Before they’d gone too far, though, Gwen’s steps slowed. She could hear something through the trees: voices, many of them, raised in some sort of song or chant. A prickle of concern made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, questioning the wisdom of venturing through a moonlit forest toward ethereal eldritch voices luring you onward. Not that she believed in faerie stories, of course, but plenty of people didn’t believe in stories about dragons, either.
But where her steps tried to drag, Isobelle’s quickened. The other girl had a firm hold of Gwen’s arm, though she was wise enough to keep hidden under the trees by the river.
They came to a dense blackberry thicket still bearing a few of the season’s last fruits at the edge of the wood, and without hesitation, Isobelle dropped down to wriggle forward through the brambles, leaving Gwen little choice but to follow. When she reached the edge of the thicket, Isobelle put a hand on Gwen’s, and together they gazed out through the thin, concealing layer of blackberry thorns.
The massive old oak had been struck by lightning once, leaving a section of its branches skeletal and brittle—a tiny forked slice ofwhite, stark in the moonlight, amid the joyous green of its living foliage.
But Gwen had never been here at night. And never on the night of a full moon.
A dozen figures stood in a semicircle not far from the trunk of the tree, where a stone bench had been erected—no, an altar of sorts, with stones and feathers and other objects scattered upon its surface. There were candles, too—when the wind gusted just right, Gwen caught the faintest aroma of beeswax over the heady, sweet tang of crushed blackberries all around them.
The figures were all in white, and all women, Gwen realized—they’d shucked their dresses and stood in their shifts, which billowed in the wind. Their voices were raised in a rhythmic chanting that called to something deep in Gwen’s bones.
She turned her hand to twine her fingers through Isobelle’s and squeezed. “Witches,” she breathed, half dizzy with the spectacle and the idea that she might be about to witness true, real magic. Hedge witches tended to be cagey and secretive about their powers—never quite showing someone if they were real, or just a clever combination of mind games and herbalism. Delia would be there among them, though at this distance Gwen couldn’t distinguish her. And hedge witches from all across the county must have come here tonight to greet the moon.
One of the women was led into the center of the circle. Though Gwen could not see her face, she could see the way the woman’s steps were slow, her shoulders bowed—the specter of grief weighed on her, something heavy and hopeless. Awe gave way to uneasiness, and Gwen shifted her weight.
“Maybe we shouldn’t be watching,” she whispered.
Isobelle turned away long enough to meet Gwen’s gaze. “I... I think I was invited. I don’t think they would mind.”
There was a faint question in Isobelle’s eyes, one that left room for Gwen to object. She would go if Gwen wanted to—though something in her just as clearly wanted to stay.
Gwen hesitated, and then shifted so she could sit, rather than kneel, on the loamy earth beneath her. Isobelle flashed her a smile, and then they both ducked their heads to peer back out of the thicket.
The circle of witches drew closer, enclosing the one they’d singled out within their protection. The chant died away to make room for a single voice—perhaps it was Delia’s, though Gwen could not be sure across the distance. The wind shifted this way and that, bringing fragments of the witch’s voice to the blackberry thicket.
Then the circle all spoke together, the very trees ringing with the words: “We who look upon her are filled with love.”
Gwen could not tell if they meant the moon, or the woman enclosed by the circle, or both.
The witches, voices rising in unison, began to chant a name—that of the woman in the circle, perhaps.Rheda, they called.Rheda, we hear you. Rheda, we see you.
Together they lifted their arms, concealing the woman who stood in their midst, and as if in answer, the wind rose to such a pitch that it began to howl through the trees. Isobelle drew close against Gwen and she leaned back, their bodies conserving their warmth together as the gale threatened to snatch it away.
On the altar beneath the tree, the candle flames vanished into the wind, objects tumbling over and crashing from the stone—the witches’ white shifts were flattened against them, their hair flying,their bodies and arms bending like saplings in a storm. The very air seemed to shimmer—Gwen’s eyes grew dim and teary in the wind as she strained to see—
And then the gale subsided. The chant, which had grown to a screaming pitch, eased. The nameRhedafaded away again as the witches lowered their arms. Rheda stood, her chest heaving, her face tilted up toward the moon. As she stepped out of the circle again, the weight she’d carried had shifted. Not banished, but... made bearable, somehow. As if, when she walked into the circle, she had been more pain than anything else.
Now, she remembered who she was.
Another chant began, another name, another woman stepping forward. Gwen shifted her weight again and Isobelle responded at her side—they leaned together, getting comfortable, deciding without words that they would watch every moment of this ritual. That they would listen as the names and the voices of women carried on the wind across the moonlit forest enfolded them, too, inside the circle beneath the oak tree.
As one by one, they were made whole.
Interstitial
Ah, dear reader, did I catch you sighing or smiling just now? I suppose I can’t blame you. The word “chemistry” won’t exist for another few centuries, but I assure you, when it does, the dictionary will feature a lovely little engraving of these two as an example of its less scientific meaning.
I feel I must caution you, though: you may wish to wipe that grin off your face. If you’re one of those who likes to put down the book when everyone is happy, this is your chance.
But, Unnamed Narrator, you cry,surely you are wrong! There are no misunderstandings, no convenient obstacles, no sign of the devices storytellers often use to keep star-crossed couples apart. And no mixed love languages or clashing attachment styles to drive a wedge between them. All is well, no?
All is not well. After all, Gwen has not let herself think about what will happen when—not if—she fails to win the tournament. And Isobelle can’t imagine a future in which Gwen does not succeed.
Reality is a far harsher mistress than either of them expects.
I can see you considering turning the page anyway. Fine, keep reading and ignore my caution—you readers are all alike.
