Three – 4392 words

Like most ship owners who actually ran their own ships, Micah was a light sleeper. She did, on the occasion, use the control room as a bedroom, eating and sleeping in the chair she’d had specially outfitted to move into a lounger. When alarms did go off, it was simply more convenient to snap to a sitting position than race down the hallway from her cabin, half-asleep and struggling into something more presentable than a stained and ratty tee shirt. Without a bra, of course.

The proximity alarm was shrill, and she jerked upright, slamming one hand down on the requisite board to shut the damned thing up. The main screen showed three ships racing in from the left, already too close for her to try and make a break for it. She queried for ID but only the Jolly Roger popped up. Well, there was nothing for it, then – she was about to raided.

The best that could be said about the raid was that it was quick. A group of five boarded, took what they wanted, mostly any fresh food and much of her dry goods, what little she had collected from the foreign ship. Happily for her they left the coffin behind. She didn’t even have to beg for it, either. No, they’d taken a single scan and crossed themselves repeately, shaking their heads and muttering about witchcraft. Everybody knew pirates were superstitious, yet even so, Micah was surprised. She’d thought money outweighed all other aspects of robbery.

Still, it was a great relief to her when they took off. They didn’t even bother to threaten her, there was no point, as the Sugar had no defensive weaponry apart from cutting lasers. Nonetheless, she cleaned up what mess there was, loaded the cooker with a few precooked ready-to-heat meals, squirted a report of the attack to Paradise and plotted a new course towards home.

Hours later the adrenalin rush was long gone and Micah realized she was thirsty and tired, too tired to eat. She was almost too tired to be shocked when she opened her cabin door and found that her personal effects had been rifled through. The luxurious fabrics which had lined the walls were gone, the cover removed from her comforter, even her toiletries had been taken. She felt bruised and wounded down to her very soul, and this latest infiltration was almost too overwhelming to take in. With a muttered curse, she kicked off her shoes and crawled into bed, pulling the bare comforter over her head.

 

THREE:

The witch was, surprisingly enough, a total stranger to Leila. She’d thought she knew everyone in the village, from Um Dir to baby Trpta. Her father had told her they were going on a visit to his Nana, and that she’d get a pumpkin sweet when they got there if she was a good girl on the way. She’d been so excited at the thought that she hadn’t wondered why his Nana lived far out in the woods, no where close to the village or water. When she gave it consideration some years later, she had to laugh at her own childishness.

As it turned out, his Nana actually was the witch. The resemblance was there, in the mossy green eyes, the long nose, the slender fingers.

The witch had been waiting for them outside her hut, feeding twigs into the fire, watching them, watching her, approach with ever the slightest smile. A smile which didn’t reach her eyes, yet one of satisfaction.

“I brought her like you said.”

The witch nodded. “The youngest?”

Leila’s father squeezed her hand too tightly and she pulled away in irritation. “The youngest girl, yeh, and the twin. We keep the boy.”

“I don’t want the boy,” said the witch, poking the coals with her last twig. “The boy is of no consequence to me.”

“He’ll want to see her.”

The witch stood up, tossed the twig into the fire with, Leila thought, no little annoyance. “He’ll have plenty of opportunities, she’s not staying with me forever.”

“Mm,” Leila’s father knelt next to her, brushed the hair that had escaped from plait behind her ear. He frowned, like he always did when he was angry, and said, “You’re staying her for awhile. You do what my sis-, do what the witch tells you.”

And then he left, without even looking behind to see if she were waving or anything. Yet, when she reflected on that pivotal moment of her life, she remembered feeling…nothing, really. He was her father, he was leaving her in an unknown place with an unknown person…there just was no reason for her not to do what he told her to do.

Her education with the witch wasn’t exciting. The witch began with the basics, asking her if she knew her plants and animals, stars and rocks. From there Leila was tested on her very rudimentary healing skills, the mixing of tisanes and salves, emetics and their uses. Just as the weather was beginning to turn the witch started to teach her magic. The witch didn’t call it magic, but Leila was under no such constraints, and called it for what it actually was.

One chill night, while wrapped in furs and stirring the contents of the iron pot on top of the fire, the witch said, “You’re going to start learning more about the underworld, now. I’ve taught you all I know about this middle world, and you were brought up in the upper world from birth. What do you think the underworld is?”

Leila shifted on her woven grass mat, recrossed her legs the other way. “The underworld is what surrounds us, but we don’t always see.”

“Very nice. Now tell me what the underworld really is.”

Leila shrugged one shoulder. The first answer was almost never what the witch wanted to hear. “Um, the underworld is what we see in dreams? It’s the feeling we get when we’re outdoors, sitting in the sun and feeling the earth around us, the life and the death. It’s how I know I’ll go on after this body has died…” She trailed off, trying to simultaneously appear to be staring at the fire while really looking at the witch through her eyelashes. Of what she had just said, she believed the latter, was simply guessing on the former.

The witch nodded, clearly pleased with Leila’s answer. “Very good. Tomorrow you go home.”

“But I thought I was going to stay here?”

“You have,” said the witch. She stirred the pot again, then dipped in a cup, came around the fire and handed it to Leila. “First, you drink it while it’s hot.”

The steam coming out of the cup smelled of herbs and dirt and something florally sweet. It was mostly dirt and leaf, though. Grimacing in distate, Leila blew into the cup a couple of times before cautiously taking a sip. The flavor was about the same as it smelled, fresh dirt and dried green herbs with an aftertaste of something floral, maybe Woman’s Fate or Sourkiss.

Nothing happened.

The witch took the pot off the fire, retrieved Leila’s cup and drew herself some of the same brew. Sitting on her heels slightly away from Leila, the witch proceeded to ignore her until Leila yawned, then suggested she go to bed if she was tired.

Her dreams that night were intense. When she awoke the next morning, she couldn’t quite remember what they were about, and the witch didn’t ask. Instead, she wrapped up a half loaf of bread and a bit of bacon in a scrapf of cloth and lead Leila out of the woods. At the edge of the path, she pointed the way and said, “When you’re ready, come back.”

Somewhat dazed at the speed of events, Leila took the loaf and slowly started down the path towards her home village, turning around when the witch called, “There was nothing in the tea, think about that!”

Shaking her head in disbelief, she watched the witch melt back into the woods before turning and continuing on her way. So what did it all mean? Every time she thought she understood what the point of her learning with the with was the thought was turned upside down. There was no indication – yet – of her being anything particularly special. Her future was, as far as she was aware, still headed towards getting sold to someone who wanted children and a hard worker. She hoped she liked whoever the man was, and she wasn’t opposed to children in principal. But maybe now that was all different. She would have to ask her mother when the opportunity arrived.

FOUR:

Williamsville was as pretty as ever, Micah mused, walking down the driveway and watching the leaves drift down on the breeze. It was easy to forget why she loved being home when she was away, because she was usually away when she’d had enough of the family. She and her mother were rarely in the house at the same time, due to the demands of their jobs, but they usually tried to get together a couple of times a year, Thanksgiving and May day, if not the Winter Solstice. This time, however, she had the house to herself for a couple of weeks before Anna returned from what ever assignement she was currently on.

Unfortunately that meant there was no buffer, no one fielding off Cecilia’s questions about when Micah was going to get married and provide the next set of heirs. She shook her head, irritated just by the thought of seeing her grandmother – and it was going to happen sooner rather than later. Only a couple of hours and the horde would descend upon the house. Cecilia, her sons Peter and Gregor, Micah’s uncles, and then of course her sisters Sarah and Toby and their respective spouses and broods.

Dinner wasn’t even going to be a potluck. Damn the lot of them. At least she’d managed to get in a good walk before she had to get down to business, namely, making dinner for fifteen people. Thank goodness she’d had the foresight to call ahead and get both fridge and freezer stocked with goods. She figured a good pot roast, mash of neeps and tatties…

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