Wyrd Sisters

I was nervous, so I perched myself on a stool towards the back of the clearing.

The oldest invites the youngest, it it said. Old Mother Smythe invited me to come, and smiling, said, “Bring something you harvest along the way. Something meaningful, something interesting, something with purpose. Something that can contribute.”

I tried. The Mother Spirit knows I tried. I searched for winterberries; the birds had taken them all when the snows started early. I looked for those strange rocks that collect at a particular spot in the quiet pool by the river – nothing. Wrong time of year for all the herbs and wild flowers that grow in quiet glades and shady pockets from early spring into late summer.

But it was a slow, warm, wet, rainy, day, in mid autumn.

There was only one thing I saw that was worthy to collect, and I was afraid to touch it.

A Death Angel mushroom. It glowed ghost-white in a single beam of sunlight. Growing in the roots of a once-mighty oak tree, blasted by lightning last year, in that terrible storm.

I did pluck it, but I used some of the bigger leaves to prevent its poison from touching my skin. And I rolled it securely in a large wad of leaves and a twist of dead grass before tucking it into my pouch. I realized the light was fading, and I hurried down the path before I was late.

All the wise women were there. I’d never seen so many in one place, not even when the Eldest of All died.

A bright brass cauldron was bubbling lazily over a neat fire. Some tended the fire, some brought more tinder and kindling close by, and some were already lining up to do the rites. There is an order to the task, and I was about to learn the secret.

Mother Smythe, of course, was first. “And so we gather, and so we bring our gleanings to the cauldron. Things we have collected along the Way. For the year past, for the year to come, for the quickening, for the renewing. For all to share. For a fleeting moment, we share our wyrd, our fate, our selves, with our sisters on the strange pathways. Are we agreed?”

Nods all around.

“Therefore we do it again, what we have always done, as so we shall always do. As oldest, I will give my offering to the cauldron, a flask of spring water from my own well, drawn at dawn on the first day of the year.” She poured it into the pot of water, and I swear I saw a little glow as the ripples spread to the edges of the pot.

Another stepped forward. “I bring a single rowan berry, traded to me by a white raven, for a bit of bread.”

And another. “I bring dried sage, the last of my meager harvest. Sage does not like my garden, so what I can glean is precious.”

And more, and more. A stone, one of the ones called Thunder Eggs. A touch of sea salt, gathered from the far sea. A bit of clear crystal, from the copper mines. A dab of meat, preserved from the Eldest of All’s funeral.

As the line shuffled forward, Mother Smythe saw me, came over to me in kindness. “Ah, such a lovely stew! We shall feast tonight, on our offerings, and so spread the blessings to the people as we travel home.”

Oh no. Oh, no, no, no. I thought of my offering, and I paled in horror.

“We must do this in order, adding in threes, stirring seven times widdershins between the offerings of three. Without haste, without fear. Then we partake, then sing of our devotion and resolve. Then, we wait for the moon’s rise, and share the wine, and more song, and then wait for any special blessings. And then we go out, back to our homes, by ways myriad and strange. So go, take your place behind Marigold, and join your sisters in the dance.”

I was terrified. I didn’t want to move, but Mother Smythe urged me gently to my feet. I wobbled over.

Marigold was holding a single mistletoe leaf, joy written all over her face. Not enough to kill us all, when mixed with everything else in the pot. Not... like mine.

More meat, more stones, some odd things. One or two brought a pinch of soil, from far-flung places. Why hadn’t I thought of that? Or water from my own well? The river? A feather from my flock of ducks! Not what evil I held!

I did not want to move forward, but Mother Smythe was behind me, and behind her, the other elders. A line with no beginning and no end.

And now, Marigold’s turn, her first mistletoe. Lucky her.

I stopped. I couldn’t. I must not. What I would cause-

“Come child, youngest of us all, it is time to add your contribution.”

I shook my head.

Silence. Quiet silence, but questioning, quizzical.

It grew.

It shifted.

One of the old ones, a bit more impatient that the oldest. She snapped her fingers. “Come, come girl! Stop dallying! Order, regularity! Your turn! Pull whatever you brought out, put it in the pot!”

I covered my pouch with my hand, shook my head violently. I tried to step back, but Mother Smythe was there. She touched my shoulders gently, squeezed encouragingly.

I still shook my head.

Whoever spoke to me sharply, she huffed, and stepped out of line. Stomped up to me, one, two, three, and slapped at my hand. “Come on, lazy chit! You bring disorder!”

Mother Smythe frowned. “Enough, Jacobina. You bring disorder, not this one. She merely brings delay, and one look at her face would tell you this is a serious matter. But you are the one who demanded, so mote it be. Dangerous, bringing your anger to our glen. Child, this one has spoken out of turn, and demanded what is in your pouch. We must follow the rules, to our sorrow, I fear, if your face speaks truth. Come, bring out what you gathered, and we will see.”

I was shaking, but I could hear the command under the gentle words. I fumbled the knot, got it open, pulled out the leaf roll, unwound it.

The gasps cut the silence.

One wailed, “Jacobina, what have you done? What have you done?”

Jacobina tried to raise an arm to smite me, but Mother Smythe caught her wrist. “Enough. You, not the child, have created our demise. If you had let her have her say, we could have unraveled this disastrous fate. A pinch of the soil at our feet, a touch of ash from the sacred fire in the pit, a single strand of her hair. We have done such things before. But you broke the order, stepped out of line, brought impatience and chaos into the ritual. And now, we will all die, and all our wisdom is for nothing. We will die for your intemperance. And the land will plunge into chaos, because you ordered the youngest to empty her pouch before she could muster the courage to explain her hesitance. Shame, Jacobina, shame on you. And now we share your fate.”

Jacobina stared with fear at Mother Smythe, her face clear in the firelight. Jacobina, who had two small children at home, the results of much magic and longing and pining. Waiting for their mother to return. Two tears trickled down her cheeks.

Mother Smythe sighed. “Child, I am so sorry, that this has happened. Yes, you must add it. Go on, child, let our fate drop in the pot.”

It did not matter. I tried to close my hand, rebel, refuse, but my hands shook so badly that the deathly-white mushroom slipped off its leaf bed, and plopped in the pot with a wailing hiss.

Mother Smythe’s shoulders slumped. “So mote it be. But Jacobina, you will eat the first bowl, not me. You jumped your place in line, and now you will pay for that.”

Jacobina bowed her head, nodded, and cried silently.

The building joy within the glade was gone. Bowls were passed in silence, grief on the puff of wind that stirred the bushes. A susurrus of impending death, of lives unfinished, of wisdom already draining into the soil at our feet. Motherless children, wifeless men, purposeless towns, future deaths because no one would be there to guide them back to health with ancient lore.

Mother Smythe took the ladle, stirred the pot. Dipped deep, scoop-twist, plopped the greyish gruel into her bowl. Stared at Jacobina, held out the bowl wordlessly.

Jacobina took it, misery etched on her face. Saluted the fire, saluted Mother Smythe, raised the bowl to her lips.

“Ho ho, ha hah! What have we here, a gathering of crones?”

Our heads jerked towards the sound. Who dares disturb our deaths with merriment?

A jolly man stepped into the clearing.

Rich clothing. Sumptuous accoutrements. Gold spangles everywhere, such a contrast to the bits of silver adornment in the glade. He led a prancing horse with a golden bridle. Feather in his cap, jingling spurs on his boots. And behind him, another, dark to his fair, cruel eyes and lips. A sword too sharp, a whip too easily used.

The crown prince, and his boon companion. Out where they should not, prying into things they should not, stirring trouble wherever they traveled.

“A feast, eh? Well, I am famished, so I will take my rightful first share!” And he tossed the reins to his second, strode over to us, frozen like statues. Took the bowl straight from Jacobina’s hands, laughed heartily, and drank it down in noisy gulps.

And the bosom companion dropped both sets of reins, grabbed another bowl out of nerveless hands, and scooped it into the pot. It came up, dripping glop, but smelled delicious. And he also guzzled away, dipped for seconds, thirds.

The prince shoved him out of the way, and took another share. Then a third.

Mother Smythe drew me away from the fire, motioned others to withdraw from the flames. And we did, fading into the shadows. I heard her mutter something, gesture softly, motions out of the corner of my eye with no meaning to me.

And the clearing was empty, but for two greedy men finishing what was not theirs.

The neighing of the horses finally brought them out of their orgy, and they looked around for the women. We were there, but they could not seem to see us anymore, though they called and halooed for us to return and join them. When they realized they were alone, they kicked the cauldron, and smothered the fire with more vulgarities. And after some other comments I shall not share, they took their crude selves to the horses, galloped off into the night. Poor horses.

We gathered around the dead fire, the dented cauldron.

Mother Smythe sighed. “Well. So mote it be. It shall be a lean year for all, I am afraid. We live, but at what cost? Those two will die some time in the night, and the kingdom will be thrown into chaos. Let us all return, and salvage what little we can. Warn the townspeople to shepherd their food, their livestock. Their resources, all of them. We will need much strength. Life and health to you all, and we will gather in a year, those that still live, and we will create a new ceremony. I hope.”

What do you say to that? With muttered “so mote it be,” we left.

I trudged home.

What could I do? It wasn’t my fault, but it was. I wasn’t dying, but I felt dead inside.

Once home, I checked on my ducks. What else was there to do?

Dame Ducky was broody again. I could see her in the rafters, almost growling, and she set twigs and feathers and down just so. Another cycle of life, as she set her circle of protection for the eggs to come.

Daft thing, she always picked the rafters. I would have to build a bigger, softer nest, below, again, to protect her ducklings. At least one would launch itself too early from the nest. As before, so again...

And I had a thought.

I drew some water from the well, added it to a flask. And a pinch of kitchen salt, and a hair from my head, and a twig of holly. And swished it in the moonlight, widdershins.

Then I walked a circle around my property, singing wordlessly, calling strong protective forces to work their magic.

I hoped.

So mote it be.