Cate Tiernan - Origins

“As if we don’t have enough trouble with the townspeople always on the lookout for witches,” Ma said as we tramped down the rutted road to our cottage. “The tension among the Seven Clans is heating up again. Ian MacGreavy is outraged over a snub by a few men of the Burnhyde clan. Seems they won’t use his mill, and they’re telling all the others in their clan to avoid it, that it’s cursed and the evil is spilling into the grain.”

The unfairness of it irked me. “If the mill is cursed, it’s because of a spell from one of them.”

“Indeed. Mrs. MacGreavy found a sprinkling of soil and ashes on the threshold of the mill one morning, swirled in a circle.”

“A spell wrought of minerals and soil...” Everyone knew that the Burnhyde witches were masters of spells involving crystals and minerals. “A sure sign that the Burnhydes are behind all their trouble.”

“Aye, and trouble is rising for the MacGreavys. They fear the mill has been infested by rats.” She pressed her lips together, and I could see from the bluish vein in her forehead that Ma was angry. “It’s dark magick the Burnhydes are playing with.”

“I can’t believe it,” I said, kicking at a dirt clod in the road. “This isn’t about Ian MacGreavy’s mill at all. It’s about the other clans turning against the Wodebaynes again.”

For as long as the Seven Great Clans had existed, there had been strong rivalry among them. Everyone knew of the clans and their distinctions: the healing Braytindales, the master spellcrafters of the Wyndonkylles, the Burnhydes with their expertise in the use of crystals and metals. I had heard of the astute Ruanwandes, who were well schooled in all of the ways of the Goddess, though I had never met anyone from that clan. We knew of trickster Leapvaughns in neighboring villages, and everyone dreaded the war-loving Vykrothes, who were rumored to kick dirt in your face while passing you on the road. Aye, the clans had their reputations, the most slanderous being that of our own clan. For decades the other six clans had looked down upon our Wodebayne clan, their prejudice and hatred stinging like a wound that refused to heal.

Their hatred was prompted by a notion that Wodebaynes practiced dark magick. When a witch tried to harness the Goddess’s power for evil purposes—to harm a living thing or to tamper with a person’s free will—it was called dark magick. Other clans seemed to think that we Wodebaynes were expert at this black evil. They liked to blame their hardships on our “dark spells,” and consequently they had grown to hate all Wodebaynes.

And now, as a result of that hatred, our own village mill was to be overrun by rats. “Can we help the MacGreavys to thwart the spell?”

Ma nodded. “The Burnhyde spell doesn’t scare me, but their hatred of the Wodebaynes frightens me deep down in my bones.”

Her worry spurred my anger. “Yet again we’re back to the same hatred of the Wodebaynes. What did we do to bring on such animosity? Can you tell me that?”

“Easy, Rose.”

“They act as if we were marauders and murderers! It’s unfair!”

“Aye, it is,” Ma said quietly. “But I have always said that the other clans will come to know us through our acts of goodness. The Goddess will reveal the true nature of the Wodebaynes in time.”

“That doesn’t help Ian MacGreavy, does it?” I asked.

“We will place a spell of protection around the mill,” Ma said. “We’ll do it tomorrow, on the full moon, the perfect time to cast a spell of protection. You’ll need to collect sharp objects—old spearheads, broken darning needles—whatever you can find. They are to be stored in a jar, which we’ll take to the mill.”

As Ma went over the details of the spell of protection, I felt myself drifting off into an ocean of sorrow. My pitifully small world was growing smaller. With conflict among the clans heating up, we would be forced to become even more closed and guarded than we already were. Members of our coven would stick close to our hopelessly small country village, a tight knot of cottages that was already like a noose around my neck. Beyond my sweet but unadventurous friend Kyra, I was without a friend or possible mate within my own clan. No one outside the Wodebayne clan could be trusted, and any notions I’d ever had of exploration were squashed by the sure and steady evil lurking in new places.

Seventeen years of age, and already my life seemed to be over.

By now we had passed out of the village, which consisted mostly of the church, the mill, the inn, and a tangle of cottages that were built far too close to keep your business private. We came upon a flat, grassy field that was used by one of our own Wodebayne clansmen for herding his sheep, and indeed, two men were there at the edge of the field, talking to a sheep as if it had the sense in its head to understand and heed them.

The scene made me smile. The two men looked like bumblers, but Ma sucked in her breath, as if she’d just come upon a tragedy.

“What is it, Ma?” I asked.

She stopped walking, her hands crossed over her chest as she stared at the men, still not speaking.

“Aye, they could be punished,” I observed. “Out on a Sunday, when work is to be set aside to praise the Christian Lord.”

“If only they would meet with punishment,” Ma said. “For thievery.”

“What?” I ran ahead, then turned back to her to ask,

“Who are they, Ma?”

“Vykrothe men,” she said, reaching for my arm and holding it tightly.

Now that she said it, I could feel it. A blood witch can always sense other blood witches, and their presence was now palpable as a bracing cold wind. “Wait...” I said. “And now the Vykrothe men are stealing our Wodebayne sheep?” A sheep that would provide wool for spinning blankets and cloaks. A sheep whose slaughter would provide mutton to an entire family through many seasons. I tried to pull away from her. “We must stop them!”

She pulled me off the side of the road, behind the cover of a haystack. “Hush, child. Speak not your mind on this—the danger is too grave. We know not how strong their magick is, and they look much stronger than us physically.”

“But—”

“I’ll try to stop them.” She lifted one hand, drawing a long circle around her body and then around mine. I couldn’t hear the words she murmured, but I realized she was putting a cloaking spell upon us so that the Vykrothe men would not know we were blood witches.

Then Ma clasped her fingers through mine, locking me into place by her side as we stepped out of the shadow of the haystack and pressed ahead. I felt her fear, though I wasn’t sure if she was frightened of the men or of my own desire to blast them. I pressed my lips together, determined to defer to my strong, noble mother on this.

“Good day to you, sirs,” my mother called out to them.

They lifted their heads, mired in suspicion. “Good day,” the taller man answered. His hooded eyes seemed sleepy, and he wore his flaxen hair pressed to his skull like a helmet.

“Did the sheep break loose?” Ma asked lightly. “They so often do, and I recognize that one as belonging to Thomas Draloose, who lives in the cottage just beyond the spring. I’ll tell him of your act of kindness, returning his lost sheep to its pasture on this fine Sunday.”

Act of kindness? I pressed Ma’s arm, irked by the way she was coddling these tubs of lard.

But Ma went on. “It’s noble of you, gentle sirs, taking the time, and—”

“This sheep is not returning to pasture, but departing,” the tall Vykrothe said. “ ’Tis an evil beast, a harbinger of dark spirits. I know for true that this sheepherder you speak of is not a Christian man but a practitioner of witchcraft.”