It's that time of year again- NaNo! And just like last year, I'm participating with my own goal. Rather than having a word-count goal, I have a writing-time goal: a minimum of 10 minutes a day. Last year it was really good for me (and I wrote Oathbreaker, which after a lot of polishing came out really great) so I'm excited about doing it again this year. Ready? Here we go! No editing! Wheeee!
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Once upon a time I was a wicked witch. At least, I was a witch who did things that might be considered wicked. Never mind that I did them in the service of my country- or, to be more specific, in the service of the rulers of my country. Any witch who uses their powers for anything other than healing or protection is, by default, wicked. Thus, I was a wicked witch- never mind that it could be argued (was argued) that every thing I did, I did in protection of my people.
But that is neither here nor there.
Once upon a time I was a wicked witch, and then I stopped. I retired. Moved out to the country to live an uneventful, more-or-less-magicless life. I say more-or-less, because only a fool isn’t going to turn a charm here and there in the kitchen, or in the garden. That’s just common sense.
I didn’t lack for companionship- there were plenty of fresh-faced young farmer’s daughters more than happy to make my acquaintance whenever I so chose, and rarely did they give a thought to settling down with me. And if they did, well- another simple charm would help them remember that they had greater aspirations in life than living in obscurity with a woman who never would talk about herself.
It was a good life- a content life- but I was missing something. And after a few years, I realized what it was.
I wanted to be a mother.
You can perhaps see the problem I faced: fresh-faced farmer’s daughters aren’t much good for getting babies, enthusiastic as they may be in other arenas. And although I certainly had fertility charms a plenty in my arsenal, I knew they wouldn’t work on me. No child would spring from my body, so I’d have to get one another way.
Orphans aren’t as common as one might think, in a community with a resident witch who sets subtle wards against disease and accident. And as I was no longer wicked, I certainly wasn’t going to just take a child.
Which left me with one avenue to pursue: magic.
There are two groups that a person might approach, if they have need of magical intervention. The witches, of course, of which I was one. We are dangerous, yes, but we are human, and therefore theoretically understandable. Your average person is far more likely to approach a witch, if for no other reason than we are far more accessible.
But we are not all-powerful.
Neither is the other group, of course- the Elves. Elves are an ancient race, supposedly living in their mountain palaces while our ancestors were still discovering fire. They are decidedly not human, with minds utterly alien to our own. But just as their minds work differently from ours, so too does their magic. What we witches cannot do, the Elves can. And what the Elves cannot do, we witches can. And so you see, people have options.
I did not like the idea of petitioning the Elves, no more than one of their kind would like the idea of petitioning me. We each are strong where the other is weak, which makes it seem like we would work well together, but the truth is that both witches and Elves cheat when it comes to bargaining, and we know it. So we do our best to avoid it.
When I could no longer avoid it, I did go to the Elves- and I did cheat them. And they, of course, cheated me. They gave me a barleycorn, assured me it would grow into a rare and beautiful flower, which, if I cared for it properly, would blossom into a rare and beautiful child. Care for it I did, and grow and blossom it did, which is how I found myself with an infant daughter so small I could- and did- make her cradle from a walnut shell. Had I been an ordinary mortal, she’d have died, drowned in a drop of milk or crushed by a clumsy hand: but I was a witch, and she did not. It seemed doubtful she’d ever grow taller than my own thumb, but all in all I felt content with the exchange of cheats, for I obviously got the better end of the deal. There are certain advantages, after all, to having a child one can keep safe in one’s apron pocket.
I named my daughter Thomelisa, Elisa for short. She grew swiftly, far more swiftly than a mortal child would, and by the time six years had passed, she had the mind and appearance of a maiden of eighteen or so. It fretted me that, at this rate, I might very well outlive her- I was only halfway through my fifth decade, after all- but I decided not to dwell on the possibility, and instead enjoy the time we had together.
And enjoy it I did! My Elisa was, generally speaking, sweet-tempered and curious, two traits which I did my best to encourage. I taught her what non-magical healing I could, and encouraged her interest in all things related to watercraft. I even turned a large basin into a sort of permanent lake for her, in the middle of the kitchen table. She would paddle back and forth on the simple little boat I’d carved for her, and occasionally I would set a small wind charm to stir up the waves and create more of a challenge for her. Eventually she learned to craft her own vessels from various plants, coming up with designs far more cunning than I could have dreamed of.
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