“Aye,” Ma countered, “and what reason have you to be lurking in a stranger’s fields at night?”
The tall man leaned back, but the bull answered, “And I’ve heard rumor that the herder is planning to spill its blood in a dreadful spell of harm and destruction.” He turned to his friend, dropped his voice to a whisper, and added, “Just like those Wodebaynes.”
I felt my fists clenching at the muttered slander. He had thought we would not hear or understand his strike against our clan and likely didn’t care that we did since he thought us to be Christian women. But I had heard, and my blood boiled at the insult. These men weren’t even common sheep thieves—they were bigots, striking out against one of our own.
“This, sir, I must dispute,” my mother said. She sounded so sincere, so earnest. How could these men refuse to believe her? “Do you imply that all Wodebaynes are evil?”
When Ma spoke the word, the bullish man took two steps back. “What Christian woman knows so much of evil?” the man accused.
“How dare you speak to her that way!” I shouted. My fingers twitched with the urge to shoot dealan-dé at him and burn him with its flinty blue sparks. But Ma was already pulling me down the road, her other arm having slid protectively around my waist.
“Make haste,” she whispered in my ear, “lest they raise their ire toward us. The Vykrothes are known to love war, and raise arms they will.”
“But the sheep...” I gasped. “They’re stealing it. and even talking of witchcraft could get Thomas Draloose and his family hanged.”
“Hush, child.” Ma hurried me along, pressing her head down against mine. “We must choose our battles. I did my best to defend Thomas and save the sheep, but we cannot always win against such cruelty.”
“It’s unfair,” I said, feeling tears sting my eyes. “Why do they hate the Wodebaynes so?”
“I cannot say, child,” Ma whispered. “I cannot say.”
2. Gathering and Sanctifying Spring Herbs
That afternoon I collected my gathering basket, retrieved my bolline from its hiding place in the seat of one of our wooden chairs, and set off to collect the newest herbs of spring. I knew many small trails through the woods, tiny lanes and hidden paths that led to my favorite gathering places.
A few years ago, when I was around the age of ten, Ma had agreed to let me gather the first herbs on my own. Since then it had been a ritual I performed gladly, grateful for the peace of mind it offered and for the thread of power that laced itself up from the plants through my fingertips. Aye, the feeling of power was sweet when it came my way, though it didn’t happen to me often enough in the coven circle.
Sometimes I worried that I had fallen in the shadow of my mother, that somehow Ma was interceding and collecting my blessings until she thought I was ready to deal directly with the Goddess. An odd belief, I know, but I had my reasons. For one, Ma had never given me a significant role at sabbats. And she constantly questioned me when I returned from the woods, having performed a spell or consecration in a solitary circle. She said it was her duty to educate me in the ways of the Goddess, but I sensed that she didn’t trust me. And why was that? When I was on my own, I felt a strong connection to the Goddess, and I had always quested to grow in my craft. Why, then, did my own mother question my devotion?
“She’s just your ma, doing what mothers do,” Kyra always told me. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps Ma didn’t realize how difficult it was to be the daughter of a high priestess.
Birds chirped in the woods as I swung my basket gently. I’d spent many a winter’s eve sewing pouches of sapphire blue, ruby red, and saffron cloth in preparation for this day. A different pouch for each herb, enough to replenish our supplies. Of course, back at the cottage the herbs would need to be dried in the rafters and eventually ground, but this was my favorite part of the ritual—gathering under the crown of trees and the canopy of blue sky.
I followed the path until I came to my solitary circle, a small natural clearing with a large gray stone that I’d cleansed for use as an altar. Beside a tall oak was my broom, modestly constructed of twigs and a long stick I’d rubbed smooth with the help of a rough stone. I placed my gathering basket on the altar, then began to sweep the circle, swinging my broom as I walked slowly. The spell I chanted was my own, one that I’d created years ago. Ma had once called it primitive and childish, which wounded me deeply, yet I clung to the spell. It had come from my heart, and I always felt that the Goddess heard it and answered favorably.
“Sweep, sweep this circle for me, By powers of wind, so mote it be.”
My circle complete, I placed the broom at the gateway and closed my eyes. A gentle current of air stirred around me—the breath of the Goddess. I lingered long enough to breathe it in, my breast swelling with the wind. Then I lifted my hands and face to the sun.
“Light, light this circle for me, By powers of fire, so mote it be.”
Warmth shot through my body, from the crown of my head down through my heart. The Goddess was with me today, her power so strong. Reeling with a vivid feeling of life, I lifted the tiny flask of consecrated water from my basket and sprinkled it around my circle.
“Water, cleanse this circle for me, By the powers of water, so mote it be.”
As I stood in the center of the circle, I imagined water flowing around me. My skirts swirled at the center of the tidepool, and the tang of fresh spring water cleansed my throat.
Oh, Goddess, you are with me today. I feel your presence. I treasure it.
I sank to my knees, scraping both hands at the ground beside me. Lifting my hands, I let the soil whisper to the ground as I chanted:
“Dirt, bless this circle for me, By the powers of earth, so mote it be.”
The sun seemed to shine brighter, a lemony halo of light favoring my circle. I thanked the Goddess for lending me Her power, then went to the altar to cleanse and consecrate my basket, my pouches, my knife. I realized I felt lighter, buoyed by Her power. Whatever had been bogging me down earlier had dissipated, turned to dust and carried off in the wind at the Goddess’s touch.
Now to set about collecting herbs.
I left the circle and ventured off to a thicket I’d known to produce a variety of plants. My first harvest was a bay plant, a hearty green stem with fat, dark leaves. Gathering my skirts and tucking them between my legs, I crouched beside the plant and pressed the blade of my bolline into the soil.
“Thank you, Goddess, for this beautiful herb,” I said, drawing a circle around the plant to protect its energy. Then, cutting off the heartiest sprigs, I thanked the plant for its usefulness as a poultice for ailments of the chest. Ma also used bay leaves in spells of protection, though I’d yet to try this. When I was finished, the plant bounced back jovially, and I felt confident it would thrive and go on to produce many more harvests.
I moved on to other plants—anise for treatment of colic, thyme to rid internal disorders, clover to conjure money, love, and luck. Each time I did a cutting, I repeated the ritual, drawing a circle with my bolline, thanking the Goddess, soothing the plant. My basket was filling. I leaned close to a fennel plant, my bolline held in midair as I wondered whether the plant would be best harvested later.
The forest was silent.
The birds had stopped chirping.
And I sensed that I was not alone.
I froze in place. My heartbeat thundered in my ears as I realized I was holding the bolline—the very same object that had incriminated poor Fionnula. I could be tried as a witch for this gathering ritual, tried and jailed and sentenced to death. Quickly I shoved the bolline into the basket, burying it under the fresh-cut herbs.