty, this was the moment of truth. Would the Lady accept their offerings? Or would they be judged and found wanting?
Suddenly, the offered herbs and flowers and plants burst into flames, magic heavy in the air as smoke as black as midnight rose from their offerings. And though they had hoped, the sign of acceptance still made them breathe easier, had their determination renew as they continued with the second part of the ritual – shaping the mass of magic into an arrow deadly enough to strike down their enemy.
They had gathered and grown plants too poisonous for humans to consume safely without dying and it was those poisons they cast into the fire in the middle of their circle now. The blue flowers of aconite were joined by foxglove and water hemlock. Root of belladonna, the most poisonous part of the plant to inflict maximum damage onto the target of their ritual. Deadly berries of white mistletoe, black belladonna and finally, the last plant – to close the cycle of ingredients – laurel berries, hissed as they joined the fire.
Once more the victim of the attack held a knife to their golden hair and cut off another strand, throwing it into the fire so the magic of the ritual knew without a doubt who they were avenging – and whose life would be painfully snuffed out before the sun rose over the horizon again.
The magic in the air grew thicker and denser with each addition to the fire until it almost felt as if they were choking on it.
“Eight for a wish,
Nine for a kiss…”
Two more crows arrived at the clearing, settling on low-hanging tree branches and eyed the coven members who struggled to get their bearings in the face of the onslaught of magic expectantly.
All magic comes with a price. The more powerful and severe the magic or ritual was, the higher the price for it would be. They had understood and welcomed this important part of magic from the very beginning, had understood that great power and strength could never be achieved without sacrifice, which was exactly what made them so meaningful in the first place.
And the expectancy of the crows was exactly that – a demand for payment, a demand for sacrifice. In order for a ritual on this scale of malevolence to be truly successful, and in order for their wish for revenge to be granted, each of the coven members would have to sacrifice a piece of purity and innocence from within them that they held most dear, to make room for the darkness of the ritual to anchor itself to them. There would be no going back.
None of them knew what the others were going to sacrifice. Personal sacrifices did not work if they were publicized, if there was something to gain in the moment of the sacrifice, even if it was just the pity of others or the pride of the others for being selfless. Their sacrifices would be made before the Lady, no one else was going to see it, not even the coven members standing right next to them. Magic demanded it and even if they wanted to go against it, they would not stand a chance against the powerful force they had awakened. Completely cut off from one another, not even able to feel the bond between them anymore, they made their sacrifices.
A swirling vortex of pure wild magic rose visibly in the centre of the ritual circle, connecting a tendril to each coven member to pull fourth their sacrifice:
A memory of baking with her grandmother as a child in their tiny kitchen illuminated by the soft and warm glow of the fire in the oven and the burning candles briefly played out before losing all colour to it. The memory would remain, but now cold and distant, the emotions in it gone forever.
A sacrifice of comfort only a cherished childhood memory can bring.
Belly-deep laughter, so hard that he could barely breathe, the kind of laughter that had tears streaming down his face while he desperately tried to catch his breath, only to break down in laughter all over again rang through the clearing.
Never again would he be able to laugh with all his heart and soul.
A single snowflake in all its detail, a sunset in all its glorious colours, a forest covered in snow in all its icy perfection, followed by similar sights flashed in front of them. They would not lose their sight; they would still be able to see the breathtaking night sky and all its constellations, but they would no longer see the beauty in it.
No longer would the wonder of those images resonate with their soul.
A hauntingly beautiful melody played out by a violin filled the clearing. His fingers would remain as dexterous as they were right now, and he would still be able to read sheets of music and play them with technical perfection.
But while they would be played technically right, the emotion behind the notes would be missing, leaving the music lacklustre.
“Once upon a time…” She would still be able to read great stories and re-enact the plays of the bards, but never again would she be able to put quill to paper and write a story to heal someone’s soul. From this day on, her stories could no longer cure nightmares or soothe a frightened child back to sleep. They would no longer be able to calm a racing mind, rather more often than not they would now make people shiver and keep them up at night.
Once each member of the coven made their sacrifice, the vortex of magic stilled. No sound was heard throughout the clearing, no movement could be seen. It seemed as though the entire world held its breath. And then, all of a sudden, the magic exploded skyward, on the hunt for its target.
Their sacrifices had been deemed worthy.
“Ten for a surprise you should be careful not to miss…”
The caw of the crow brought the coven members attention back from the sheer magnitude of the magical outburst. Where the vortex of magic had originated, the ritual had summoned their prey; a man so painfully average no one would ever guess there was a monster underneath. But tonight, they were the most dangerous beings in the forest. They were the monsters. And there was absolutely nothing their prey could do to escape its fate. Magic had passed judgement.
From the look on his face, the man had not grasped the situation he was in yet. But they were sure that would chance soon. His wide eyes jumped from the coven members to the surrounding woods to the crows and back and just as he opened his mouth to speak or scream, the beating of wings heralded the arrival of more harbingers of his doom.
“Eleven for health,
Twelve for wealth…”
The coven members watched in cold detachment as it began to dawn on the man that something was wrong. They would not move a finger to help the despicable creature in front of them; Even if they wanted to the magic of the ritual would not allow them to move until it had run its course.
His look of surprise turned into a confused frown as his mouth inexplicably went numb and nausea settled in his gut. At first he thought it was only nerves, but he soon realized that there was something other at work, something dark and wild and vengeful, something he was unable to escape from.
His heart sped up and no matter how hard he tried he could not seem to get air into his lungs, his chest growing tight. First his hands, then his entire body started to tremble uncontrollably, and he collapsed into the dirt when he no longer had the strength to keep himself upright.
His awareness faded until all he could perceive was the pain, the unimaginable agony coursing through his entire body. He desperately started to pray, first for an escape and then, when words started to elude him, he sobbed, praying for an end to the torture but it never came.
He thought he saw the hooded figures move closer to him, could see their demonic faces as their claws ripped into him again and again. But then he blinked, and they had not moved at all. The last thing he saw was a flash of golden hair out of the corner of his eye.
His body convulsed for one last tremor before it went still, became lifeless.
“Thirteen beware,
it’s the devil himself.”
There is a reason a group of crows is called a murder.