Thomelisa Taken, Pt VI

I didn’t have any tracking spells prepared, more fool I, but I didn’t think I’d need one to find the toads that had stolen Elisa, not with the careless way they’d left tracks.  It was entirely possible they didn’t realize who- or more importantly what- I was, or what I could do.  More fool them.  And if I wasn’t able to track them the mundane way, I could always take the time to craft a spell.  I would hate every moment spent doing it, but I could do it.

Even with a spell, however, tracking Elisa directly was out of the question; something about her nature caused magic to roll off her like water from oiled leather, perhaps because she was a magical creature, herself.  Don’t think I hadn’t spent the first year of her life trying to charm her for protection (babies will hit their heads on things)- it simply didn’t work, which is why I’d been so adamant, as she grew, that she learn to be vigilant and able to defend herself.  But it’s hard to be vigilant- or defensive- when you’re sleeping.

I slung the index bag crosswise between my breasts, then filled a more rugged pack with what I deemed the essentials.  I briefly debated summoning an animal to carry me, but in the end rejected it; I would be working on such a small scale that anything large enough to carry me or my things might accidentally destroy the track.  I’d go by food, and with any luck I wouldn’t be gone long enough to need more supplies than I could carry alone, anyway.  Once I had Thomelisa safe in my pocket again, I could summon a beast to carry us home.  So decided, I stuffed the spelled bridle in the top of the pack, extinguished the light in my brow (twenty minutes left), placed my hand on the corner of a shelf, and whispered the world that would take me back to my sitting room.  It may seem extravagant to use magic to travel less than a hundred yards, but the oak roots had closed as soon as I’d passed them: magic was the only way back out into the light.  One more layer of security; finding my arsenal didn’t mean you’d get to leave with any of it.

I changed my nightdress for a garment better suited to rough travel, settled the bag and pack once more, then went back out ot the garden to where the toad tracks disappeared into the herbs.

And then I turned right back around, and re-entered my cottage.  On the off-chance that Elisa rescued herself before I could (and I held out hope she just might- my girl was no wilting lily), I must let her know where I had gone, and how to contact me.  Her inability to use any of my spells frustrated me for a moment- if only we had a neighbor that might check in on the cottage, but I’d deliberately situated us off the common way.  I dug my nails into the palms of my hands, eyes running over my house, trying to think up a way around the limitations- and then I spied the windowsill full of crystals, and I had it.

The crystals, as I’ve said, were not charged.  But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be charged.  In fact I’d used them for many, many spells in their time, and as a result they held charges quite easily now.  It would be a simple matter to charge one with my own energy, then spell it to return the excess energy to me if the crystal were to break.

Quickly I jotted out a quick note to Elisa, telling her to push the crystal onto the floor below.  The I grabbed a knife and slashed open my palm, and, using my freely-bleeding hand, I picked up the most delicate of the crystals, and began to craft.  The crystal absorbed the energy- and the spell- easily, and once it was done I used it to weigh down the paper in the hollow of the shell where Elisa’s bed had lain.  If she returned, she would find it, and she would break it, and I would know to return, myself.  I only hoped no other creature would upend it in the meantime.

I grabbed a handkerchief I’d spelled to heal minor wounds, and used it to wipe my hand clean.  By the time I was done, the cut was healed and the fabric mundane again.  I tucked it into my pocket; I must remember to respell it when I got the chance.

Back in the garden, I sent a quick prayer to the triple-faced goddess, who looks after those smart enough to look after themselves, then got down on my hands and knees, and began to follow the indistinct smears and smudges.  It was slow, frustrating work, as I had expected it to be, and my joints were beginning to ache as I approached the outskirts of what I considered my garden:  a marshy, swampy stretch of land that eventually turned itself into a wide, pleasant stream.

Unfortunately, the silty water oozing up from the earth soon swallowed up the tracks completely.  I sat back on my heels, black to my thighs and elbows with brackish mud, and considered my next move.  Either the toads had stopped here, or they had moved forward, in the stream.  It seemed perfectly reasonable to assume that they lived in this area: toads often lived in marshes, and the larger tracks were already showing signs of strains by the time they disappeared, indicating that perhaps the heavy load of the bed was taking its toll.  I would try here first.

My first thought- to use a spell to draw out all the living inhabitants of the surrounding area, I dismissed immediately; this area would be too rich with life, overflowing with ordinary toads- not to mention insects, birds, snakes, and fish- and in the confusion my quarry might slip away once more.

Then I had it.  One thing there would not be a lot of, in this place, were walnut shells.  After Elisa had outgrown her original cradle, I’d carved her a new bed, using several shells instead of one.  That bed was somewhere in this swamp, and since no self-respecting walnut would take root in such poorly-drained soil, I didn’t have to worry about overwhelming myself with options.  If my daughter was still in her bed, so much the better- but I somehow doubted it.

Thomelisa Witch Magic

I spent some time today hammering out how the witch magic works in this world- here's what I came up with (again, using this for NaNo, so zero editing- woo!):

Witches need life-force to power their spells, either their own, or that of others.  The spells don’t necessarily kill the source of power, but the more energy you take, the stronger the spell, so the most powerful witches are the ones with no compunction about killing.  The larger the animal, the more life-force, so a hare charges more than a mouse, and a human charges a hell of a lot more than a hare.  For this reason witches aren’t particularly interested in using babies or children for their magic: they can get the same amount of power with a lot less hassle, from a sheep or goat.  They can also take life force from plants, but trees have their own magic, and trying to take from them without permission rarely ends well for the witch in question.

Spells must be prepared (and charged) ahead of time.  There must be a vessel for the spell, be it something as simple as a piece of paper, or something as complex as a cuckoo clock.  The shape of the vessel interacts with the intention of the spell, so it makes more sense to try to align the two.  You can put a cutting spell in a rock and it will work (if you’re powerful enough), but it will work a hell of a lot better if you put it in a knife.

You can use a living thing to hold a spell, as well, but it’s tricky and runs the chance of being accidently activated by the vessel itself.

Spells can be transferred from one vessel to another- if you have the proper spell to do so.  Vessels can theoretically hold more than one spell, but it takes a powerful, careful witch to make that work.  Most don’t bother, because errors tend to be fatal.  Witches with exceptional control can spell different parts of the same vessel- for example, each corner of a dice might hold a different spell.  That’s some seriously advanced stuff, tho’.

Generally speaking, spells are one-and-done, so once you use the vessel, they’re drained and are left a nearly-ordinary object.  I say nearly-ordinary because they remember that they were spelled, and it is easier to spell them again in the future- especially if you use the same spell.  For this reason witches are reluctant to leave their vessels behind- but they will if forced.  Some witches make it a habit to hunt down and collect the forgotten remnants of other witches, a hobby that is made easier by the fact that once-spelled artifacts have a particular ghost-glow to those actively seeking them, almost as though they want to be found and put back to work once more.

Thomelisa Taken, Pt V

The oak tree in question lived in what might be considered my front yard.  Far enough away that his roots weren’t going to upset my foundation, but close enough that it was no great effort for me to get to him.  I approached him with the respect you should approach any creature that has seen more than one century, and slid my little gnarled key into the unassuming knothole at the level of my hip.

Three heartbeats later, the tree gave a bit of a shiver, and what had appeared to be one solid root split in half to reveal it had been two roots closely intertwined.  As they untwisted themselves and moved to either side, they revealed a hole leading deep into the earth.

Well, sort of into the earth.  More of a pocket-dimension, really, because anyone who dug around the oak tree wasn’t going to find anything but dirt, unless the oak tree had given them access, which he was not likely to do: he and I went way back.

There were hand- and footholds carved into the soil, and I used them to slowly descend into the black.  I didn’t need light: there was only one way to go, and I knew where it led.  Once my feet hit the bottom, I turned to my left and started walking.  Thirty-three paces in the pitch darkness, the smell of earth and vegetable rot filling my lungs, and then I stopped.  I knew where the handle should be- level with my shoulder- but it had been a very long time, and I did fumble a bit until my hand closed over the cool silver.  I pulled it down and towards me, and the door slid open.

There was no light here, either, but one of the spells I always keep prepared is for light- a good half-hour of it stored in the space between my brows, and another twenty-five minutes stored (in five minute increments) in each of my fingertips.  I activated the light on my forehead and scanned the room around me.  How much of this would I need?  Very little of it, if things went well.  All of it, if they did not.  I sighed and turned to my right, where there hung a cross-body bag large enough for a fat book.  It did, indeed, hold a fat book; the inventory of this room.  With it I could summon any piece of equipment to my side, so long as I had my own blood to activate it with.  But it wasn’t instantaneous: if there was something I thought I’d need in a hurry, I’d still have to carry it.  Most of the already-charged items, weapons especially.  But spell components, for the most part, could stay here.  And then, of course, there was the problem that once I’d summoned an item, I couldn’t send it back.  It was a one-way spell, because I had decided it wasn’t worth the cost to charge it both ways- after all, most spelled items, once used, became nothing more than the shell that had held them.

Thomelisa Taken, Pt IV

Closer observation revealed no marks on the windowsill, so I levered myself up slowly and carefully, so I could look down into the garden below, for prints in the earth.  Nothing visible to my naked eye.  I would need aid.

I climbed back down out of the window and into the kitchen, fighting the urge to run.  Yes, time was slipping away from me, but I needed to be careful, controlled.  I could not afford even one mistake.  Instead I walked carefully to a different windowsill, on the other side of my house.  There I had a collection of pretty crystals- none currently charged with energy, but all pleasing to the eye, and many good for throwing rainbows on walls and floors.  They had amused Elisa.

One of them was a sphere, clear as a drop of water, large enough that I could not close my hand around it.  I polished it carefully on my apron as I walked to the door and then, kneeling carefully, I began to examine the soil along the edge of the house.

It was painstaking, methodical work, to ensure I wasn’t going to disturb anything before I inched forward.  I didn’t not think I was going to find anything before getting to the window, but I could not take the chance.  Every inch must be examined.

I saw evidence of Elisa crossing and recrossing herself, but the marks were old.  Finally, I came to the earth beneath the window, and found something else.

Toad tracks are not something that normally attracts one’s attention.  For one thing, they’re so haphazard that it’s difficult to identify them as tracks in the first place.  For another thing, your average person is not going to care what toads get up to, especially in a garden, where a toad might naturally be expected to dwell, and where he has every right to be.  I knew there were several that did, in fact, call my garden home.

But.

But toads can be used as familiars, and thus witches make it their business to be able to recognize toad-sign, and recognize it, I did.

There was toad-sign leading right up to the wall of my house, as a matter of fact.  Right under the window that Elisa used as her primary exit and entrance.  I narrowed my eyes and examined the wall.  Yes- I could see fresh little scars here and there, as though something had used tiny claws to drag itself upwards.  Perhaps even two somethings.  I glanced back down at the tracks again.  Yes, definitely two toads, because one was markedly larger than the other.  But that made no sense- a witch only ever had one familiar at a time.  And where were the retreating tracks?  I cast my eyes further afield- there.  They had not climbed down, but rather leaped.  The tracks of the larger toad were more defined here; heavier.  With the weight of my child.

I bared my teeth at the trail in a feral smile.  “Sloppy,” I hissed, then stood and returned to the house.  I would find them, and I would flay them alive- then feed each skin to the other.

But not until I knew who had sent them, and why.

I approached my bed, lay down on my stomach, and reached beneath it to the plank I knew had two notches in it.  Fingertips in the notches, I raised it just enough to slip it over the board next to it, then slid my fingers into the resulting gap and moved it all the way out of the way.  Once the narrow space below was revealed, I pulled my hand back out, spat into my palm, and put it back beneath the floorboards until I could close it around the gnarled wooden shape resting on the ground.

The spell I’d laid on the thing, all those years ago, stabbed into my hands like a spark of lightning, and began to crawl up my veins- but it recognized my essence, and withdrew between one breath and the next.  Which was good, because if the spell had reached my heart, it would have stopped it, sending me into an enchanted slumber until someone came along to either release me, or kill me.  My personal plan had always been to kill whoever might have been meddling about in my secrets.

Well, perhaps after extracting a bit of information, first.

I pulled the thing out.

It was not large- perhaps the size of a goose egg- and it was not shaped like anything in particular.  But it was a key.  My key, taken from the heart of a willing oak tree.  And it would unlock the past I’d left behind.

Because while yes, I was retired, I was also somewhat set in my ways.  And those ways included being prepared for any eventuality, including the eventuality that I might have to come out of retirement.  And if I had to come out of retirement, I wasn’t going to want to have to rebuild my arsenal from scratch, now was I?

Thomelisa Taken, Pt III

It’s amazing how your training sticks with you, even years after you’ve had to use it.

Inside, I was screaming.  I was ripping the world apart and burning the stars to ash.  On the outside, I was completely still, because as my heart was crying out for blood, my brain was taking cold, calculating control of the situation.

Don’t move.  You’ve probably already disturbed evidence.  Take a deep breath.  Another.  Now look.  Listen.  Breathe again.  What do you smell.  What do you taste?

I held perfectly still, trying to sort what was normal from what was different, trying not to break down weeping.

Elisa’s bed was gone.  What else is missing?  Look, damn you.  Look.

I looked.  Her boat was there, and all the rest of her things.  But the path she normally took through the grass to the bridge that led to the window- it looked off, somehow.  I moved closer, bending my face to the table, inhaling deeply.

I could smell traces of her, the warm, yeasty-floral scent that was her natural fragrance.  But there was something else.  Something… like mud, black and mineral-rich.  I knew that smell from somewhere.  Somewhere very familiar.

The grasses on either side of the path- some of them were bowed outward ever-so-slightly, as though someone- something, with a much wider girth than my daughter had come down it.  I shifted, slightly, and as I did so I noticed something on the path that caught the light.  I squinted and drew closer still, doing my best not to disturb anything with my breath.  It was a smear of something clear, something that looked… sticky.

I frowned.  The shrieking in my heart had been tightly locked down, only barest echo reverberating in the depths of my soul.  My mind was told me to ignore it.  The rage won’t help you.  Not yet.  I followed the path with my eyes, to where it met up with the arching branch that spanned the short distance between the table and the windowsill.  I moved, carefully, to the window.

Our windows stayed open all through the spring and summer- my charms kept pests out, and I was a light enough sleeper that I’d have heard anything larger.  So.  Something small, but larger than my daughter.  Something strong enough to carry off her bed with her in it.  Something smart enough to be quiet.  Something that had left a smear of clear fluid.

Something that was going to regret its entire existence, when I found it.

Thomelisa Taken, Pt II

I wrote some disjointed snippets today- I rearranged them so they'd make a little more sense on the blog but still, very rough stuff.  Enjoy!
***

I went to the Elves because Elves always have a surplus of children: changeling children.  Birth is so rare among them that the more impatient turn to other sources when they crave something to rear.  They do not see it as theft: they leave one of their fey creatures in place of the child they’ve taken, and the parents are none the wiser for the exchange (or so the Elves tell themselves: since becoming a parent, myself, I now find myself skeptical of such statements).  But mortal boys and girls age slowly in the Elfin lands, and Elves are by nature fickle and easily bored; quite often the Elf who “rescued” the child from “a wretched mortal existence” tires of the experience long before the child in question achieves maturity.  There are three fates for such a child: sometimes, rarely, the Elf will return them to wherever they were stolen from, nevermind that decades- sometimes centuries- have passed; more often the Elf simply neglects the child, which typically leads to death.  Rarest of all is the neglected child that manages to survive and reach adulthood while still in the Elfin lands.  These become strange, not-quite-humans who can never again interact with the mortal world as one of them.

Knowing this, I thought surely it would be easy enough to procure one such child for my own; they’d already been stolen from their human family, who were in all likelihood dust by the time the Elves tired of them.  I would, in fact, be the child’s last, best hope for a return to some semblance of normalcy.

***

In time the bowl on the kitchen table morphed itself into an entire indoor garden for my daughter, and eventually I was even persuaded to create a few “safe” routes for her to go out into the actual garden.  I say “persuaded”, but what I mean is that Elisa, sweet-tempered as she was, showed herself perfectly willing to find any hazardous route into fresh air, regardless of my horror, and I decided that if she was going to be sweetly headstrong, she should at least be headstrong in a somewhat sensible manner.  Thus I installed various pulleys and ropes and slides and stairs and rope bridges about, around, and out of the house, so that she could have some measure of independence.

Elisa loved to be outside- loved it as certain flowers love it, always turning their faces to the sun- so really I shouldn’t have been at all surprised by her determination to be out of the house whenever possible.  If she wasn’t “sailing” on her indoor lake, she was sure to be found somewhere amongst my various herbs and vegetables.  I made it a rule that she must never walk on the paths, for that is where I would walk, and I never wanted to accidently crush her.  For my part, I did not venture off the paths unless I had my eye firmly upon her.  I also encouraged her to create weapons from needles and spines and bones, so that she could discourage the predators of the world, but the truth is that she rarely needed them; my charms kept most harmful pests away, and she was too strange for most creatures to feel comfortable approaching- too human in appearance, regardless of her stature.

It was quite an endeavor for her to get out of the house and into the garden, but she did it every sunny day- and she always, always came home at night.  On that rule I would not waver; I was happy to sit with her in the garden to watch the fireflies dance and the stars come out, to track the moon’s progress or listen to the distant wolves’ songs, but when it was time for bed we went together.  I knew what sorts of things crept about in the darkness, and while they would think twice before bothering a witch, they’d have no such compunction about harassing a girl the size of a flower.  But really, this rule didn’t require much enforcing on my part; generally speaking, Elisa naturally began to fade as the sun did, preferring to sleep when it was dark.

I would watch her sometimes as she slept, my heart so full I was afraid the smallest movement on my part might shatter it within my breast.  My entire life, until so recently, had been spent in service to others, and I’d thought that I understood the desire to defend, to shelter.  It was cold as ashes, however, when compared to the love and protective fire I felt towards my daughter.  Looking at her tiny chest rise and fall with her smooth, soft breathing, I knew I’d made the right choice in coming to this quiet corner of the world, so far from the human-made dangers I’d spent my life combating.  Quiet.  Solitary.  Safe.  Happy.

Until the day I woke, and found my daughter missing.

***

Elisa was an early riser, at least in the summertime.  In the wintertime she might lie abed a few more hours, but only because she rose with the sun, always.  I also rose with the wun in the summertime, but long habit had me up well before it during the darker months.

It was not a darker month, however, but early July when I woke to silence.

I wish I could say that I knew, there and then, that something was amiss.  I should have.  Elisa almost always sang in the mornings, her voice blending beautifully with the birdsong, but that morning I thought nothing of its absence, assuming she was already outside in the gardens.

I made breakfast as I always did- three eggs to divide between the two of us, and a little bowl full of heavy, sweet strawberries- and carried it out to the garden where I had a small table that we often supped at.

“Elisa?” I called out, as I arranged our food.  There was no answering call, however, no rustling of vegetation.  “Come dear, it’s time for breakfast!”

Thinking perhaps she was caught deep in thought or observation, I laughed and called again, but still there was no answer.  I frowned, and turned back inside.

“Elisa?  Thomelisa, are you sick, my love?”

More silence, and at last a tendril of dread began to uncurl in my belly.  Had a bird gotten her?  I tried to shake the thought from my head.  No.  Surely not.  My Elisa was too careful for that, wasn’t she?  Probably she’d only wandered out of earshot.

I went to the tabletop garden, hoping that perhaps she’s simply been swimming underwater each time I’d called.  But no- the water was still and clear, no tiny form darting about beneath the surface.  I glanced over to her “room”, a large shell we’d arranged to shelter her bed, and it was then I realized that something was very, very wrong indeed.

A girl might accidentally wander out of hearing range, or even do so deliberately if she was feeling a need to express her independence.  But a girl would not take her bed with her.  Bedclothes, perhaps, but not the entire bed; it would be too heavy for her to carry very far, and certainly too awkward.

Which meant someone else had taken the bed.  Probably with my daughter still sleeping in it.

Thomelisa Taken, Pt I

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!

***

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.