Spring, page 12
One of the women at the front lifted the knife and held it in the smoke from the censer for a second. Her hair was waist length and silver, hanging in thick braids around her, and her skin, though lined, looked as fresh as a child’s. She smiled out at the gathering, turning in a slow circle so everyone could see the knife. Then she put its point down into the cauldron and said, “I consecrate and cleanse this water, that it may be purified and fit to dwell within this circle of our love. In the name of the Goddess and the God, the Mother and the Father, I consecrate this water.”
That said, she lifted the knife from the cauldron, and Kerry saw that its blade was wet. There was water in the cauldron, then, with the flowers inside it sticking out as if from a vase. The man, tall and dark, with a heavy brow and huge hands, stepped to the cauldron next, and dipped his fingers into the water. He turned to the north and dribbled some of the water in that direction. Then he dipped his hand again, and repeated the process to the east, south, and west.
Preparations finished, the third witch took her place at the altar. This one was younger than the others, her blond hair almost white in the sunshine. She put her hands in the flowers, both the ones laying across the altar and the ones in the cauldron, and said, “O great Goddess, you have thrown off the icy grip of winter and embraced the warmth of spring. Now is the greening, the rebirth, the renewal. All things begin again, life takes root in all ways, in the germination and sprouting of every seed, in each breeze that bears warmth on its shoulders, in each ray of sunlight that falls upon your earth.”
All three of the witches at the altar joined hands, and as one, the witches in attendance did as well. Everyone in the crowd, at least a thousand strong, was connected to everyone else. The witches at the altar began to speak, and the ones in the audience said the words along with them. Even Kerry knew what to say, as if reading from an invisible script.
“We walk the earth in kinship, in friendship, not in dominance. We are one with the trees and flowers in the field, one with the rocks and hills and mountains, one with each drop of water in the oceans and each grain of sand in the deserts. We are one with all the creatures on, beneath, and above the earth and her oceans. We ask not permission to use the earth but to exist with the earth, in harmony and cooperation with the Goddess and all she represents. We pledge in return to adore and appreciate her clean skies, her fresh rivers, the green and abundant bounty of her skin.”
Even as she spoke the words, holding Season’s hand in her left and a stranger’s in her right, feeling the power of the thousand flowing through her like an electric charge, Kerry thought she could see minuscule green sparks rising up from the candle like motes of pollen. They rose until they were above the crowd, above the depression of the meadow, above the level of the rest of the Convocation, up the short slope, and then they spread in every direction.
That’s magic, she thought with a growing sense of awe. That’s our magic, going out to touch every spot on the Earth. Spreading out to protect the air and water, to cleanse, to purify.
A few moments later, the candle’s flame changed, and the greenish dust was dissipating. The witches released hands, and the ones at the altar spoke the words that broke the circle. Season gave Kerry’s hand an extra squeeze, and the beatific smile on her face, Kerry guessed, probably matched her own. She could barely believe that she had been part of something like that, something that gave back to the planet from which she had taken so much. They had celebrated nature, and spring, and themselves, all at once. But their celebration had not been an empty gesture, simple praise or lip service. It had included specific and concrete action designed to improve the world they lived in, or at least to help it withstand the ravages of their own kind.
As she walked back up the hill in the company of her fellows, the glow of witch-light was accompanied by the inner glow of deep, lasting satisfaction.
This, she thought happily, completely rules!
14
That first full day ended in one of the many tents set up for dinner. If anything, the mood at the evening meal was even rowdier than the earlier ones—the tables were full, and someone at any given table seemed to know people at one of the others. The laughter was loud and long, the stories told hilarious and often bawdy. After the dishes were cleared away, people stayed in the tent, although not necessarily in their seats. Old friendships were reestablished and new ones struck. Kerry was treated like one of the gang. In general, the atmosphere was of a holiday meal with close family members, except that it was the biggest family Kerry had ever dreamed of.
The second day was much like the first. This time she felt more at ease, more familiar with her surroundings—ever-changing as they were—and a few times, she and Season split up to do different things. There was a lecture on growing herbs that Kerry wanted to attend, for instance, but Season wasn’t that interested and said she had a business meeting that overlapped it. The Convocation wasn’t just a fair and a celebration, it was a time of examining the past and planning for the future. This was the only area Kerry felt shut out of, but she figured that she was so new at the whole witch game that she wouldn’t have much to offer that would be useful.
The whole thing was eye-opening. She had never imagined that witches came in such a vast assortment of shapes, sizes, colors, nationalities, and temperaments. Given her experience with Season and Mother Blessing, she had assumed that there would be a lot more infighting and treachery than what she had encountered here so far. Her perception, born of hard experience, was that witches were constantly at war with each other, which didn’t seem to be the case at all.
The infighting didn’t happen until the third day.
When that morning broke, it felt just like the one before. The golden light of magic filled the air, and Kerry’s spirits felt lighter than ever, as if her very soul had been tethered to the earth but had now been set free. She woke up soaring.
Season’s demeanor that day was different, however.
From the minute she got up, it seemed there was a weight on her. Her smiles were forced and artificial. Even her posture was a little slumped. She wore a conservative white blouse with black pants and boots and tied her hair back in a tight ponytail, a look that was a little formal and severe for her.
Kerry knew what the problem was, of course. Today was the Witches’ Tribunal. Her case against Mother Blessing—or Mother Blessing’s against Season—would be heard. She wasn’t clear on which was the defendant and which the plaintiff. Then again, if it hadn’t been for courtroom shows on TV, she wouldn’t have known the difference anyway, her own life having been mercifully trial-free. She guessed it didn’t much matter. The important thing was that Season would have her say, and justice would be meted out.
After breakfast she accompanied Season to the Tribunal—a vast open-air pavilion with several hundred seats set up in a configuration not unlike a TV courtroom’s. They sat about halfway back and observed while several other cases came up on the docket. The Tribunal itself consisted of five witches, dour-faced, gray-haired eminences one and all, as opposed to the jovial group outside this pavilion. Season explained in hushed tones that it was deliberate—to sit on the Tribunal, one had to be a witch of considerable experience and wisdom, having attended at least three previous Convocations. Away from the Tribunal grounds, these justices might be as carefree as any other witch, but while they worked they kept serious demeanors to indicate the care with which they did the job and the respect they held for accusers and accused alike.
In this crowd, however, no one wore black robes, and that included the jurists of the Tribunal. They wore long, flowing robes, but two were of a deep forest green, one of darkest midnight blue, and two a rich wine color. The robe colors might have had some significance, but if so, Kerry wasn’t told what it was.
The cases mostly involved matters that seemed minor to Kerry—the equivalent of small claims court or disputes over whose dog was using whose yard as a restroom. One male witch was accused of having counteracted the spell of a female for no reason except that he was angry because her dog had beat up his at a picnic. He claimed that her dog had been a vicious brute who should have been put down, but even so, that was not the reason he had counteracted her spell—it was because he had been asked to by the person her spell was directed at. Doing so, he declared, was perfectly legal under the witches’ code of justice.
The judges agreed with his argument, but they still faulted him for not having communicated with her directly before countering her spell. Both witches were directed to do volunteer work in their community—nothing witchy about it, simply labor in the service of the people among whom they lived. All in all, Kerry decided, it was a lot like watching an extended episode of Judge Judy, except that the justices were less annoying and there were no commercial breaks.
By the time Season’s case came up, however, she was having to stifle her yawns. Everything had been so orderly, so composed, that it was all a little dull. She knew that the dispute between Season and Mother Blessing was made of juicier stuff, and she guessed that many of the other spectators in the place were there to watch it unfold.
The justice at the far left of the bench, one of the two men, called Season Howe and Myrtle Blessing—one of the few times Kerry had ever heard her referred to as anything but Mother Blessing—to the front. Both women rose and advanced, though Mother Blessing’s legs seemed to have gotten worse—she relied more heavily on the cane, and she had a noticeable limp, accompanied by several winces and even a groan or two. Kerry thought the whole thing way over-the-top theatrical, and couldn’t believe she was laying it on so thick. Surely the justices would see through it.
But instead, the one in the center—the oldest, judging from normal, non-witchy standards, which Kerry understood to be meaningless in this instance—tossed her a look of profound and genuine sympathy. “I’m sorry to put you through this, Mother Blessing,” she said. “And I trust we will resolve this matter swiftly and to everyone’s satisfaction.”
“That’s all I’m hopin’ for too,” Mother Blessing said. Even the cornpone Southern accent had been intensified for the occasion. Mother Blessing was obviously going to play every card at her disposal, and then some.
“I’m sure that’s the result all of us will work toward,” Season said. She sounded intelligent and articulate. Kerry hoped that didn’t work against her—the city slicker trying to take advantage of the down-home gal. Both parties to the action were directed to sit at the front of the gallery, between the bench and the spectators. Season took her seat primly, with her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap, while Mother Blessing practically sprawled into hers.
The center jurist, the one wearing the dark blue robe, glanced at a piece of paper, as if reminding herself of the nature of the case, and then addressed Mother Blessing. Or Myrtle, Kerry thought with a private smile.
“Mother Blessing, we are here to consider an event that occurred in the year 1704, in the place known as Slocumb, Virginia. Were you present at that event?”
“Durn tootin’,” Mother Blessing said, provoking a raucous laugh from the audience, if not from the justices.
“And would you tell us what you remember about that event, including specifically the role that Season Howe played in it?”
“Yes,” Mother Blessing said, more sober now. “I will.”
She spent the next half hour telling the Tribunal pretty much the same story Kerry had read in Daniel’s journals, adding some of the details that Daniel had apparently not known but that she had mentioned to Kerry. There were even a couple that Kerry hadn’t heard before. For instance, when she described how Season had gone berserk and started magically blasting townsfolk, including her husband, Winthrop Blessing, she mentioned that Season had specifically singled Winthrop out, shouting, “You’ll never live to spread your lies about me!” at him as she reversed his own musket ball into his brain.
With the exception of those embellishments, however, it was the same story Kerry had heard before. When witchcraft was determined to be the cause of the deaths of the Flinders children, both of the town’s witches were suspected. Mother Blessing cooperated with the investigation, while Season Howe flew into an unreasonable fury, answering even the most innocuous questions with violence and death. The more she raged, the more furious she became, feeding on her own anger in some sort of escalating feedback loop. Finally, Mother Blessing, to save her own life and the lives of her unborn sons, had taken refuge deep in the Swamp. Season had continued her rampage even after everyone in town was dead, burning each house and starting a fire that burned for months, feeding off the peat that grew in the Swamp.
By the time she had finished her tale, tears streamed down Mother Blessing’s face, smearing her eyeliner into twin black rivers. “I didn’t dare come out of the Swamp for a month, maybe more, your honors,” she declared. “When I finally did, and went to look at the town where I had lived, where my husband had died, where my sons had been conceived, the ground was still hot to the touch. Nothin’ grows on that soil to this day, and you’ll never convince me that anything will. It’s cursed land, blasted and scorched by the explosive temper of …”—here she lowered her gaze, as if she was afraid to look directly at Season, and ticked her head toward her foe instead—“… of Season Howe.”
Kerry glanced around the pavilion. Faces were serious, reflective. Mother Blessing had told her story well, tossing in whatever theatrics she could to make sure it played to the room. People seemed to believe her. Kerry noticed a few spectators eyeing Season carefully, as if she might throw a murderous fit right here before the Tribunal.
“Is there anything else you would like to add?” one of the justices asked Mother Blessing.
“Only that both of my sons, blessed be their spirits, were later murdered by Season Howe for the crime of tryin’ to find her and bring her to some kind of justice.”
“Justice is why the Tribunal exists,” another jurist pointed out. “It is not yours to deliver.”
Mother Blessing sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a formerly white handkerchief that had turned ash gray. “It’s not so easy to tell a pair of grievin’ boys that, your honor. Ones who never got the chance to know their daddy in this life.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” the jurist replied.
“Season Howe,” the justice in the center intoned. “You stand accused. How plead you?”
Season had sat quietly through Mother Blessing’s entire monologue. Kerry thought it must have been difficult to resist rolling her eyes at some of the more obvious whoppers, or laughing out loud from time to time, but Season had managed. She maintained an air of dignity even as she turned in her seat to face the bench.
“I plead not guilty, your honor, and request the Tribunal’s permission to state my case.”
The justice nodded. “By all means,” she said.
Season cleared her throat and began. “My daughter speaks the truth, up to a point,” she said. “We did both live in Slocumb at that time. She did reside with her husband, Winthrop Blessing. What she didn’t mention—what she apparently never mentions when she tells this tale—was that they had a first son, whom she named Darius. I had followed the tradition of giving my daughter a name from nature, but as you can see, that is but one of the many ways in which she chose to differentiate herself from me. When my former husband, Forest, heard about Darius, he came to Slocumb to meet his first grandchild. Forest was an evil witch, as I’m sure many of you will remember. Cruel, heartless, cold, and dedicated to dark pursuits.”
There was a murmur of recognition and assent from the crowd—apparently Forest Howe’s unpleasant reputation had not been forgotten.
“In Slocumb,” Season continued, “Forest’s influence over Myrtle grew quickly. I had tried to keep them separated from the time I first learned of Forest’s true nature—sadly, only after Myrtle was born—but they were both adults now and I couldn’t prevent them from being together. Myrtle, it turned out, was her father’s daughter, much more than mine.
“Mother Blessing’s version of events that followed is true again, up to a point. The widow Flinders did awaken to find her children brutally murdered. The townspeople did rouse the two of us, the two prominent witches in town—but not to question us. Instead, they wanted us both dead, right then and there, no questions asked. There had been earlier incidents, no doubt games Forest and Myrtle played, and the town had had enough.
“Both of us fought back,” Season went on. “The townsfolk were prepared for resistance, and battle was joined. In the fight, the townspeople killed Forest and young Darius, and Myrtle simply became unhinged. From that point, everything she attributes to me was, in fact, her doing. She killed every living soul in town. She blasted the houses, ruined the land, started the fires. People from nearby towns saw the smoke and came to help, and Myrtle accused me, told them I was a witch—in itself, one of the most serious crimes with which this Tribunal has to contend. I ran, to save myself. Ran and hid. I had been injured in the battle, could barely escape with my life. But I left only after the town was razed by her magic. She claims to have run before the town was destroyed, yet she knows precisely the progression of events. How would she know? She never told a soul, including her other sons, Daniel and Abraham, about Darius and Forest. She didn’t tell this Tribunal. But you all remember Forest. Do you recall any instance of him appearing after 1704? Do you know how he died, unless you’ve heard it from me? You certainly have never heard it from Myrtle, who has conveniently forgotten that she ever had a father.”
